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George Eliot

[Mary Anne Evans]

MIDDLEMARCH

To mydear HusbandGeorge Henry Lewesin this nineteenth year of ourblessed union.

PRELUDE

Who thatcares much to know the history of manand how the mysterious mixturebehaves under the varying experiments of Timehas not dweltatleast brieflyon the life of Saint Theresahas not smiled with somegentleness at the thought of the little girl walking forth onemorning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brotherto go and seekmartyrdom in the country of the Moors?  Out they toddled fromrugged Avilawide-eyed and helpless-looking as two fawnsbut withhuman heartsalready beating to a national idea; until domesticreality met them in the shape of unclesand turned them back fromtheir great resolve.  That child-pilgrimage was a fit beginning.Theresa's passionateideal nature demanded an epic life: what weremany-volumed romances of chivalry and the social conquests of abrilliant girl to her?  Her flame quickly burned up that lightfuel; andfed from withinsoared after some illimitablesatisfactionsome object which would never justify wearinesswhichwould reconcile self-despair with the rapturous consciousness of lifebeyond self. She found her epos in the reform of a religious order.

ThatSpanish woman who lived three hundred years agowas certainly notthe last of her kind.  Many Theresas have been born who foundfor themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding offar-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakesthe offspringof a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness ofopportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet andsank unwept into oblivion.  With dim lights and tangledcircumstance they tried to shape their thought and deed in nobleagreement; but after allto common eyes their struggles seemed mereinconsistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresas werehelped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform thefunction of knowledge for the ardently willing soul. Their ardoralternated between a vague ideal and the common yearning ofwomanhood; so that the one was disapproved as extravaganceand theother condemned as a lapse.

Some havefelt that these blundering lives are due to the inconvenientindefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned the naturesof women: if there were one level of feminine incompetence as strictas the ability to count three and no morethe social lot of womenmight be treated with scientific certitude. Meanwhile theindefiniteness remainsand the limits of variation are really muchwider than any one would imagine from the sameness of women'scoiffure and the favorite love-stories in prose and verse. Here andthere a cygnet is reared uneasily among the ducklings in the brownpondand never finds the living stream in fellowship with its ownoary-footed kind.  Here and there is born a Saint Theresafoundress of nothingwhose loving heart-beats and sobs after anunattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrancesinstead of centring in some long-recognizable deed.

BOOK I

MISSBROOKE

----

CHAPTERI

  "Since I can do no good because a woman
   Reachconstantly at something that is near it."
   --TheMaid's Tragedy:  BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

MissBrooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into reliefby poor dress.  Her hand and wrist were so finely formed thatshe could wear sleeves not less bare of style than those in which theBlessed Virgin appeared to Italian painters; and her profile as wellas her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from herplain garmentswhich by the side of provincial fashion gave her theimpressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible--or from one ofour elder poets--in a paragraph of to-day's newspaper. She wasusually spoken of as being remarkably cleverbut with the additionthat her sister Celia had more common-sense. NeverthelessCelia worescarcely more trimmings; and it was only to close observers that herdress differed from her sister'sand had a shade of coquetry in itsarrangements; for Miss Brooke's plain dressing was due to mixedconditionsin most of which her sister shared. The pride of beingladies had something to do with it: the Brooke connectionsthoughnot exactly aristocraticwere unquestionably "good:" ifyou inquired backward for a generation or twoyou would not find anyyard-measuring or parcel-tying forefathers--anything lower than anadmiral or a clergyman; and there was even an ancestor discernible asa Puritan gentleman who served under Cromwellbut afterwardsconformedand managed to come out of all political troubles as theproprietor of a respectable family estate. Young women of such birthliving in a quiet country-houseand attending a village churchhardly larger than a parlornaturally regarded frippery as theambition of a huckster's daughter. Then there was well-bred economywhich in those days made show in dress the first item to be deductedfromwhen any margin was required for expenses more distinctive ofrank.  Such reasons would have been enough to account for plaindressquite apart from religious feeling; but in Miss Brooke's casereligion alone would have determined it; and Celia mildly acquiescedin all her sister's sentimentsonly infusing them with thatcommon-sense which is able to accept momentous doctrines without anyeccentric agitation.  Dorothea knew many passages of Pascal'sPensees and of Jeremy Taylor by heart; and to her the destinies ofmankindseen by the light of Christianitymade the solicitudes offeminine fashion appear an occupation for Bedlam.  She could notreconcile the anxieties of a spiritual life involving eternalconsequenceswith a keen interest in gimp and artificial protrusionsof drapery.  Her mind was theoreticand yearned by its natureafter some lofty conception of the world which might frankly includethe parish of Tipton and her own rule of conduct there; she wasenamoured of intensity and greatnessand rash in embracing whateverseemed to her to have those aspects; likely to seek martyrdomtomake retractationsand then to incur martyrdom after all in aquarter where she had not sought it. Certainly such elements in thecharacter of a marriageable girl tended to interfere with her lotand hinder it from being decided according to customby good looksvanityand merely canine affection. With all thisshethe elder ofthe sisterswas not yet twentyand they had both been educatedsince they were about twelve years old and had lost their parentsonplans at once narrow and promiscuousfirst in an English family andafterwards in a Swiss family at Lausannetheir bachelor uncle andguardian trying in this way to remedy the disadvantages of theirorphaned condition. 

It washardly a year since they had come to live at Tipton Grange with theirunclea man nearly sixtyof acquiescent tempermiscellaneousopinionsand uncertain vote.  He had travelled in his youngeryearsand was held in this part of the county to have contracted atoo rambling habit of mind.  Mr. Brooke's conclusions were asdifficult to predict as the weather: it was only safe to say that hewould act with benevolent intentionsand that he would spend aslittle money as possible in carrying them out.  For the mostglutinously indefinite minds enclose some hard grains of habit; and aman has been seen lax about all his own interests except theretention of his snuff-boxconcerning which he was watchfulsuspiciousand greedy of clutch.

In Mr.Brooke the hereditary strain of Puritan energy was clearly inabeyance; but in his niece Dorothea it glowed alike through faultsand virtuesturning sometimes into impatience of her uncle's talk orhis way of "letting things be" on his estateand makingher long all the more for the time when she would be of age and havesome command of money for generous schemes.  She was regarded asan heiress; for not only had the sisters seven hundred a-year eachfrom their parentsbut if Dorothea married and had a sonthat sonwould inherit Mr. Brooke's estatepresumably worth about threethousand a-year--a rental which seemed wealth to provincial familiesstill discussing Mr. Peel's late conduct on the Catholic questioninnocent of future gold-fieldsand of that gorgeous plutocracy whichhas so nobly exalted the necessities of genteel life.

And howshould Dorothea not marry?--a girl so handsome and with suchprospects?  Nothing could hinder it but her love of extremesand her insistence on regulating life according to notions whichmight cause a wary man to hesitate before he made her an offeroreven might lead her at last to refuse all offers.  A young ladyof some birth and fortunewho knelt suddenly down on a brick floorby the side of a sick laborer and prayed fervidly as if she thoughtherself living in the time of the Apostles--who had strange whims offasting like a Papistand of sitting up at night to read oldtheological books!  Such a wife might awaken you some finemorning with a new scheme for the application of her income whichwould interfere with political economy and the keeping ofsaddle-horses: a man would naturally think twice before he riskedhimself in such fellowship. Women were expected to have weakopinions; but the great safeguard of society and of domestic lifewasthat opinions were not acted on. Sane people did what theirneighbors didso that if any lunatics were at largeone might knowand avoid them.

The ruralopinion about the new young ladieseven among the cottagerswasgenerally in favor of Celiaas being so amiable andinnocent-lookingwhile Miss Brooke's large eyes seemedlike herreligiontoo unusual and striking.  Poor Dorothea! comparedwith herthe innocent-looking Celia was knowing and worldly-wise; somuch subtler is a human mind than the outside tissues which make asort of blazonry or clock-face for it.

Yet thosewho approached Dorotheathough prejudiced against her by thisalarming hearsayfound that she had a charm unaccountablyreconcilable with it.  Most men thought her bewitching when shewas on horseback.  She loved the fresh air and the variousaspects of the countryand when her eyes and cheeks glowed withmingled pleasure she looked very little like a devotee.  Ridingwas an indulgence which she allowed herself in spite of conscientiousqualms; she felt that she enjoyed it in a pagan sensuous wayandalways looked forward to renouncing it.

She wasopenardentand not in the least self-admiring; indeedit waspretty to see how her imagination adorned her sister Celia withattractions altogether superior to her ownand if any gentlemanappeared to come to the Grange from some other motive than that ofseeing Mr. Brookeshe concluded that he must be in love with Celia:Sir James Chettamfor examplewhom she constantly considered fromCelia's point of viewinwardly debating whether it would be good forCelia to accept him.  That he should be regarded as a suitor toherself would have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorotheawith all her eagerness to know the truths of liferetained verychildlike ideas about marriage.  She felt sure that she wouldhave accepted the judicious Hookerif she had been born in time tosave him from that wretched mistake he made in matrimony; or JohnMilton when his blindness had come on; or any of the other great menwhose odd habits it would have been glorious piety to endure; but anamiable handsome baronetwho said "Exactly" to her remarkseven when she expressed uncertainty--how could he affect her as alover?  The really delightful marriage must be that where yourhusband was a sort of fatherand could teach you even Hebrewif youwished it.

Thesepeculiarities of Dorothea's character caused Mr. Brooke to be all themore blamed in neighboring families for not securing some middle-agedlady as guide and companion to his nieces. But he himself dreaded somuch the sort of superior woman likely to be available for such apositionthat he allowed himself to be dissuaded by Dorothea'sobjectionsand was in this case brave enough to defy the world--thatis to sayMrs. Cadwallader the Rector's wifeand the small group ofgentry with whom he visited in the northeast corner of Loamshire. So Miss Brooke presided in her uncle's householdand did not at alldislike her new authoritywith the homage that belonged to it.

Sir JamesChettam was going to dine at the Grange to-day with another gentlemanwhom the girls had never seenand about whom Dorothea felt somevenerating expectation.  This was the Reverend Edward Casaubonnoted in the county as a man of profound learningunderstood formany years to be engaged on a great work concerning religioushistory; also as a man of wealth enough to give lustre to his pietyand having views of his own which were to be more clearly ascertainedon the publication of his book.  His very name carried animpressiveness hardly to be measured without a precise chronology ofscholarship.

Early inthe day Dorothea had returned from the infant school which she hadset going in the villageand was taking her usual place in thepretty sitting-room which divided the bedrooms of the sistersbenton finishing a plan for some buildings (a kind of work which shedelighted in)when Celiawho had been watching her with ahesitating desire to propose somethingsaid--

"Dorotheadearif you don't mind--if you are not very busy--suppose we lookedat mamma's jewels to-dayand divided them?  It is exactly sixmonths to-day since uncle gave them to youand you have not lookedat them yet."

Celia'sface had the shadow of a pouting expression in itthe full presenceof the pout being kept back by an habitual awe of Dorothea andprinciple; two associated facts which might show a mysteriouselectricity if you touched them incautiously.  To her reliefDorothea's eyes were full of laughter as she looked up.

"Whata wonderful little almanac you areCelia!  Is it six calendaror six lunar months?"

"Itis the last day of September nowand it was the first of April whenuncle gave them to you.  You knowhe said that he had forgottenthem till then.  I believe you have never thought of them sinceyou locked them up in the cabinet here."

"Welldearwe should never wear themyou know." Dorothea spoke in afull cordial tonehalf caressinghalf explanatory. She had herpencil in her handand was making tiny side-plans on a margin.

Celiacoloredand looked very grave.  "I thinkdearwe arewanting in respect to mamma's memoryto put them by and take nonotice of them.  And" she addedafter hesitating alittlewith a rising sob of mortification"necklaces are quiteusual now; and Madame Poinconwho was stricter in some things eventhan you areused to wear ornaments.  And Christiansgenerally--surely there are women in heaven now who wore jewels."Celia was conscious of some mental strength when she really appliedherself to argument.

"Youwould like to wear them?" exclaimed Dorotheaan air ofastonished discovery animating her whole person with a dramaticaction which she had caught from that very Madame Poincon who worethe ornaments. "Of coursethenlet us have them out.  Whydid you not tell me before?  But the keysthe keys!" Shepressed her hands against the sides of her head and seemed to despairof her memory.

"Theyare here" said Celiawith whom this explanation had been longmeditated and prearranged.

"Prayopen the large drawer of the cabinet and get out the jewel-box."

The casketwas soon open before themand the various jewels spread outmakinga bright parterre on the table.  It was no great collectionbuta few of the ornaments were really of remarkable beautythe finestthat was obvious at first being a necklace of purple amethysts set inexquisite gold workand a pearl cross with five brilliants in it.Dorothea immediately took up the necklace and fastened it round hersister's neckwhere it fitted almost as closely as a bracelet; butthe circle suited the Henrietta-Maria style of Celia's head and neckand she could see that it didin the pier-glass opposite.

"ThereCelia! you can wear that with your Indian muslin. But this cross youmust wear with your dark dresses."

Celia wastrying not to smile with pleasure.  "O Dodoyou must keepthe cross yourself."

"Nonodearno" said Dorotheaputting up her hand with carelessdeprecation.

"Yesindeed you must; it would suit you--in your black dressnow"said Celiainsistingly.  "You MIGHT wear that."

"Notfor the worldnot for the world.  A cross is the last thing Iwould wear as a trinket." Dorothea shuddered slightly.

"Thenyou will think it wicked in me to wear it" said Celiauneasily.

"Nodearno" said Dorotheastroking her sister's cheek. "Soulshave complexions too: what will suit one will not suit another."

"Butyou might like to keep it for mamma's sake."

"NoI have other things of mamma's--her sandal-wood box which I am sofond of--plenty of things.  In factthey are all yoursdear.We need discuss them no longer.  There--take away yourproperty."

Celia felta little hurt.  There was a strong assumption of superiority inthis Puritanic tolerationhardly less trying to the blond flesh ofan unenthusiastic sister than a Puritanic persecution.

"Buthow can I wear ornaments if youwho are the elder sisterwill neverwear them?"

"NayCeliathat is too much to askthat I should wear trinkets to keepyou in countenance.  If I were to put on such a necklace asthatI should feel as if I had been pirouetting.  The worldwould go round with meand I should not know how to walk."

Celia hadunclasped the necklace and drawn it off.  "It would be alittle tight for your neck; something to lie down and hang would suityou better" she saidwith some satisfaction.  Thecomplete unfitness of the necklace from all points of view forDorotheamade Celia happier in taking it.  She was opening somering-boxeswhich disclosed a fine emerald with diamondsand justthen the sun passing beyond a cloud sent a bright gleam over thetable.

"Howvery beautiful these gems are!" said Dorotheaunder a newcurrent of feelingas sudden as the gleam.  "It is strangehow deeply colors seem to penetrate onelike scent I suppose that isthe reason why gems are used as spiritual emblems in the Revelationof St. John. They look like fragments of heaven.  I think thatemerald is more beautiful than any of them."

"Andthere is a bracelet to match it" said Celia.  "We didnot notice this at first."

"Theyare lovely" said Dorotheaslipping the ring and bracelet onher finely turned finger and wristand holding them towards thewindow on a level with her eyes.  All the while her thought wastrying to justify her delight in the colors by merging them in hermystic religious joy.

"YouWOULD like thoseDorothea" said Celiarather falteringlybeginning to think with wonder that her sister showed some weaknessand also that emeralds would suit her own complexion even better thanpurple amethysts.  "You must keep that ring andbracelet--if nothing else.  But seethese agates are verypretty and quiet."

"Yes! I will keep these--this ring and bracelet" said Dorothea. Thenletting her hand fall on the tableshe said in another tone--"Yetwhat miserable men find such thingsand work at themand sellthem!" She paused againand Celia thought that her sister wasgoing to renounce the ornamentsas in consistency she ought to do.

"YesdearI will keep these" said Dorotheadecidedly.  "Buttake all the rest awayand the casket."

She tookup her pencil without removing the jewelsand still looking atthem.  She thought of often having them by herto feed her eyeat these little fountains of pure color.

"Shallyou wear them in company?" said Celiawho was watching her withreal curiosity as to what she would do.

Dorotheaglanced quickly at her sister.  Across all her imaginativeadornment of those whom she lovedthere darted now and then a keendiscernmentwhich was not without a scorching quality. If MissBrooke ever attained perfect meeknessit would not be for lack ofinward fire.

"Perhaps"she saidrather haughtily.  "I cannot tell to what level Imay sink."

Celiablushedand was unhappy: she saw that she had offended her sisterand dared not say even anything pretty about the gift of theornaments which she put back into the box and carried away. Dorotheatoo was unhappyas she went on with her plan-drawingquestioningthe purity of her own feeling and speech in the scene which had endedwith that little explosion.

Celia'sconsciousness told her that she had not been at all in the wrong: itwas quite natural and justifiable that she should have asked thatquestionand she repeated to herself that Dorothea was inconsistent:either she should have taken her full share of the jewelsorafterwhat she had saidshe should have renounced them altogether.

"I amsure--at leastI trust" thought Celia"that the wearingof a necklace will not interfere with my prayers.  And I do notsee that I should be bound by Dorothea's opinions now we are goinginto societythough of course she herself ought to be bound by them.But Dorothea is not always consistent."

ThusCeliamutely bending over her tapestryuntil she heard her sistercalling her.

"HereKittycome and look at my plan; I shall think I am a greatarchitectif I have not got incompatible stairs and fireplaces."

As Celiabent over the paperDorothea put her cheek against her sister's armcaressingly.  Celia understood the action. Dorothea saw that shehad been in the wrongand Celia pardoned her. Since they couldrememberthere had been a mixture of criticism and awe in theattitude of Celia's mind towards her elder sister. The younger hadalways worn a yoke; but is there any yoked creature without itsprivate opinions?

CHAPTERII

"`Dime;no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre un caballorucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza un yelmo de oro?'
`Loque veo y columbro' respondio Sancho`no es sino un hombre sobre unas no pardo como el mioque trae sobre la cabeza una cosa querelumbra.'
`Pues ese es el yelmo de Mambrino' dijo Don

Quijote."--CERVANTES.

"`Seestthou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a dapple-gray steedand weareth a golden helmet?'
`What I see'answered Sancho`isnothing but a man on a gray ass like my ownwho carries somethingshiny on his head.'
`Just so' answered Don Quixote: `and thatresplendent object is the helmet of Mambrino.'"

"SirHumphry Davy?" said Mr. Brookeover the soupin his easysmiling waytaking up Sir James Chettam's remark that he wasstudying Davy's Agricultural Chemistry.  "WellnowSirHumphry Davy; I dined with him years ago at Cartwright'sandWordsworth was there too--the poet Wordsworthyou know.  Nowthere was something singular. I was at Cambridge when Wordsworth wasthereand I never met him--and I dined with him twenty yearsafterwards at Cartwright's. There's an oddity in thingsnow. But Davy was there: he was a poet too. Oras I may sayWordsworthwas poet oneand Davy was poet two. That was true in every senseyou know."

Dorotheafelt a little more uneasy than usual.  In the beginning ofdinnerthe party being small and the room stillthese motes fromthe mass of a magistrate's mind fell too noticeably.  Shewondered how a man like Mr. Casaubon would support such triviality. His mannersshe thoughtwere very dignified; the set of hisiron-gray hair and his deep eye-sockets made him resemble theportrait of Locke. He had the spare form and the pale complexionwhich became a student; as different as possible from the bloomingEnglishman of the red-whiskered type represented by Sir JamesChettam.

"I amreading the Agricultural Chemistry" said this excellentbaronet"because I am going to take one of the farms into myown handsand see if something cannot be done in setting a goodpattern of farming among my tenants.  Do you approve of thatMiss Brooke?"

"Agreat mistakeChettam" interposed Mr. Brooke"going intoelectrifying your land and that kind of thingand making a parlor ofyour cow-house. It won't do.  I went into science a great dealmyself at one time; but I saw it would not do.  It leads toeverything; you can let nothing alone.  Nono--see that yourtenants don't sell their strawand that kind of thing; and give themdraining-tilesyou know.  But your fancy farming will notdo--the most expensive sort of whistle you can buy: you may as wellkeep a pack of hounds."

"Surely"said Dorothea"it is better to spend money in finding out howmen can make the most of the land which supports them allthan inkeeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it.  It is not a sinto make yourself poor in performing experiments for the good of all."

She spokewith more energy than is expected of so young a ladybut Sir Jameshad appealed to her.  He was accustomed to do soand she hadoften thought that she could urge him to many good actions when hewas her brother-in-law.

Mr.Casaubon turned his eyes very markedly on Dorothea while she wasspeakingand seemed to observe her newly.

"Youngladies don't understand political economyyou know" said Mr.Brookesmiling towards Mr. Casaubon.  "I remember when wewere all reading Adam Smith.  THERE is a booknow.  I tookin all the new ideas at one time--human perfectibilitynow. But some sayhistory moves in circles; and that may be very wellargued; I have argued it myself.  The fact ishuman reason maycarry you a little too far--over the hedgein fact.  It carriedme a good way at one time; but I saw it would not do.  I pulledup; I pulled up in time. But not too hard.  I have always beenin favor of a little theory: we must have Thought; else we shall belanded back in the dark ages. But talking of booksthere isSouthey's `Peninsular War.' I am reading that of a morning.  Youknow Southey?"

"No"said Mr. Casaubonnot keeping pace with Mr. Brooke's impetuousreasonand thinking of the book only.  "I have littleleisure for such literature just now.  I have been using up myeyesight on old characters lately; the fact isI want a reader formy evenings; but I am fastidious in voicesand I cannot endurelistening to an imperfect reader.  It is a misfortunein somesenses: I feed too much on the inward sources; I live too much withthe dead. My mind is something like the ghost of an ancientwandering about the world and trying mentally to construct it as itused to bein spite of ruin and confusing changes.  But I findit necessary to use the utmost caution about my eyesight."

This wasthe first time that Mr. Casaubon had spoken at any length. Hedelivered himself with precisionas if he had been called upon tomake a public statement; and the balanced sing-song neatness of hisspeechoccasionally corresponded to by a movement of his headwasthe more conspicuous from its contrast with good Mr. Brooke's scrappyslovenliness.  Dorothea said to herself that Mr. Casaubon wasthe most interesting man she had ever seennot excepting evenMonsieur Liretthe Vaudois clergyman who had given conferences onthe history of the Waldenses.  To reconstruct a past worlddoubtless with a view to the highest purposes of truth--what a workto be in any way present atto assist inthough only as alamp-holder!  This elevating thought lifted her above herannoyance at being twitted with her ignorance of political economythat never-explained science which was thrust as an extinguisher overall her lights.

"Butyou are fond of ridingMiss Brooke" Sir James presently tookan opportunity of saying.  "I should have thought you wouldenter a little into the pleasures of hunting.  I wish you wouldlet me send over a chestnut horse for you to try.  It has beentrained for a lady.  I saw you on Saturday cantering over thehill on a nag not worthy of you.  My groom shall bring Corydonfor you every dayif you will only mention the time."

"Thankyouyou are very good.  I mean to give up riding. I shall notride any more" said Dorotheaurged to this brusque resolutionby a little annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting herattention when she wanted to give it all to Mr. Casaubon.

"Nothat is too hard" said Sir Jamesin a tone of reproach thatshowed strong interest.  "Your sister is given toself-mortificationis she not?" he continuedturning to Celiawho sat at his right hand.

"Ithink she is" said Celiafeeling afraid lest she should saysomething that would not please her sisterand blushing as prettilyas possible above her necklace.  "She likes giving up."

"Ifthat were trueCeliamy giving-up would be self-indulgencenotself-mortification. But there may be good reasons for choosing not todo what is very agreeable" said Dorothea.

Mr. Brookewas speaking at the same timebut it was evident that Mr. Casaubonwas observing Dorotheaand she was aware of it.

"Exactly"said Sir James.  "You give up from some highgenerousmotive."

"Noindeednot exactly.  I did not say that of myself"answered Dorotheareddening.  Unlike Celiashe rarely blushedand only from high delight or anger.  At this moment she feltangry with the perverse Sir James.  Why did he not pay attentionto Celiaand leave her to listen to Mr. Casaubon?--if that learnedman would only talkinstead of allowing himself to be talked to byMr. Brookewho was just then informing him that the Reformationeither meant something or it did notthat he himself was aProtestant to the corebut that Catholicism was a fact; and as torefusing an acre of your ground for a Romanist chapelall men neededthe bridle of religionwhichproperly speakingwas the dread of aHereafter.

"Imade a great study of theology at one time" said Mr. Brookeasif to explain the insight just manifested.  "I knowsomething of all schools.  I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you know Wilberforce?"

Mr.Casaubon said"No."

"WellWilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I went intoParliamentas I have been asked to doI should sit on theindependent benchas Wilberforce didand work at philanthropy."

Mr.Casaubon bowedand observed that it was a wide field.

"Yes"said Mr. Brookewith an easy smile"but I have documents. Ibegan a long while ago to collect documents.  They wantarrangingbut when a question has struck meI have written tosomebody and got an answer.  I have documents at my back. But nowhow do you arrange your documents?"

"Inpigeon-holes partly" said Mr. Casaubonwith rather a startledair of effort.

"Ahpigeon-holes will not do.  I have tried pigeon-holesbuteverything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paperis in A or Z."

"Iwish you would let me sort your papers for youuncle" saidDorothea. "I would letter them alland then make a list ofsubjects under each letter."

Mr.Casaubon gravely smiled approvaland said to Mr. Brooke"Youhave an excellent secretary at handyou perceive."

"Nono" said Mr. Brookeshaking his head; "I cannot let youngladies meddle with my documents.  Young ladies are too flighty."

Dorotheafelt hurt.  Mr. Casaubon would think that her uncle had somespecial reason for delivering this opinionwhereas the remark lay inhis mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect among all theother fragments thereand a chance current had sent it alighting onHER.

When thetwo girls were in the drawing-room aloneCelia said--

"Howvery ugly Mr. Casaubon is!"

"Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever saw. He isremarkably like the portrait of Locke.  He has the same deepeye-sockets."

"HadLocke those two white moles with hairs on them?"

"OhI dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him" saidDorotheawalking away a little.

"Mr.Casaubon is so sallow."

"Allthe better.  I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of acochon de lait."

"Dodo!"exclaimed Celialooking after her in surprise.  "I neverheard you make such a comparison before."

"Whyshould I make it before the occasion came?  It is a goodcomparison: the match is perfect."

MissBrooke was clearly forgetting herselfand Celia thought so.

"Iwonder you show temperDorothea."

"Itis so painful in youCeliathat you will look at human beings as ifthey were merely animals with a toiletand never see the great soulin a man's face."

"HasMr. Casaubon a great soul?" Celia was not without a touch ofnaive malice.

"YesI believe he has" said Dorotheawith the full voice ofdecision.  "Everything I see in him corresponds to hispamphlet on Biblical Cosmology."

"Hetalks very little" said Celia

"Thereis no one for him to talk to."

Celiathought privately"Dorothea quite despises Sir James Chettam; Ibelieve she would not accept him." Celia felt that this was apity. She had never been deceived as to the object of the baronet'sinterest. Sometimesindeedshe had reflected that Dodo wouldperhaps not make a husband happy who had not her way of looking atthings; and stifled in the depths of her heart was the feeling thather sister was too religious for family comfort.  Notions andscruples were like spilt needlesmaking one afraid of treadingorsitting downor even eating.

When MissBrooke was at the tea-tableSir James came to sit down by hernothaving felt her mode of answering him at all offensive. Why shouldhe?  He thought it probable that Miss Brooke liked himandmanners must be very marked indeed before they cease to beinterpreted by preconceptions either confident or distrustful. Shewas thoroughly charming to himbut of course he theorized a littleabout his attachment.  He was made of excellent human doughandhad the rare merit of knowing that his talentseven if let loosewould not set the smallest stream in the county on fire: hence heliked the prospect of a wife to whom he could say"What shallwe do?" about this or that; who could help her husband out withreasonsand would also have the property qualification for doing so.As to the excessive religiousness alleged against Miss Brookehe hada very indefinite notion of what it consisted inand thought that itwould die out with marriage.  In shorthe felt himself to be inlove in the right placeand was ready to endure a great deal ofpredominancewhichafter alla man could always put down when heliked.  Sir James had no idea that he should ever like to putdown the predominance of this handsome girlin whose cleverness hedelighted.  Why not?  A man's mind--what there is ofit--has always the advantage of being masculine--as the smallestbirch-tree is of a higher kind than the most soaring palm--and evenhis ignorance is of a sounder quality.  Sir James might not haveoriginated this estimate; but a kind Providence furnishes the limpestpersonality with a little gunk or starch in the form of tradition.

"Letme hope that you will rescind that resolution about the horseMissBrooke" said the persevering admirer.  "I assure youriding is the most healthy of exercises."

"I amaware of it" said Dorotheacoldly.  "I think itwould do Celia good--if she would take to it."

"Butyou are such a perfect horsewoman."

"Excuseme; I have had very little practiceand I should be easily thrown."

"Thenthat is a reason for more practice.  Every lady ought to be aperfect horsewomanthat she may accompany her husband."

"Yousee how widely we differSir James.  I have made up my mindthat I ought not to be a perfect horsewomanand so I should nevercorrespond to your pattern of a lady." Dorothea looked straightbefore herand spoke with cold brusquerievery much with the air ofa handsome boyin amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability ofher admirer.

"Ishould like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It is notpossible that you should think horsemanship wrong."

"Itis quite possible that I should think it wrong for me."

"Ohwhy?" said Sir Jamesin a tender tone of remonstrance.

Mr.Casaubon had come up to the tableteacup in handand was listening.

"Wemust not inquire too curiously into motives" he interposedinhis measured way.  "Miss Brooke knows that they are apt tobecome feeble in the utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosserair. We must keep the germinating grain away from the light."

Dorotheacolored with pleasureand looked up gratefully to the speaker. Herewas a man who could understand the higher inward lifeand with whomthere could be some spiritual communion; naywho could illuminateprinciple with the widest knowledge a man whose learning almostamounted to a proof of whatever he believed!

Dorothea'sinferences may seem large; but really life could never have gone onat any period but for this liberal allowance of conclusionswhichhas facilitated marriage under the difficulties of civilization. Hasany one ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb ofpre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?

"Certainly"said good Sir James.  "Miss Brooke shall not be urged totell reasons she would rather be silent upon.  I am sure herreasons would do her honor."

He was notin the least jealous of the interest with which Dorothea had lookedup at Mr. Casaubon: it never occurred to him that a girl to whom hewas meditating an offer of marriage could care for a dried bookwormtowards fiftyexceptindeedin a religious sort of wayas for aclergyman of some distinction.

Howeversince Miss Brooke had become engaged in a conversation with Mr.Casaubon about the Vaudois clergySir James betook himself to Celiaand talked to her about her sister; spoke of a house in townandasked whether Miss Brooke disliked London. Away from her sisterCelia talked quite easilyand Sir James said to himself that thesecond Miss Brooke was certainly very agreeable as well as prettythough notas some people pretendedmore clever and sensible thanthe elder sister.  He felt that he had chosen the one who was inall respects the superior; and a man naturally likes to look forwardto having the best.  He would be the very Mawworm of bachelorswho pretended not to expect it.

CHAPTERIII

  "Saygoddesswhat ensuedwhen Raphael
   Theaffable archangel . . .
   Eve
   Thestory heard attentiveand was filled
   Withadmirationand deep museto hear
   Of things so highand strange."
   --Paradise Lost B. vii.

If it hadreally occurred to Mr. Casaubon to think of Miss Brooke as a suitablewife for himthe reasons that might induce her to accept him werealready planted in her mindand by the evening of the next day thereasons had budded and bloomed. For they had had a long conversationin the morningwhile Celiawho did not like the company of Mr.Casaubon's moles and sallownesshad escaped to the vicarage to playwith the curate's ill-shod but merry children.

Dorotheaby this time had looked deep into the ungauged reservoir of Mr.Casaubon's mindseeing reflected there in vague labyrinthineextension every quality she herself brought; had opened much of herown experience to himand had understood from him the scope of hisgreat workalso of attractively labyrinthine extent. For he had beenas instructive as Milton's "affable archangel;" and withsomething of the archangelic manner he told her how he had undertakento show (what indeed had been attempted beforebut not with thatthoroughnessjustice of comparisonand effectiveness of arrangementat which Mr. Casaubon aimed) that all the mythical systems or erraticmythical fragments in the world were corruptions of a traditionoriginally revealed.  Having once mastered the true position andtaken a firm footing therethe vast field of mythical constructionsbecame intelligiblenayluminous with the reflected light ofcorrespondences.  But to gather in this great harvest of truthwas no light or speedy work.  His notes already made aformidable range of volumesbut the crowning task would be tocondense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring themlike the earlier vintage of Hippocratic booksto fit a little shelf.In explaining this to DorotheaMr. Casaubon expressed himself nearlyas he would have done to a fellow-studentfor he had not two stylesof talking at command: it is true that when he used a Greek or Latinphrase he always gave the English with scrupulous carebut he wouldprobably have done this in any case.  A learned provincialclergyman is accustomed to think of his acquaintances as of "lordsknyghtesand other noble and worthi menthat conne Latyn butlytille."

Dorotheawas altogether captivated by the wide embrace of this conception. Here was something beyond the shallows of ladies' school literature:here was a living Bossuetwhose work would reconcile completeknowledge with devoted piety; here was a modern Augustine who unitedthe glories of doctor and saint.

Thesanctity seemed no less clearly marked than the learningfor whenDorothea was impelled to open her mind on certain themes which shecould speak of to no one whom she had before seen at Tiptonespecially on the secondary importance of ecclesiastical forms andarticles of belief compared with that spiritual religionthatsubmergence of self in communion with Divine perfection which seemedto her to be expressed in the best Christian books of widely distantagesshe found in Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her atoncewho could assure her of his own agreement with that view whenduly tempered with wise conformityand could mention historicalexamples before unknown to her.

"Hethinks with me" said Dorothea to herself"or ratherhethinks a whole world of which my thought is but a poor twopennymirror. And his feelings toohis whole experience--what a lakecompared with my little pool!"

MissBrooke argued from words and dispositions not less unhesitatinglythan other young ladies of her age.  Signs are small measurablethingsbut interpretations are illimitableand in girls of sweetardent natureevery sign is apt to conjure up wonderhopebeliefvast as a skyand colored by a diffused thimbleful of matter in theshape of knowledge.  They are not always too grossly deceived;for Sinbad himself may have fallen by good-luck on a truedescriptionand wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals inright conclusions: starting a long way off the true pointandproceeding by loops and zigzagswe now and then arrive just where weought to be. Because Miss Brooke was hasty in her trustit is nottherefore clear that Mr. Casaubon was unworthy of it.

He stayeda little longer than he had intendedon a slight pressure ofinvitation from Mr. Brookewho offered no bait except his owndocuments on machine-breaking and rick-burning. Mr. Casaubon wascalled into the library to look at these in a heapwhile his hostpicked up first one and then the other to read aloud from in askipping and uncertain waypassing from one unfinished passage toanother with a "Yesnowbut here!" and finally pushingthem all aside to open the journal of his youthful Continentaltravels.

"Lookhere--here is all about Greece.  Rhamnusthe ruins ofRhamnus--you are a great Greciannow.  I don't know whether youhave given much study to the topography.  I spent no end of timein making out these things--Heliconnow.  Herenow!--`Westarted the next morning for Parnassusthe double-peaked Parnassus.'All this volume is about Greeceyou know" Mr. Brooke wound uprubbing his thumb transversely along the edges of the leaves as heheld the book forward.

Mr.Casaubon made a dignified though somewhat sad audience; bowed in theright placeand avoided looking at anything documentary as far aspossiblewithout showing disregard or impatience; mindful that thisdesultoriness was associated with the institutions of the countryand that the man who took him on this severe mental scamper was notonly an amiable hostbut a landholder and custos rotulorum. Was hisendurance aided also by the reflection that Mr. Brooke was the uncleof Dorothea?

Certainlyhe seemed more and more bent on making her talk to himon drawingher outas Celia remarked to herself; and in looking at her his facewas often lit up by a smile like pale wintry sunshine. Before he leftthe next morningwhile taking a pleasant walk with Miss Brooke alongthe gravelled terracehe had mentioned to her that he felt thedisadvantage of lonelinessthe need of that cheerful companionshipwith which the presence of youth can lighten or vary the serioustoils of maturity.  And he delivered this statement with as muchcareful precision as if he had been a diplomatic envoy whose wordswould be attended with results.  IndeedMr. Casaubon was notused to expect that he should have to repeat or revise hiscommunications of a practical or personal kind.  Theinclinations which he had deliberately stated on the 2d of October hewould think it enough to refer to by the mention of that date;judging by the standard of his own memorywhich was a volume where avide supra could serve instead of repetitionsand not the ordinarylong-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing. But in this case Mr. Casaubon's confidence was not likely to befalsifiedfor Dorothea heard and retained what he said with theeager interest of a fresh young nature to which every variety inexperience is an epoch.

It wasthree o'clock in the beautiful breezy autumn day when Mr. Casaubondrove off to his Rectory at Lowickonly five miles from Tipton; andDorotheawho had on her bonnet and shawlhurried along theshrubbery and across the park that she might wander through thebordering wood with no other visible companionship than that of Monkthe Great St. Bernard dogwho always took care of the young ladiesin their walks. There had risen before her the girl's vision of apossible future for herself to which she looked forward withtrembling hopeand she wanted to wander on in that visionary futurewithout interruption. She walked briskly in the brisk airthe colorrose in her cheeksand her straw bonnet (which our contemporariesmight look at with conjectural curiosity as at an obsolete form ofbasket) fell a little backward.  She would perhaps be hardlycharacterized enough if it were omitted that she wore her brown hairflatly braided and coiled behind so as to expose the outline of herhead in a daring manner at a time when public feeling required themeagreness of nature to be dissimulated by tall barricades of frizzedcurls and bowsnever surpassed by any great race except theFeejeean. This was a trait of Miss Brooke's asceticism.  Butthere was nothing of an ascetic's expression in her bright full eyesas she looked before hernot consciously seeingbut absorbing intothe intensity of her moodthe solemn glory of the afternoon with itslong swathes of light between the far-off rows of limeswhoseshadows touched each other.

Allpeopleyoung or old (that isall people in those ante-reformtimes)would have thought her an interesting object if they hadreferred the glow in her eyes and cheeks to the newly awakenedordinary images of young love: the illusions of Chloe about Strephonhave been sufficiently consecrated in poetryas the patheticloveliness of all spontaneous trust ought to be.  Miss Pippinadoring young Pumpkinand dreaming along endless vistas ofunwearying companionshipwas a little drama which never tired ourfathers and mothersand had been put into all costumes.  Letbut Pumpkin have a figure which would sustain the disadvantages ofthe shortwaisted swallow-tailand everybody felt it not only naturalbut necessary to the perfection of womanhoodthat a sweet girlshould be at once convinced of his virtuehis exceptional abilityand above allhis perfect sincerity.  But perhaps no personsthen living--certainly none in the neighborhood of Tipton--would havehad a sympathetic understanding for the dreams of a girl whosenotions about marriage took their color entirely from an exaltedenthusiasm about the ends of lifean enthusiasm which was litchiefly by its own fireand included neither the niceties of thetrousseauthe pattern of platenor even the honors and sweet joysof the blooming matron.

It had nowentered Dorothea's mind that Mr. Casaubon might wish to make her hiswifeand the idea that he would do so touched her with a sort ofreverential gratitude.  How good of him--nayit would be almostas if a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and heldout his hand towards her!  For a long while she had beenoppressed by the indefiniteness which hung in her mindlike a thicksummer hazeover all her desire to made her life greatly effective. What could she dowhat ought she to do?--shehardly more than abudding womanbut yet with an active conscience and a great mentalneednot to be satisfied by a girlish instruction comparable to thenibblings and judgments of a discursive mouse. With some endowment ofstupidity and conceitshe might have thought that a Christian younglady of fortune should find her ideal of life in village charitiespatronage of the humbler clergythe perusal of "FemaleScripture Characters" unfolding the private experience of Saraunder the Old Dispensationand Dorcas under the Newand the care ofher soul over her embroidery in her own boudoir--with a background ofprospective marriage to a man whoif less strict than herselfasbeing involved in affairs religiously inexplicablemight be prayedfor and seasonably exhorted.  From such contentment poorDorothea was shut out.  The intensity of her religiousdispositionthe coercion it exercised over her lifewas but oneaspect of a nature altogether ardenttheoreticand intellectuallyconsequent: and with such a nature struggling in the bands of anarrow teachinghemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing buta labyrinth of petty coursesa walled-in maze of small paths thatled no whitherthe outcome was sure to strike others as at onceexaggeration and inconsistency.  The thing which seemed to herbestshe wanted to justify by the completest knowledge; and not tolive in a pretended admission of rules which were never acted on.Into this soul-hunger as yet all her youthful passion was poured; theunion which attracted her was one that would deliver her from hergirlish subjection to her own ignoranceand give her the freedom ofvoluntary submission to a guide who would take her along the grandestpath.

"Ishould learn everything then" she said to herselfstillwalking quickly along the bridle road through the wood.  "Itwould be my duty to study that I might help him the better in hisgreat works. There would be nothing trivial about our lives. Every-day things with us would mean the greatest things.  Itwould be like marrying Pascal. I should learn to see the truth by thesame light as great men have seen it by.  And then I should knowwhat to dowhen I got older: I should see how it was possible tolead a grand life here--now--in England. I don't feel sure aboutdoing good in any way now: everything seems like going on a missionto a people whose language I don't know;--unless it were buildinggood cottages--there can be no doubt about that.  OhI hope Ishould be able to get the people well housed in Lowick!  I willdraw plenty of plans while I have time."

Dorotheachecked herself suddenly with self-rebuke for the presumptuous way inwhich she was reckoning on uncertain eventsbut she was spared anyinward effort to change the direction of her thoughts by theappearance of a cantering horseman round a turning of the road. The well-groomed chestnut horse and two beautiful setters could leaveno doubt that the rider was Sir James Chettam. He discerned Dorotheajumped off his horse at onceandhaving delivered it to his groomadvanced towards her with something white on his armat which thetwo setters were barking in an excited manner.

"Howdelightful to meet youMiss Brooke" he saidraising his hatand showing his sleekly waving blond hair.  "It hashastened the pleasure I was looking forward to."

MissBrooke was annoyed at the interruption.  This amiable baronetreally a suitable husband for Celiaexaggerated the necessity ofmaking himself agreeable to the elder sister.  Even aprospective brother-in-law may be an oppression if he will always bepresupposing too good an understanding with youand agreeing withyou even when you contradict him.  The thought that he had madethe mistake of paying his addresses to herself could not take shape:all her mental activity was used up in persuasions of another kind.But he was positively obtrusive at this momentand his dimpled handswere quite disagreeable.  Her roused temper made her colordeeplyas she returned his greeting with some haughtiness.

Sir Jamesinterpreted the heightened color in the way most gratifying tohimselfand thought he never saw Miss Brooke looking so handsome.

"Ihave brought a little petitioner" he said"or ratherIhave brought him to see if he will be approved before his petition isoffered." He showed the white object under his armwhich was atiny Maltese puppyone of nature's most naive toys.

"Itis painful to me to see these creatures that are bred merely aspets" said Dorotheawhose opinion was forming itself that verymoment (as opinions will) under the heat of irritation.

"Ohwhy?" said Sir Jamesas they walked forward.

"Ibelieve all the petting that is given them does not make them happy. They are too helpless: their lives are too frail. A weasel or a mousethat gets its own living is more interesting. I like to think thatthe animals about us have souls something like our ownand eithercarry on their own little affairs or can be companions to uslikeMonk here.  Those creatures are parasitic."

"I amso glad I know that you do not like them" said good Sir James."I should never keep them for myselfbut ladies usually arefond of these Maltese dogs.  HereJohntake this dogwillyou?"

Theobjectionable puppywhose nose and eyes were equally black andexpressivewas thus got rid ofsince Miss Brooke decided that ithad better not have been born.  But she felt it necessary toexplain.

"Youmust not judge of Celia's feeling from mine.  I think she likesthese small pets.  She had a tiny terrier oncewhich she wasvery fond of.  It made me unhappybecause I was afraid oftreading on it. I am rather short-sighted."

"Youhave your own opinion about everythingMiss Brookeand it is alwaysa good opinion."

Whatanswer was possible to such stupid complimenting?

"Doyou knowI envy you that" Sir James saidas they continuedwalking at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea.

"Idon't quite understand what you mean."

"Yourpower of forming an opinion.  I can form an opinion of persons.I know when I like people.  But about other mattersdo youknowI have often a difficulty in deciding.  One hears verysensible things said on opposite sides."

"Orthat seem sensible.  Perhaps we don't always discriminatebetween sense and nonsense."

Dorotheafelt that she was rather rude.

"Exactly"said Sir James.  "But you seem to have the power ofdiscrimination."

"Onthe contraryI am often unable to decide.  But that is fromignorance.  The right conclusion is there all the samethough Iam unable to see it."

"Ithink there are few who would see it more readily.  Do you knowLovegood was telling me yesterday that you had the best notion in theworld of a plan for cottages--quite wonderful for a young ladyhethought.  You had a real GENUSto use his expression. He saidyou wanted Mr. Brooke to build a new set of cottagesbut he seemedto think it hardly probable that your uncle would consent. Do youknowthat is one of the things I wish to do--I meanon my ownestate.  I should be so glad to carry out that plan of yoursifyou would let me see it.  Of courseit is sinking money; thatis why people object to it.  Laborers can never pay rent to makeit answer.  Butafter allit is worth doing."

"Worthdoing! yesindeed" said Dorotheaenergeticallyforgettingher previous small vexations.  "I think we deserve to bebeaten out of our beautiful houses with a scourge of small cords--allof us who let tenants live in such sties as we see round us. Life incottages might be happier than oursif they were real houses fit forhuman beings from whom we expect duties and affections."

"Willyou show me your plan?"

"Yescertainly.  I dare say it is very faulty.  But I have beenexamining all the plans for cottages in Loudon's bookand picked outwhat seem the best things.  Oh what a happiness it would be toset the pattern about here!  I think instead of Lazarus at thegatewe should put the pigsty cottages outside the park-gate."

Dorotheawas in the best temper now.  Sir Jamesas brother in-lawbuilding model cottages on his estateand thenperhapsothersbeing built at Lowickand more and more elsewhere in imitation--itwould be as if the spirit of Oberlin had passed over the parishes tomake the life of poverty beautiful!

Sir Jamessaw all the plansand took one away to consult upon with Lovegood. He also took away a complacent sense that he was making greatprogress in Miss Brooke's good opinion.  The Maltese puppy wasnot offered to Celia; an omission which Dorothea afterwards thoughtof with surprise; but she blamed herself for it. She had beenengrossing Sir James.  After allit was a relief that there wasno puppy to tread upon.

Celia waspresent while the plans were being examinedand observed Sir James'sillusion.  "He thinks that Dodo cares about himand sheonly cares about her plans.  Yet I am not certain that she wouldrefuse him if she thought he would let her manage everything andcarry out all her notions.  And how very uncomfortable Sir Jameswould be!  I cannot bear notions."

It wasCelia's private luxury to indulge in this dislike. She dared notconfess it to her sister in any direct statementfor that would belaying herself open to a demonstration that she was somehow or otherat war with all goodness.  But on safe opportunitiesshe had anindirect mode of making her negative wisdom tell upon Dorotheaandcalling her down from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that peoplewere staringnot listening. Celia was not impulsive: what she had tosay could waitand came from her always with the same quiet staccatoevenness. When people talked with energy and emphasis she watchedtheir faces and features merely.  She never could understand howwell-bred persons consented to sing and open their mouths in theridiculous manner requisite for that vocal exercise.

It was notmany days before Mr. Casaubon paid a morning visiton which he wasinvited again for the following week to dine and stay the night. Thus Dorothea had three more conversations with himand wasconvinced that her first impressions had been just. He was all shehad at first imagined him to be: almost everything he had said seemedlike a specimen from a mineor the inscription on the door of amuseum which might open on the treasures of past ages; and this trustin his mental wealth was all the deeper and more effective on herinclination because it was now obvious that his visits were made forher sake.  This accomplished man condescended to think of ayoung girland take the pains to talk to hernot with absurdcomplimentbut with an appeal to her understandingand sometimeswith instructive correction. What delightful companionship!  Mr.Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existedand neverhanded round that small-talk of heavy men which is as acceptable asstale bride-cake brought forth with an odor of cupboard.  Hetalked of what he was interested inor else he was silent and bowedwith sad civility.  To Dorothea this was adorable genuinenessand religious abstinence from that artificiality which uses up thesoul in the efforts of pretence. For she looked as reverently at Mr.Casaubon's religious elevation above herself as she did at hisintellect and learning. He assented to her expressions of devoutfeelingand usually with an appropriate quotation; he allowedhimself to say that he had gone through some spiritual conflicts inhis youth; in shortDorothea saw that here she might reckon onunderstandingsympathyand guidance. On one--only one--of herfavorite themes she was disappointed. Mr. Casaubon apparently did notcare about building cottagesand diverted the talk to the extremelynarrow accommodation which was to be had in the dwellings of theancient Egyptiansas if to check a too high standard.  After hewas goneDorothea dwelt with some agitation on this indifference ofhis; and her mind was much exercised with arguments drawn from thevarying conditions of climate which modify human needsand from theadmitted wickedness of pagan despots.  Should she not urge thesearguments on Mr. Casaubon when he came again?  But furtherreflection told her that she was presumptuous in demanding hisattention to such a subject; he would not disapprove of her occupyingherself with it in leisure momentsas other women expected to occupythemselves with their dress and embroidery--would not forbid itwhen--Dorothea felt rather ashamed as she detected herself in thesespeculations. But her uncle had been invited to go to Lowick to staya couple of days: was it reasonable to suppose that Mr. Casaubondelighted in Mr. Brooke's society for its own sakeeither with orwithout documents?

Meanwhilethat little disappointment made her delight the more in Sir JamesChettam's readiness to set on foot the desired improvements. He camemuch oftener than Mr. Casaubonand Dorothea ceased to find himdisagreeable since he showed himself so entirely in earnest; for hehad already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood'sestimatesand was charmingly docile.  She proposed to build acouple of cottagesand transfer two families from their old cabinswhich could then be pulled downso that new ones could be built onthe old sites. Sir James said "Exactly" and she bore theword remarkably well.

Certainlythese men who had so few spontaneous ideas might be very usefulmembers of society under good feminine directionif they werefortunate in choosing their sisters-in-law!  It is difficult tosay whether there was or was not a little wilfulness in hercontinuing blind to the possibility that another sort of choice wasin question in relation to her.  But her life was just now fullof hope and action: she was not only thinking of her plansbutgetting down learned books from the library and reading many thingshastily (that she might be a little less ignorant in talking to Mr.Casaubon)all the while being visited with conscientiousquestionings whether she were not exalting these poor doings abovemeasure and contemplating them with that self-satisfaction which wasthe last doom of ignorance and folly.

CHAPTERIV

  1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves.
  2d Gent.  Aytruly: but I think it is the world That brings theiron.

"SirJames seems determined to do everything you wish" said Celiaas they were driving home from an inspection of the newbuilding-site.

"Heis a good creatureand more sensible than any one would imagine"said Dorotheainconsiderately.

"Youmean that he appears silly."

"Nono" said Dorothearecollecting herselfand laying her hand onher sister's a moment"but he does not talk equally well on allsubjects."

"Ishould think none but disagreeable people do" said Celiainher usual purring way.  "They must be very dreadful to livewith. Only think! at breakfastand always."

Dorothealaughed.  "O Kittyyou are a wonderful creature!" Shepinched Celia's chinbeing in the mood now to think her very winningand lovely--fit hereafter to be an eternal cheruband if it were notdoctrinally wrong to say sohardly more in need of salvation than asquirrel.  "Of course people need not be always talkingwell.  Only one tells the quality of their minds when they tryto talk well."

"Youmean that Sir James tries and fails."

"Iwas speaking generally.  Why do you catechise me about SirJames?  It is not the object of his life to please me."

"NowDodocan you really believe that?"

"Certainly.He thinks of me as a future sister--that is all." Dorothea hadnever hinted this beforewaitingfrom a certain shyness on suchsubjects which was mutual between the sistersuntil it should beintroduced by some decisive event.  Celia blushedbut said atonce--

"Praydo not make that mistake any longerDodo.  When Tantripp wasbrushing my hair the other dayshe said that Sir James's man knewfrom Mrs. Cadwallader's maid that Sir James was to marry the eldestMiss Brooke."

"Howcan you let Tantripp talk such gossip to youCelia?" saidDorotheaindignantlynot the less angry because details asleep inher memory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation."You must have asked her questions.  It is degrading."

"Isee no harm at all in Tantripp's talking to me.  It is better tohear what people say.  You see what mistakes you make by takingup notions.  I am quite sure that Sir James means to make you anoffer; and he believes that you will accept himespecially since youhave been so pleased with him about the plans.  And uncle too--Iknow he expects it.  Every one can see that Sir James is verymuch in love with you."

Therevulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that the tearswelled up and flowed abundantly.  All her dear plans wereembitteredand she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceivingthat she recognized him as her lover.  There was vexation too onaccount of Celia.

"Howcould he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuousmanner. "I have never agreed with him about anything but thecottages: I was barely polite to him before."

"Butyou have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun to feelquite sure that you are fond of him."

"Fondof himCelia!  How can you choose such odious expressions?"said Dorotheapassionately.

"DearmeDorotheaI suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a manwhom you accepted for a husband."

"Itis offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond ofhim.  Besidesit is not the right word for the feeling I musthave towards the man I would accept as a husband."

"WellI am sorry for Sir James.  I thought it right to tell youbecause you went on as you always donever looking just where youareand treading in the wrong place.  You always see whatnobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never seewhat is quite plain. That's your wayDodo." Something certainlygave Celia unusual courage; and she was not sparing the sister ofwhom she was occasionally in awe. Who can tell what just criticismsMurr the Cat may be passing on us beings of wider speculation?

"Itis very painful" said Dorotheafeeling scourged.  "Ican have no more to do with the cottages.  I must be uncivil tohim.  I must tell him I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyes filled again with tears.

"Waita little.  Think about it.  You know he is going away for aday or two to see his sister.  There will be nobody besidesLovegood." Celia could not help relenting.  "PoorDodo" she went onin an amiable staccato.  "It isvery hard: it is your favorite FAD to draw plans."

"FADto draw plans!  Do you think I only care about myfellow-creatures' houses in that childish way?  I may well makemistakes.  How can one ever do anything nobly Christianlivingamong people with such petty thoughts?"

No morewas said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper andbehave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She wasdisposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the purblindconscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer theeternal cherubbut a thorn in her spirita pink-and-whitenullifidianworse than any discouraging presence in the "Pilgrim'sProgress." The FAD of drawing plans!  What was lifeworth--what great faith was possible when the whole effect of one'sactions could be withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the carriageher cheeks were pale and hereyelids red.  She was an image of sorrowand her uncle who mether in the hall would have been alarmedif Celia had not been closeto her looking so pretty and composedthat he at once concludedDorothea's tears to have their origin in her excessivereligiousness.  He had returnedduring their absencefrom ajourney to the county townabout a petition for the pardon of somecriminal.

"Wellmy dears" he saidkindlyas they went up to kiss him"Ihope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away."

"Nouncle" said Celia"we have been to Freshitt to look atthe cottages.  We thought you would have been at home to lunch."

"Icame by Lowick to lunch--you didn't know I came by Lowick.  AndI have brought a couple of pamphlets for youDorothea--in thelibraryyou know; they lie on the table in the library."

It seemedas if an electric stream went through Dorotheathrilling her fromdespair into expectation.  They were pamphlets about the earlyChurch.  The oppression of CeliaTantrippand Sir James wasshaken offand she walked straight to the library. Celia wentup-stairs. Mr. Brooke was detained by a messagebut when here-entered the libraryhe found Dorothea seated and already deep inone of the pamphlets which had some marginal manuscript of Mr.Casaubon's--taking it in as eagerly as she might have taken in thescent of a fresh bouquet after a dryhotdreary walk.

She wasgetting away from Tipton and Freshittand her own sad liability totread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem.

Mr. Brookesat down in his arm-chairstretched his legs towards the wood-firewhich had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dice between thedogsand rubbed his hands gentlylooking very mildly towardsDorotheabut with a neutral leisurely airas if he had nothingparticular to say.  Dorothea closed her pamphletas soon as shewas aware of her uncle's presenceand rose as if to go. Usually shewould have been interested about her uncle's merciful errand onbehalf of the criminalbut her late agitation had made herabsent-minded.

"Icame back by Lowickyou know" said Mr. Brookenot as if withany intention to arrest her departurebut apparently from his usualtendency to say what he had said before.  This fundamentalprinciple of human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. "Ilunched there and saw Casaubon's libraryand that kind of thing.There's a sharp airdriving.  Won't you sit downmy dear? Youlook cold."

Dorotheafelt quite inclined to accept the invitation.  Some timeswhenher uncle's easy way of taking things did not happen to beexasperatingit was rather soothing.  She threw off her mantleand bonnetand sat down opposite to himenjoying the glowbutlifting up her beautiful hands for a screen.  They were not thinhandsor small hands; but powerfulfemininematernal hands. Sheseemed to be holding them up in propitiation for her passionatedesire to know and to thinkwhich in the unfriendly mediums ofTipton and Freshitt had issued in crying and red eyelids.

Shebethought herself now of the condemned criminal.  "Whatnews have you brought about the sheep-stealeruncle?"

"Whatpoor Bunch?--wellit seems we can't get him off--he is to behanged."

Dorothea'sbrow took an expression of reprobation and pity.

"Hangedyou know" said Mr. Brookewith a quiet nod.  "PoorRomilly! he would have helped us.  I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn't know Romilly. He is a little buried in booksyouknowCasaubon is."

"Whena man has great studies and is writing a great workhe must ofcourse give up seeing much of the world.  How can he go aboutmaking acquaintances?"

"That'strue.  But a man mopesyou know.  I have always been abachelor toobut I have that sort of disposition that I never moped;it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I nevermoped: but I can see that Casaubon doesyou know.  He wants acompanion--a companionyou know."

"Itwould be a great honor to any one to be his companion" saidDorotheaenergetically.

"Youlike himeh?" said Mr. Brookewithout showing any surpriseorother emotion.  "WellnowI've known Casaubon ten yearsever since he came to Lowick.  But I never got anything out ofhim--any ideasyou know.  Howeverhe is a tiptop man and maybe a bishop--that kind of thingyou knowif Peel stays in. And hehas a very high opinion of youmy dear."

Dorotheacould not speak.

"Thefact ishe has a very high opinion indeed of you.  And hespeaks uncommonly well--does Casaubon.  He has deferred to meyou not being of age.  In shortI have promised to speak toyouthough I told him I thought there was not much chance.  Iwas bound to tell him that.  I saidmy niece is very youngandthat kind of thing.  But I didn't think it necessary to go intoeverything. Howeverthe long and the short of it isthat he hasasked my permission to make you an offer of marriage--of marriageyou know" said Mr. Brookewith his explanatory nod.  "Ithought it better to tell youmy dear."

No onecould have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooke's mannerbut he didreally wish to know something of his niece's mindthatif therewere any need for advicehe might give it in time. What feeling heas a magistrate who had taken in so many ideascould make room forwas unmixedly kind.  Since Dorothea did not speak immediatelyhe repeated"I thought it better to tell youmy dear."

"Thankyouuncle" said Dorotheain a clear unwavering tone. "Iam very grateful to Mr. Casaubon.  If he makes me an offerIshall accept him.  I admire and honor him more than any man Iever saw."

Mr. Brookepaused a littleand then said in a lingering low tone"Ah? . ..  Well!  He is a good match in some respects.  ButnowChettam is a good match.  And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishesmy dear.  Peopleshould have their own way in marriageand that sort of thing--up toa certain pointyou know.  I have always said thatup to acertain point.  I wish you to marry well; and I have good reasonto believe that Chettam wishes to marry you.  I mention ityouknow."

"Itis impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam" saidDorothea.  "If he thinks of marrying mehe has made agreat mistake."

"Thatis ityou see.  One never knows.  I should have thoughtChettam was just the sort of man a woman would likenow."

"Praydo not mention him in that light againuncle" said Dorotheafeeling some of her late irritation revive.

Mr. Brookewonderedand felt that women were an inexhaustible subject of studysince even he at his age was not in a perfect state of scientificprediction about them.  Here was a fellow like Chettam with nochance at all.

"Wellbut Casaubonnow.  There is no hurry--I mean for you. It'strueevery year will tell upon him.  He is over five-and-fortyyou know.  I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older thanyou. To be sure--if you like learning and standingand that sort ofthingwe can't have everything.  And his income is good--he hasa handsome property independent of the Church--his income is good.Still he is not youngand I must not conceal from youmy dearthatI think his health is not over-strong. I know nothing else againsthim."

"Ishould not wish to have a husband very near my own age" saidDorotheawith grave decision.  "I should wish to have ahusband who was above me in judgment and in all knowledge."

Mr. Brookerepeated his subdued"Ah?--I thought you had more of your ownopinion than most girls.  I thought you liked your ownopinion--liked ityou know."

"Icannot imagine myself living without some opinionsbut I should wishto have good reasons for themand a wise man could help me to seewhich opinions had the best foundationand would help me to liveaccording to them."

"Verytrue.  You couldn't put the thing better--couldn't put itbetterbeforehandyou know.  But there are oddities inthings" continued Mr. Brookewhose conscience was reallyroused to do the best he could for his niece on this occasion. "Life isn't cast in a mould--not cut out by rule and lineandthat sort of thing. I never married myselfand it will be the betterfor you and yours. The fact isI never loved any one well enough toput myself into a noose for them.  It IS a nooseyou know. Tempernow. There is temper.  And a husband likes to bemaster."

"Iknow that I must expect trialsuncle.  Marriage is a state ofhigher duties.  I never thought of it as mere personal ease"said poor Dorothea.

"Wellyou are not fond of showa great establishmentballsdinnersthatkind of thing.  I can see that Casaubon's ways might suit youbetter than Chettam's. And you shall do as you likemy dear. I wouldnot hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no knowing howanything may turn out.  You have not the same tastes as everyyoung lady; and a clergyman and scholar--who may be a bishop--thatkind of thing--may suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a goodfellowa good sound-hearted fellowyou know; but he doesn't go muchinto ideas.  I didwhen I was his age. But Casaubon's eyesnow.  I think he has hurt them a little with too much reading."

"Ishould be all the happierunclethe more room there was for me tohelp him" said Dorotheaardently.

"Youhave quite made up your mindI see.  Wellmy dearthe factisI have a letter for you in my pocket." Mr. Brooke handed theletter to Dorotheabut as she rose to go awayhe added"Thereis not too much hurrymy dear.  Think about ityou know."

WhenDorothea had left himhe reflected that he had certainly spokenstrongly: he had put the risks of marriage before her in a strikingmanner.  It was his duty to do so.  But as to pretending tobe wise for young people--no unclehowever much he had travelled inhis youthabsorbed the new ideasand dined with celebrities nowdeceasedcould pretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn outwell for a young girl who preferred Casaubon to Chettam. In shortwoman was a problem whichsince Mr. Brooke's mind felt blank beforeitcould be hardly less complicated than the revolutions of anirregular solid.

CHAPTERV

"Hardstudents are commonly troubled with gowtscatarrhsrheumscachexiabradypepsiabad eyesstoneand collickcruditiesoppilationsvertigowindsconsumptionsand all such diseases ascome by over-much sitting: they are most part leandryill-colored. . . and all through immoderate pains and extraordinary studies. If you will not believe the truth of thislook upon great Tostatusand Thomas Aquainas' works; and tell me whether those men tookpains."
BURTON'S Anatomy of Melancholy P. Is. 2.

This wasMr. Casaubon's letter.

MY DEARMISS BROOKE
I have your guardian's permission to address you ona subject than which I have none more at heart.  I am notItrustmistaken in the recognition of some deeper correspondence thanthat of date in the fact that a consciousness of need in my own lifehad arisen contemporaneously with the possibility of my becomingacquainted with you.  For in the first hour of meeting youIhad an impression of your eminent and perhaps exclusive fitness tosupply that need (connectedI may saywith such activity of theaffections as even the preoccupations of a work too special to beabdicated could not uninterruptedly dissimulate); and each succeedingopportunity for observation has given the impression an added depthby convincing me more emphatically of that fitness which I hadpreconceivedand thus evoking more decisively those affections towhich I have but now referred.  Our conversations haveI thinkmade sufficiently clear to you the tenor of my life and purposes: atenor unsuitedI am awareto the commoner order of minds. But Ihave discerned in you an elevation of thought and a capability ofdevotednesswhich I had hitherto not conceived to be compatibleeither with the early bloom of youth or with those graces of sex thatmay be said at once to win and to confer distinction when combinedas they notably are in youwith the mental qualities aboveindicated. It wasI confessbeyond my hope to meet with this rarecombination of elements both solid and attractiveadapted to supplyaid in graver labors and to cast a charm over vacant hours; and butfor the event of my introduction to you (whichlet me again sayItrust not to be superficially coincident with foreshadowing needsbut providentially related thereto as stages towards the completionof a life's plan)I should presumably have gone on to the lastwithout any attempt to lighten my solitariness by a matrimonialunion.

Suchmydear Miss Brookeis the accurate statement of my feelings; and Irely on your kind indulgence in venturing now to ask you how far yourown are of a nature to confirm my happy presentiment. To be acceptedby you as your husband and the earthly guardian of your welfareIshould regard as the highest of providential gifts. In return I canat least offer you an affection hitherto unwastedand the faithfulconsecration of a life whichhowever short in the sequelhas nobackward pages whereonif you choose to turn themyou will findrecords such as might justly cause you either bitterness or shame. I await the expression of your sentiments with an anxiety which itwould be the part of wisdom (were it possible) to divert by a morearduous labor than usual. But in this order of experience I am stillyoungand in looking forward to an unfavorable possibility I cannotbut feel that resignation to solitude will be more difficult afterthe temporary illumination of hope.
   In any caseIshall remain
   Yours with sincere devotion
  EDWARD CASAUBON.

Dorotheatrembled while she read this letter; then she fell on her kneesburied her faceand sobbed.  She could not pray: under the rushof solemn emotion in which thoughts became vague and images floateduncertainlyshe could but cast herselfwith a childlike sense ofrecliningin the lap of a divine consciousness which sustained herown. She remained in that attitude till it was time to dress fordinner.

How couldit occur to her to examine the letterto look at it critically as aprofession of love?  Her whole soul was possessed by the factthat a fuller life was opening before her: she was a neophyte aboutto enter on a higher grade of initiation. She was going to have roomfor the energies which stirred uneasily under the dimness andpressure of her own ignorance and the petty peremptoriness of theworld's habits.

Now shewould be able to devote herself to large yet definite duties; now shewould be allowed to live continually in the light of a mind that shecould reverence.  This hope was not unmixed with the glow ofproud delight--the joyous maiden surprise that she was chosen by theman whom her admiration had chosen.  All Dorothea's passion wastransfused through a mind struggling towards an ideal life; theradiance of her transfigured girlhood fell on the first object thatcame within its level.  The impetus with which inclinationbecame resolution was heightened by those little events of the daywhich had roused her discontent with the actual conditions of herlife.

Afterdinnerwhen Celia was playing an "airwith variations" asmall kind of tinkling which symbolized the aesthetic part of theyoung ladies' educationDorothea went up to her room to answer Mr.Casaubon's letter.  Why should she defer the answer?  Shewrote it over three timesnot because she wished to change thewordingbut because her hand was unusually uncertainand she couldnot bear that Mr. Casaubon should think her handwriting bad andillegible. She piqued herself on writing a hand in which each letterwas distinguishable without any large range of conjectureand shemeant to make much use of this accomplishmentto save Mr. Casaubon'seyes. Three times she wrote.

MY DEARMR.  CASAUBON--I am very grateful to you for loving meandthinking me worthy to be your wife.  I can look forward to nobetter happiness than that which would be one with yours.  If Isaid moreit would only be the same thing written out at greaterlengthfor I cannot now dwell on any other thought than that I maybe through life
   Yours devotedly
  DOROTHEA BROOKE.

Later inthe evening she followed her uncle into the library to give him theletterthat he might send it in the morning. He was surprisedbuthis surprise only issued in a few moments' silenceduring which hepushed about various objects on his writing-tableand finally stoodwith his back to the firehis glasses on his noselooking at theaddress of Dorothea's letter.

"Haveyou thought enough about thismy dear?" he said at last.

"Therewas no need to think longuncle.  I know of nothing to make mevacillate.  If I changed my mindit must be because ofsomething important and entirely new to me."

"Ah!--thenyou have accepted him?  Then Chettam has no chance? Has Chettamoffended you--offended youyou know?  What is it you don't likein Chettam?"

"Thereis nothing that I like in him" said Dorothearatherimpetuously.

Mr. Brookethrew his head and shoulders backward as if some one had thrown alight missile at him.  Dorothea immediately felt someself-rebukeand said--

"Imean in the light of a husband.  He is very kindIthink--really very good about the cottages.  A well-meaningman."

"Butyou must have a scholarand that sort of thing?  Wellit liesa little in our family.  I had it myself--that love ofknowledgeand going into everything--a little too much--it took metoo far; though that sort of thing doesn't often run in thefemale-line; or it runs underground like the rivers in Greeceyouknow--it comes out in the sons.  Clever sonsclever mothers. I went a good deal into thatat one time.  Howevermy dearIhave always said that people should do as they like in these thingsup to a certain point.  I couldn'tas your guardianhaveconsented to a bad match.  But Casaubon stands well: hisposition is good. I am afraid Chettam will be hurtthoughand Mrs.Cadwallader will blame me."

Thateveningof courseCelia knew nothing of what had happened. Sheattributed Dorothea's abstracted mannerand the evidence of furthercrying since they had got hometo the temper she had been in aboutSir James Chettam and the buildingsand was careful not to givefurther offence: having once said what she wanted to sayCelia hadno disposition to recur to disagreeable subjects. It had been hernature when a child never to quarrel with any one-- only to observewith wonder that they quarrelled with herand looked liketurkey-cocks; whereupon she was ready to play at cat's cradle withthem whenever they recovered themselves.  And as to Dorotheaithad always been her way to find something wrong in her sister'swordsthough Celia inwardly protested that she always said just howthings wereand nothing else: she never did and never could putwords together out of her own head.  But the best of Dodo wasthat she did not keep angry for long together.  Nowthough theyhad hardly spoken to each other all the eveningyet when Celia putby her workintending to go to beda proceeding in which she wasalways much the earlierDorotheawho was seated on a low stoolunable to occupy herself except in meditationsaidwith the musicalintonation which in moments of deep but quiet feeling made her speechlike a fine bit of recitative--

"Celiadearcome and kiss me" holding her arms open as she spoke.

Celiaknelt down to get the right level and gave her little butterfly kisswhile Dorothea encircled her with gentle arms and pressed her lipsgravely on each cheek in turn.

"Don'tsit upDodoyou are so pale to-night: go to bed soon" saidCeliain a comfortable waywithout any touch of pathos.

"NodearI am veryvery happy" said Dorotheafervently.

"Somuch the better" thought Celia.  "But how strangelyDodo goes from one extreme to the other."

The nextdayat luncheonthe butlerhanding something to Mr. Brookesaid"Jonas is come backsirand has brought this letter."

Mr. Brookeread the letterand thennodding toward Dorotheasaid"Casaubonmy dear: he will be here to dinner; he didn't wait to writemore--didn't waityou know."

It couldnot seem remarkable to Celia that a dinner guest should be announcedto her sister beforehandbuther eyes following the same directionas her uncle'sshe was struck with the peculiar effect of theannouncement on Dorothea.  It seemed as if something like thereflection of a white sunlit wing had passed across her featuresending in one of her rare blushes.  For the first time itentered into Celia's mind that there might be something more betweenMr. Casaubon and her sister than his delight in bookish talk and herdelight in listening.  Hitherto she had classed the admirationfor this "ugly" and learned acquaintance with theadmiration for Monsieur Liret at Lausannealso ugly and learned.Dorothea had never been tired of listening to old Monsieur Liret whenCelia's feet were as cold as possibleand when it had really becomedreadful to see the skin of his bald head moving about. Why thenshould her enthusiasm not extend to Mr. Casaubon simply in the sameway as to Monsieur Liret?  And it seemed probable that alllearned men had a sort of schoolmaster's view of young people.

But nowCelia was really startled at the suspicion which had darted into hermind.  She was seldom taken by surprise in this wayhermarvellous quickness in observing a certain order of signs generallypreparing her to expect such outward events as she had an interestin. Not that she now imagined Mr. Casaubon to be already an acceptedlover: she had only begun to feel disgust at the possibility thatanything in Dorothea's mind could tend towards such an issue. Herewas something really to vex her about Dodo: it was all very well notto accept Sir James Chettambut the idea of marrying Mr. Casaubon! Celia felt a sort of shame mingled with a sense of the ludicrous. But perhaps Dodoif she were really bordering on such anextravagancemight be turned away from it: experience had oftenshown that her impressibility might be calculated on. The day wasdampand they were not going to walk outso they both went up totheir sitting-room; and there Celia observed that Dorotheainsteadof settling down with her usual diligent interest to some occupationsimply leaned her elbow on an open book and looked out of the windowat the great cedar silvered with the damp. She herself had taken upthe making of a toy for the curate's childrenand was not going toenter on any subject too precipitately.

Dorotheawas in fact thinking that it was desirable for Celia to know of themomentous change in Mr. Casaubon's position since he had last been inthe house: it did not seem fair to leave her in ignorance of whatwould necessarily affect her attitude towards him; but it wasimpossible not to shrink from telling her.  Dorothea accusedherself of some meanness in this timidity: it was always odious toher to have any small fears or contrivances about her actionsbut atthis moment she was seeking the highest aid possible that she mightnot dread the corrosiveness of Celia's pretty carnally minded prose.Her reverie was brokenand the difficulty of decision banishedbyCelia's small and rather guttural voice speaking in its usual toneof a remark aside or a "by the bye."

"Isany one else coming to dine besides Mr. Casaubon?"

"Notthat I know of."

"Ihope there is some one else.  Then I shall not hear him eat hissoup so."

"Whatis there remarkable about his soup-eating?"

"ReallyDodocan't you hear how he scrapes his spoon?  And he alwaysblinks before he speaks.  I don't know whether Locke blinkedbut I'm sure I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he did."

"Celia"said Dorotheawith emphatic gravity"pray don't make any moreobservations of that kind."

"Whynot?  They are quite true" returned Celiawho had herreasons for perseveringthough she was beginning to be a littleafraid.

"Manythings are true which only the commonest minds observe."

"ThenI think the commonest minds must be rather useful. I think it is apity Mr. Casaubon's mother had not a commoner mind: she might havetaught him better." Celia was inwardly frightenedand ready torun awaynow she had hurled this light javelin.

Dorothea'sfeelings had gathered to an avalancheand there could be no furtherpreparation.

"Itis right to tell youCeliathat I am engaged to marry Mr.Casaubon."

PerhapsCelia had never turned so pale before.  The paper man she wasmaking would have had his leg injuredbut for her habitual care ofwhatever she held in her hands.  She laid the fragile figuredown at onceand sat perfectly still for a few moments. When shespoke there was a tear gathering

"OhDodoI hope you will be happy." Her sisterly tenderness couldnot but surmount other feelings at this momentand her fears werethe fears of affection.

Dorotheawas still hurt and agitated.

"Itis quite decidedthen?" said Celiain an awed under tone. "Anduncle knows?"

"Ihave accepted Mr. Casaubon's offer.  My uncle brought me theletter that contained it; he knew about it beforehand."

"Ibeg your pardonif I have said anything to hurt youDodo"said Celiawith a slight sob.  She never could have thoughtthat she should feel as she did.  There was something funerealin the whole affairand Mr. Casaubon seemed to be the officiatingclergymanabout whom it would be indecent to make remarks.

"NevermindKittydo not grieve.  We should never admire the samepeople.  I often offend in something of the same way; I am aptto speak too strongly of those who don't please me."

In spiteof this magnanimity Dorothea was still smarting: perhaps as much fromCelia's subdued astonishment as from her small criticisms. Of courseall the world round Tipton would be out of sympathy with thismarriage.  Dorothea knew of no one who thought as she did aboutlife and its best objects.

Neverthelessbefore the evening was at an end she was very happy. In an hour'stete-a-tete with Mr. Casaubon she talked to him with more freedomthan she had ever felt beforeeven pouring out her joy at thethought of devoting herself to himand of learning how she mightbest share and further all his great ends. Mr. Casaubon was touchedwith an unknown delight (what man would not have been?) at thischildlike unrestrained ardor: he was not surprised (what lover wouldhave been?) that he should be the object of it.

"Mydear young lady--Miss Brooke--Dorothea!" he saidpressing herhand between his hands"this is a happiness greater than I hadever imagined to be in reserve for me.  That I should ever meetwith a mind and person so rich in the mingled graces which couldrender marriage desirablewas far indeed from my conception. You have all--naymore than all--those qualities which I have everregarded as the characteristic excellences of womanhood.  Thegreat charm of your sex is its capability of an ardentself-sacrificing affectionand herein we see its fitness to roundand complete the existence of our own.  Hitherto I have knownfew pleasures save of the severer kind: my satisfactions have beenthose of the solitary student. I have been little disposed to gatherflowers that would wither in my handbut now I shall pluck them witheagernessto place them in your bosom."

No speechcould have been more thoroughly honest in its intention: the frigidrhetoric at the end was as sincere as the bark of a dogor thecawing of an amorous rook.  Would it not be rash to concludethat there was no passion behind those sonnets to Delia which strikeus as the thin music of a mandolin?

Dorothea'sfaith supplied all that Mr. Casaubon's words seemed to leave unsaid:what believer sees a disturbing omission or infelicity?  Thetextwhether of prophet or of poetexpands for whatever we can putinto itand even his bad grammar is sublime.

"I amvery ignorant--you will quite wonder at my ignorance" saidDorothea.  "I have so many thoughts that may be quitemistaken; and now I shall be able to tell them all to youand askyou about them. But" she addedwith rapid imagination of Mr.Casaubon's probable feeling"I will not trouble you too much;only when you are inclined to listen to me.  You must often beweary with the pursuit of subjects in your own track.  I shallgain enough if you will take me with you there."

"Howshould I be able now to persevere in any path without yourcompanionship?" said Mr. Casaubonkissing her candid browandfeeling that heaven had vouchsafed him a blessing in every way suitedto his peculiar wants.  He was being unconsciously wrought uponby the charms of a nature which was entirely without hiddencalculations either for immediate effects or for remoter ends. It wasthis which made Dorothea so childlikeandaccording to some judgesso stupidwith all her reputed cleverness; asfor examplein thepresent case of throwing herselfmetaphorically speakingat Mr.Casaubon's feetand kissing his unfashionable shoe-ties as if hewere a Protestant Pope.  She was not in the least teaching Mr.Casaubon to ask if he were good enough for herbut merely askingherself anxiously how she could be good enough for Mr. Casaubon.Before he left the next day it had been decided that the marriageshould take place within six weeks.  Why not?  Mr.Casaubon's house was ready.  It was not a parsonagebut aconsiderable mansionwith much land attached to it.  Theparsonage was inhabited by the curatewho did all the duty exceptpreaching the morning sermon.

CHAPTERVI

  My lady's tongue is like the meadow blades
   Thatcut you stroking them with idle hand.
   Nice cuttingis her function: she divides
   With spiritual edge themillet-seed
   And makes intangible savings.

As Mr.Casaubon's carriage was passing out of the gatewayit arrested theentrance of a pony phaeton driven by a lady with a servant seatedbehind.  It was doubtful whether the recognition had beenmutualfor Mr. Casaubon was looking absently before him; but thelady was quick-eyedand threw a nod and a "How do you do?"in the nick of time.  In spite of her shabby bonnet and very oldIndian shawlit was plain that the lodge-keeper regarded her as animportant personagefrom the low curtsy which was dropped on theentrance of the small phaeton.

"WellMrs. Fitchetthow are your fowls laying now?" said thehigh-coloreddark-eyed ladywith the clearest chiselled utterance.

"Prettywell for layingmadambut they've ta'en to eating their eggs: I'veno peace o' mind with 'em at all."

"Ohthe cannibals!  Better sell them cheap at once.  What willyou sell them a couple?  One can't eat fowls of a bad characterat a high price."

"Wellmadamhalf-a-crown: I couldn't let 'em gonot under."

"Half-a-crownthese times!  Come now--for the Rector's chicken-broth on aSunday.  He has consumed all ours that I can spare. You are halfpaid with the sermonMrs. Fitchettremember that. Take a pair oftumbler-pigeons for them--little beauties.  You must come andsee them.  You have no tumblers among your pigeons."

"WellmadamMaster Fitchett shall go and see 'em after work. He's very hoton new sorts; to oblige you."

"Obligeme!  It will be the best bargain he ever made.  A pair ofchurch pigeons for a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat theirown eggs!  Don't you and Fitchett boast too muchthat is all!"

Thephaeton was driven onwards with the last wordsleaving Mrs. Fitchettlaughing and shaking her head slowlywith an interjectional "SureLYsureLY!"--from which it might be inferred that she would havefound the country-side somewhat duller if the Rector's lady had beenless free-spoken and less of a skinflint.  Indeedboth thefarmers and laborers in the parishes of Freshitt and Tipton wouldhave felt a sad lack of conversation but for the stories about whatMrs. Cadwallader said and did: a lady of immeasurably high birthdescendedas it werefrom unknown earlsdim as the crowd of heroicshades--who pleaded povertypared down pricesand cut jokes in themost companionable mannerthough with a turn of tongue that let youknow who she was.  Such a lady gave a neighborliness to bothrank and religionand mitigated the bitterness of uncommuted tithe. A much more exemplary character with an infusion of sour dignitywould not have furthered their comprehension of the Thirty-nineArticlesand would have been less socially uniting.

Mr.Brookeseeing Mrs. Cadwallader's merits from a different point ofviewwinced a little when her name was announced in the librarywhere he was sitting alone.

"Isee you have had our Lowick Cicero here" she saidseatingherself comfortablythrowing back her wrapsand showing a thin butwell-built figure.  "I suspect you and he are brewing somebad politieselse you would not be seeing so much of the lively man.I shall inform against you: remember you are both suspiciouscharacters since you took Peel's side about the Catholic Bill. I shall tell everybody that you are going to put up for Middlemarchon the Whig side when old Pinkerton resignsand that Casaubon isgoing to help you in an underhand manner: going to bribe the voterswith pamphletsand throw open the public-houses to distribute them. Comeconfess!"

"Nothingof the sort" said Mr. Brookesmiling and rubbing hiseye-glassesbut really blushing a little at the impeachment."Casaubon and I don't talk politics much.  He doesn't caremuch about the philanthropic side of things; punishmentsand thatkind of thing. He only cares about Church questions.  That isnot my line of actionyou know."

"Ra-a-thertoo muchmy friend.  I have heard of your doings. Who was itthat sold his bit of land to the Papists at Middlemarch? I believeyou bought it on purpose.  You are a perfect Guy Faux. See ifyou are not burnt in effigy this 5th of November coming. Humphreywould not come to quarrel with you about itso I am come."

"Verygood.  I was prepared to be persecuted for not persecuting--notpersecutingyou know."

"Thereyou go!  That is a piece of clap-trap you have got ready for thehustings.  NowDO NOT let them lure you to the hustingsmydear Mr. Brooke.  A man always makes a fool of himselfspeechifying: there's no excuse but being on the right sideso thatyou can ask a blessing on your humming and hawing. You will loseyourselfI forewarn you.  You will make a Saturday pie of allparties' opinionsand be pelted by everybody."

"Thatis what I expectyou know" said Mr. Brookenot wishing tobetray how little he enjoyed this prophetic sketch--"what Iexpect as an independent man.  As to the Whigsa man who goeswith the thinkers is not likely to be hooked on by any party. He maygo with them up to a certain point--up to a certain pointyou know. But that is what you ladies never understand."

"Whereyour certain point is?  No. I should like to be told how a mancan have any certain point when he belongs to no party--leading aroving lifeand never letting his friends know his address. `Nobodyknows where Brooke will be--there's no counting on Brooke'--that iswhat people say of youto be quite frank.  Nowdo turnrespectable. How will you like going to Sessions with everybodylooking shy on youand you with a bad conscience and an emptypocket?"

"Idon't pretend to argue with a lady on politics" said Mr.Brookewith an air of smiling indifferencebut feeling ratherunpleasantly conscious that this attack of Mrs. Cadwallader's hadopened the defensive campaign to which certain rash steps had exposedhim. "Your sex are not thinkersyou know--varium et mutabilesemper--that kind of thing.  You don't know Virgil.  Iknew"--Mr. Brooke reflected in time that he had not had thepersonal acquaintance of the Augustan poet--"I was going to saypoor Stoddartyou know. That was what HE said.  You ladies arealways against an independent attitude--a man's caring for nothingbut truthand that sort of thing.  And there is no part of thecounty where opinion is narrower than it is here--I don't mean tothrow stonesyou knowbut somebody is wanted to take theindependent line; and if I don't take itwho will?"

"Who? Whyany upstart who has got neither blood nor position. People ofstanding should consume their independent nonsense at homenot hawkit about.  And you! who are going to marry your nieceas goodas your daughterto one of our best men.  Sir James would becruelly annoyed: it will be too hard on him if you turn round now andmake yourself a Whig sign-board."

Mr. Brookeagain winced inwardlyfor Dorothea's engagement had no sooner beendecidedthan he had thought of Mrs. Cadwallader's prospectivetaunts.  It might have been easy for ignorant observers to say"Quarrel with Mrs. Cadwallader;" but where is a countrygentleman to go who quarrels with his oldest neighbors?  Whocould taste the fine flavor in the name of Brooke if it weredelivered casuallylike wine without a seal?  Certainly a mancan only be cosmopolitan up to a certain point.

"Ihope Chettam and I shall always be good friends; but I am sorry tosay there is no prospect of his marrying my niece" said Mr.Brookemuch relieved to see through the window that Celia was comingin.

"Whynot?" said Mrs. Cadwalladerwith a sharp note of surprise. "Itis hardly a fortnight since you and I were talking about it."

"Myniece has chosen another suitor--has chosen himyou know. I have hadnothing to do with it.  I should have preferred Chettam; and Ishould have said Chettam was the man any girl would have chosen. Butthere is no accounting for these things.  Your sex iscapriciousyou know."

"Whywhom do you mean to say that you are going to let her marry?"Mrs. Cadwallader's mind was rapidly surveying the possibilities ofchoice for Dorothea.

But hereCelia enteredblooming from a walk in the gardenand the greetingwith her delivered Mr. Brooke from the necessity of answeringimmediately.  He got up hastilyand saying"By the wayImust speak to Wright about the horses" shuffled quickly out ofthe room.

"Mydear childwhat is this?--this about your sister's engagement?"said Mrs. Cadwallader.

"Sheis engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon" said Celiaresortingasusualto the simplest statement of factand enjoying thisopportunity of speaking to the Rector's wife alone.

"Thisis frightful.  How long has it been going on?"

"Ionly knew of it yesterday.  They are to be married in sixweeks."

"Wellmy dearI wish you joy of your brother-in-law."

"I amso sorry for Dorothea."

"Sorry! It is her doingI suppose."

"Yes;she says Mr. Casaubon has a great soul."

"Withall my heart."

"OhMrs. CadwalladerI don't think it can be nice to marry a man with agreat soul."

"Wellmy deartake warning.  You know the look of one now; when thenext comes and wants to marry youdon't you accept him."

"I'msure I never should."

"No;one such in a family is enough.  So your sister never caredabout Sir James Chettam?  What would you have said to HIM for abrother-in-law?"

"Ishould have liked that very much.  I am sure he would have beena good husband.  Only" Celia addedwith a slight blush(she sometimes seemed to blush as she breathed)"I don't thinkhe would have suited Dorothea."

"Nothigh-flown enough?"

"Dodois very strict.  She thinks so much about everythingand is soparticular about what one says.  Sir James never seemed toplease her."

"Shemust have encouraged himI am sure.  That is not verycreditable."

"Pleasedon't be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. She thought somuch about the cottagesand she was rude to Sir James sometimes; buthe is so kindhe never noticed it."

"Well"said Mrs. Cadwalladerputting on her shawland risingas if inhaste"I must go straight to Sir James and break this to him.He will have brought his mother back by this timeand I must call.Your uncle will never tell him.  We are all disappointedmydear. Young people should think of their families in marrying. I set a bad example--married a poor clergymanand made myself apitiable object among the De Bracys--obliged to get my coals bystratagemand pray to heaven for my salad oil.  HoweverCasaubon has money enough; I must do him that justice.  As tohis bloodI suppose the family quarterings are three cuttle-fishsableand a commentator rampant. By the byebefore I gomy dearImust speak to your Mrs. Carter about pastry.  I want to send myyoung cook to learn of her. Poor people with four childrenlike usyou knowcan't afford to keep a good cook.  I have no doubtMrs. Carter will oblige me.  Sir James's cook is a perfectdragon."

In lessthan an hourMrs. Cadwallader had circumvented Mrs. Carter anddriven to Freshitt Hallwhich was not far from her own parsonageher husband being resident in Freshitt and keeping a curate inTipton.

Sir JamesChettam had returned from the short journey which had kept him absentfor a couple of daysand had changed his dressintending to rideover to Tipton Grange.  His horse was standing at the door whenMrs. Cadwallader drove upand he immediately appeared there himselfwhip in hand.  Lady Chettam had not yet returnedbut Mrs.Cadwallader's errand could not be despatched in the presence ofgroomsso she asked to be taken into the conservatory close bytolook at the new plants; and on coming to a contemplative standshesaid--

"Ihave a great shock for you; I hope you are not so far gone in love asyou pretended to be."

It was ofno use protestingagainst Mrs. Cadwallader's way of putting things. But Sir James's countenance changed a little. He felt a vague alarm.

"I dobelieve Brooke is going to expose himself after all.  I accusedhim of meaning to stand for Middlemarch on the Liberal sideand helooked silly and never denied it--talked about the independent lineand the usual nonsense."

"Isthat all?" said Sir Jamesmuch relieved.

"Why"rejoined Mrs. Cadwalladerwith a sharper note"you don't meanto say that you would like him to turn public man in that way--makinga sort of political Cheap Jack of himself?"

"Hemight be dissuadedI should think.  He would not like theexpense."

"Thatis what I told him.  He is vulnerable to reason there--always afew grains of common-sense in an ounce of miserliness. Miserliness isa capital quality to run in families; it's the safe side for madnessto dip on.  And there must be a little crack in the Brookefamilyelse we should not see what we are to see."

"What? Brooke standing for Middlemarch?"

"Worsethan that.  I really feel a little responsible.  I alwaystold you Miss Brooke would be such a fine match.  I knew therewas a great deal of nonsense in her--a flighty sort of Methodisticalstuff. But these things wear out of girls.  HoweverI am takenby surprise for once."

"Whatdo you meanMrs. Cadwallader?" said Sir James.  His fearlest Miss Brooke should have run away to join the Moravian Brethrenor some preposterous sect unknown to good societywas a littleallayed by the knowledge that Mrs. Cadwallader always made the worstof things.  "What has happened to Miss Brooke?  Prayspeak out."

"Verywell.  She is engaged to be married." Mrs. Cadwalladerpaused a few momentsobserving the deeply hurt expression in herfriend's facewhich he was trying to conceal by a nervous smilewhile he whipped his boot; but she soon added"Engaged toCasaubon."

Sir Jameslet his whip fall and stooped to pick it up. Perhaps his face hadnever before gathered so much concentrated disgust as when he turnedto Mrs. Cadwallader and repeated"Casaubon?"

"Evenso.  You know my errand now."

"GoodGod!  It is horrible!  He is no better than a mummy!"(The point of view has to be allowed foras that of a blooming anddisappointed rival.)

"Shesayshe is a great soul.--A great bladder for dried peas to rattlein!" said Mrs. Cadwallader.

"Whatbusiness has an old bachelor like that to marry?" said SirJames. "He has one foot in the grave."

"Hemeans to draw it out againI suppose."

"Brookeought not to allow it: he should insist on its being put off till sheis of age.  She would think better of it then. What is aguardian for?"

"Asif you could ever squeeze a resolution out of Brooke!"

"Cadwalladermight talk to him."

"Nothe!  Humphrey finds everybody charming I never can get him toabuse Casaubon.  He will even speak well of the bishopthough Itell him it is unnatural in a beneficed clergyman; what can one dowith a husband who attends so little to the decencies?  I hideit as well as I can by abusing everybody myself.  Comecomecheer up! you are well rid of Miss Brookea girl who would have beenrequiring you to see the stars by daylight.  Between ourselveslittle Celia is worth two of herand likely after all to be thebetter match. For this marriage to Casaubon is as good as going to anunnery."

"Ohon my own account--it is for Miss Brooke's sake I think her friendsshould try to use their influence."

"WellHumphrey doesn't know yet.  But when I tell himyou may dependon it he will say`Why not?  Casaubon is a good fellow--andyoung--young enough.' These charitable people never know vinegar fromwine till they have swallowed it and got the colic.  HoweverifI were a man I should prefer Celiaespecially when Dorothea wasgone. The truth isyou have been courting one and have won theother. I can see that she admires you almost as much as a man expectsto be admired.  If it were any one but me who said soyou mightthink it exaggeration.  Good-by!"

Sir Jameshanded Mrs. Cadwallader to the phaetonand then jumped on hishorse.  He was not going to renounce his ride because of hisfriend's unpleasant news--only to ride the faster in some otherdirection than that of Tipton Grange.

Nowwhyon earth should Mrs. Cadwallader have been at all busy about MissBrooke's marriage; and whywhen one match that she liked to thinkshe had a hand in was frustratedshould she have straightwaycontrived the preliminaries of another?  Was there any ingeniousplotany hide-and-seek course of actionwhich might be detected bya careful telescopic watch?  Not at all: a telescope might haveswept the parishes of Tipton and Freshittthe whole area visited byMrs. Cadwallader in her phaetonwithout witnessing any interviewthat could excite suspicionor any scene from which she did notreturn with the same unperturbed keenness of eye and the same highnatural color.  In factif that convenient vehicle had existedin the days of the Seven Sagesone of them would doubtless haveremarkedthat you can know little of women by following them aboutin their pony-phaetons. Even with a microscope directed on awater-drop we find ourselves making interpretations which turn out tobe rather coarse; for whereas under a weak lens you may seem to see acreature exhibiting an active voracity into which other smallercreatures actively play as if they were so many animated tax-penniesa stronger lens reveals to you certain tiniest hairlets which makevortices for these victims while the swallower waits passively at hisreceipt of custom. In this waymetaphorically speakinga stronglens applied to Mrs. Cadwallader's match-making will show a play ofminute causes producing what may be called thought and speechvortices to bring her the sort of food she needed.  Her life wasrurally simplequite free from secrets either fouldangerousorotherwise importantand not consciously affected by the greataffairs of the world. All the more did the affairs of the great worldinterest herwhen communicated in the letters of high-bornrelations: the way in which fascinating younger sons had gone to thedogs by marrying their mistresses; the fine old-blooded idiocy ofyoung Lord Tapirand the furious gouty humors of old LordMegatherium; the exact crossing of genealogies which had brought acoronet into a new branch and widened the relations ofscandal--these were topics of which she retained details with theutmost accuracyand reproduced them in an excellent pickle ofepigramswhich she herself enjoyed the more because she believed asunquestionably in birth and no-birth as she did in game and vermin. She would never have disowned any one on the ground of poverty: a DeBracy reduced to take his dinner in a basin would have seemed to heran example of pathos worth exaggeratingand I fear his aristocraticvices would not have horrified her. But her feeling towards thevulgar rich was a sort of religious hatred: they had probably madeall their money out of high retail pricesand Mrs. Cadwalladerdetested high prices for everything that was not paid in kind at theRectory: such people were no part of God's design in making theworld; and their accent was an affliction to the ears. A town wheresuch monsters abounded was hardly more than a sort of low comedywhich could not be taken account of in a well-bred scheme of theuniverse.  Let any lady who is inclined to be hard on Mrs.Cadwallader inquire into the comprehensiveness of her own beautifulviewsand be quite sure that they afford accommodation for all thelives which have the honor to coexist with hers.

With sucha mindactive as phosphorusbiting everything that came near intothe form that suited ithow could Mrs. Cadwallader feel that theMiss Brookes and their matrimonial prospects were alien to her?especially as it had been the habit of years for her to scold Mr.Brooke with the friendliest franknessand let him know in confidencethat she thought him a poor creature.  From the first arrival ofthe young ladies in Tipton she had prearranged Dorothea's marriagewith Sir Jamesand if it had taken place would have been quite surethat it was her doing: that it should not take place after she hadpreconceived itcaused her an irritation which every thinker willsympathize with.  She was the diplomatist of Tipton andFreshittand for anything to happen in spite of her was an offensiveirregularity.  As to freaks like this of Miss Brooke'sMrs.Cadwallader had no patience with themand now saw that her opinionof this girl had been infected with some of her husband's weakcharitableness: those Methodistical whimsthat air of being morereligious than the rector and curate togethercame from a deeper andmore constitutional disease than she had been willing to believe.

"However"said Mrs. Cadwalladerfirst to herself and afterwards to herhusband"I throw her over: there was a chanceif she hadmarried Sir Jamesof her becoming a sanesensible woman.  Hewould never have contradicted herand when a woman is notcontradictedshe has no motive for obstinacy in her absurdities. But now I wish her joy of her hair shirt."

Itfollowed that Mrs. Cadwallader must decide on another match for SirJamesand having made up her mind that it was to be the younger MissBrookethere could not have been a more skilful move towards thesuccess of her plan than her hint to the baronet that he had made animpression on Celia's heart.  For he was not one of thosegentlemen who languish after the unattainable Sappho's apple thatlaughs from the topmost bough--the charms which

  "Smile like the knot of cowslips on the cliff   Not to be come at by the willing hand."

He had nosonnets to writeand it could not strike him agreeably that he wasnot an object of preference to the woman whom he had preferred. Already the knowledge that Dorothea had chosen Mr. Casaubon hadbruised his attachment and relaxed its hold. Although Sir James was asportsmanhe had some other feelings towards women than towardsgrouse and foxesand did not regard his future wife in the light ofpreyvaluable chiefly for the excitements of the chase. Neither was he so well acquainted with the habits of primitive racesas to feel that an ideal combat for hertomahawk in handso tospeakwas necessary to the historical continuity of themarriage-tie. On the contraryhaving the amiable vanity which knitsus to those who are fond of usand disinclines us to those who areindifferentand also a good grateful naturethe mere idea that awoman had a kindness towards him spun little threads of tendernessfrom out his heart towards hers.

Thus ithappenedthat after Sir James had ridden rather fast for half anhour in a direction away from Tipton Grangehe slackened his paceand at last turned into a road which would lead him back by a shortercut.  Various feelings wrought in him the determination afterall to go to the Grange to-day as if nothing new had happened. Hecould not help rejoicing that he had never made the offer and beenrejected; mere friendly politeness required that he should call tosee Dorothea about the cottagesand now happily Mrs. Cadwallader hadprepared him to offer his congratulationsif necessarywithoutshowing too much awkwardness.  He really did not like it: givingup Dorothea was very painful to him; but there was something in theresolve to make this visit forthwith and conquer all show of feelingwhich was a sort of file-biting and counter-irritant. And without hisdistinctly recognizing the impulsethere certainly was present inhim the sense that Celia would be thereand that he should pay hermore attention than he had done before.

Wemortalsmen and womendevour many a disappointment betweenbreakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little paleabout the lipsand in answer to inquiries say"Ohnothing!"Pride helps us; and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us tohide our own hurts--not to hurt others.

CHAPTERVII

  "Piacer e popone
   Vuol la sua stagione."
  --Italian Proverb.

Mr.Casaubonas might be expectedspent a great deal of his time at theGrange in these weeksand the hindrance which courtship occasionedto the progress of his great work--the Key to allMythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to thehappy termination of courtship.  But he had deliberatelyincurred the hindrancehaving made up his mind that it was now timefor him to adorn his life with the graces of female companionshiptoirradiate the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervalsof studious labor with the play of female fancyand to secure inthishis culminating agethe solace of female tendance for hisdeclining years. Hence he determined to abandon himself to the streamof feelingand perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedinglyshallow rill it was.  As in droughty regions baptism byimmersion could only be performed symbolicallyMr. Casaubon foundthat sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his streamwould afford him; and he concluded that the poets had muchexaggerated the force of masculine passion.  Neverthelessheobserved with pleasure that Miss Brooke showed an ardent submissiveaffection which promised to fulfil his most agreeable previsions ofmarriage.  It had once or twice crossed his mind that possiblytherewas some deficiency in Dorothea to account for the moderationof his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the deficiencyorto figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him better; sothat there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but theexaggerations of human tradition.

"CouldI not be preparing myself now to be more useful?" said Dorotheato himone morningearly in the time of courtship; "could Inot learn to read Latin and Greek aloud to youas Milton's daughtersdid to their fatherwithout understanding what they read?"

"Ifear that would be wearisome to you" said Mr. Casaubonsmiling; "andindeedif I remember rightlythe young womenyou have mentioned regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as aground for rebellion against the poet."

"Yes;but in the first place they were very naughty girlselse they wouldhave been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second placethey might have studied privately and taught themselves to understandwhat they readand then it would have been interesting. I hope youdon't expect me to be naughty and stupid?"

"Iexpect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in everypossible relation of life.  Certainly it might be a greatadvantage if you were able to copy the Greek characterand to thatend it were well to begin with a little reading."

Dorotheaseized this as a precious permission.  She would not have askedMr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languagesdreading of allthings to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely outof devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin andCreek.  Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her astanding-ground from which all truth could be seen more truly. As itwasshe constantly doubted her own conclusionsbecause she felt herown ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottageswere not for the glory of Godwhen men who knew the classicsappeared to conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for theglory?  Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least thealphabet and a few roots--in order to arrive at the core of thingsand judge soundly on the social duties of the Christian.  Andshe had not reached that point of renunciation at which she wouldhave been satisfier' with having a wise husband: she wishedpoorchildto be wise herself.  Miss Brooke was certainly very naivewith al: her alleged cleverness.  Celiawhose mind had neverbeen thought too powerfulsaw the emptiness of other people'spretensions much more readily.  To have in general but littlefeelingseems to be the only security against feeling too much onany particular occasion.

HoweverMr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour togetherlikea schoolmaster of little boysor rather like a loverto whom amistress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a touchingfitness.  Few scholars would have disliked teaching the alphabetunder such circumstances.  But Dorothea herself was a littleshocked and discouraged at her own stupidityand the answers she gotto some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave hera painful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets notcapable of explanation to a woman's reason.

Mr. Brookehad no doubt on that pointand expressed himself with his usualstrength upon it one day that he came into the library while thereading was going forward.

"Wellbut nowCasaubonsuch deep studiesclassicsmathematicsthatkind of thingare too taxing for a woman--too taxingyou know."

"Dorotheais learning to read the characters simply" said Mr. Casaubonevading the question.  "She had the very consideratethought of saving my eyes."

"Ahwellwithout understandingyou know--that may not be so bad. Butthere is a lightness about the feminine mind--a touch and go--musicthe fine artsthat kind of thing--they should study those up to acertain pointwomen should; but in a light wayyou know. A womanshould be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good oldEnglish tune.  That is what I like; though I have heard mostthings--been at the opera in Vienna: GluckMozarteverything ofthat sort. But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideasyouknow. I stick to the good old tunes."

"Mr.Casaubon is not fond of the pianoand I am very glad he is not"said Dorotheawhose slight regard for domestic music and femininefine art must be forgiven herconsidering the small tinkling andsmearing in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. Shesmiled and looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he hadalways been asking her to play the "Last Rose of Summer"she would have required much resignation.  "He says thereis only an old harpsichord at Lowickand it is covered with books."

"Ahthere you are behind Celiamy dear.  Celianowplays veryprettilyand is always ready to play.  Howeversince Casaubondoes not like ityou are all right.  But it's a pity you shouldnot have little recreations of that sortCasaubon: the bow alwaysstrung--that kind of thingyou know--will not do."

"Inever could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my earsteased with measured noises" said Mr. Casaubon.  "Atune much iterated has the ridiculous effect of making the words inmy mind perform a sort of minuet to keep time--an effect hardlytolerableI imagineafter boyhood.  As to the grander forms ofmusicworthy to accompany solemn celebrationsand even to serve asan educating influence according to the ancient conceptionI saynothingfor with these we are not immediately concerned."

"No;but music of that sort I should enjoy" said Dorothea. "Whenwe were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the greatorgan at Freibergand it made me sob."

"Thatkind of thing is not healthymy dear" said Mr. Brooke."Casaubonshe will be in your hands now: you must teach myniece to take things more quietlyehDorothea?"

He endedwith a smilenot wishing to hurt his niecebut really thinking thatit was perhaps better for her to be early married to so sober afellow as Casaubonsince she would not hear of Chettam.

"Itis wonderfulthough" he said to himself as he shuffled out ofthe room--"it is wonderful that she should have liked him.Howeverthe match is good.  I should have been travelling outof my brief to have hindered itlet Mrs. Cadwallader say what shewill. He is pretty certain to be a bishopis Casaubon.  Thatwas a very seasonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:--adeanery at least.  They owe him a deanery."

And here Imust vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectivenessby remarkingthat Mr. Brooke on this occasion little thought of the Radical speechwhichat a later periodhe was led to make on the incomes of thebishops.  What elegant historian would neglect a strikingopportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee thehistory of the worldor even their own actions?--For examplethatHenry of Navarrewhen a Protestant babylittle thought of being aCatholic monarch; or that Alfred the Greatwhen he measured hislaborious nights with burning candleshad no idea of futuregentlemen measuring their idle days with watches. Here is a mine oftruthwhichhowever vigorously it may be workedis likely tooutlast our coal.

But of Mr.Brooke I make a further remark perhaps less warranted byprecedent--namelythat if he had foreknown his speechit might nothave made any great difference.  To think with pleasure of hisniece's husband having a large ecclesiastical income was onething--to make a Liberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrowmind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.

CHAPTERVIII

  "Ohrescue her!  I am her brother now
   Andyou her father.  Every gentle maid
   Should have aguardian in each gentleman."

It waswonderful to Sir James Chettam how well he continued to like going tothe Grange after he had once encountered the difficulty of seeingDorothea for the first time in the light of a woman who was engagedto another man.  Of course the forked lightning seemed to passthrough him when he first approached herand he remained consciousthroughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; butgood as he wasit must be owned that his uneasiness was less than it would have beenif he had thought his rival a brilliant and desirable match. He hadno sense of being eclipsed by Mr. Casaubon; he was only shocked thatDorothea was under a melancholy illusionand his mortification lostsome of its bitterness by being mingled with compassion.

Neverthelesswhile Sir James said to himself that he had completely resigned hersince with the perversity of a Desdemona she had not affected aproposed match that was clearly suitable and according to nature; hecould not yet be quite passive under the idea of her engagement toMr. Casaubon.  On the day when he first saw them together in thelight of his present knowledgeit seemed to him that he had nottaken the affair seriously enough. Brooke was really culpable; heought to have hindered it.  Who could speak to him? Something might be done perhaps even nowat least to defer themarriage.  On his way home he turned into the Rectory and askedfor Mr. Cadwallader.  Happilythe Rector was at homeand hisvisitor was shown into the studywhere all the fishing tackle hung. But he himself was in a little room adjoiningat work with histurning apparatusand he called to the baronet to join him there. The two were better friends than any other landholder and clergymanin the county--a significant fact which was in agreement with theamiable expression of their faees.

Mr.Cadwallader was a large manwith full lips and a sweet smile; veryplain and rough in his exteriorbut with that solid imperturbableease and good-humor which is infectiousand like great grassy hillsin the sunshinequiets even an irritated egoismand makes it ratherashamed of itself.  "Wellhow are you?" he saidshowing a hand not quite fit to be grasped.  "Sorry Imissed you before. Is there anything particular?  You lookvexed."

SirJames's brow had a little crease in ita little depression of theeyebrowwhich he seemed purposely to exaggerate as he answered.

"Itis only this conduct of Brooke's. I really think somebody shouldspeak to him."

"What?meaning to stand?" said Mr. Cadwalladergoing on with thearrangement of the reels which he had just been turning. "Ihardly think he means it.  But where's the harmif he likes it?Any one who objects to Whiggery should be glad when the Whigs don'tput up the strongest fellow.  They won't overturn theConstitution with our friend Brooke's head for a battering ram."

"OhI don't mean that" said Sir Jameswhoafter putting down hishat and throwing himself into a chairhad begun to nurse his leg andexamine the sole of his boot with much bitterness. "I mean thismarriage.  I mean his letting that blooming young girl marryCasaubon."

"Whatis the matter with Casaubon?  I see no harm in him--if the girllikes him."

"Sheis too young to know what she likes.  Her guardian ought tointerfere.  He ought not to allow the thing to be done in thisheadlong manner.  I wonder a man like youCadwallader--a manwith daughterscan look at the affair with indifference: and withsuch a heart as yours!  Do think seriously about it."

"I amnot joking; I am as serious as possible" said the Rectorwitha provoking little inward laugh.  "You are as bad asElinor. She has been wanting me to go and lecture Brooke; and I havereminded her that her friends had a very poor opinion of the matchshe made when she married me."

"Butlook at Casaubon" said Sir Jamesindignantly.  "Hemust be fiftyand I don't believe he could ever have been much morethan the shadow of a man.  Look at his legs!"

"Confoundyou handsome young fellows! you think of having it all your own wayin the world.  Tou don't under stand women. They don't admireyou half so much as you admire yourselves. Elinor used to tell hersisters that she married me for my ugliness--it was so various andamusing that it had quite conquered her prudence."

"You!it was easy enough for a woman to love you.  But this is noquestion of beauty.  I don't LIKE Casaubon." This was SirJames's strongest way of implying that he thought ill of a man'scharacter.

"Why?what do you know against him?" said the Rector laying down hisreelsand putting his thumbs into his armholes with an air ofattention.

Sir Jamespaused.  He did not usually find it easy to give his reasons: itseemed to him strange that people should not know them without beingtoldsince he only felt what was reasonable. At last he said--

"NowCadwalladerhas he got any heart?"

"Wellyes.  I don't mean of the melting sortbut a sound kernelTHATyou may be sure of.  He is very good to his poor relations:pensions several of the womenand is educating a young fellow at agood deal of expense.  Casaubon acts up to his sense of justice.His mother's sister made a bad match--a PoleI think--lostherself--at any rate was disowned by her family.  If it had notbeen for thatCasaubon would not have had so much money by half. I believe he went himself to find out his cousinsand see what hecould do for them. Every man would not ring so well as thatif youtried his metal. YOU wouldChettam; but not every man."

"Idon't know" said Sir Jamescoloring.  "I am not sosure of myself." He paused a momentand then added"Thatwas a right thing for Casaubon to do.  But a man may wish to dowhat is rightand yet be a sort of parchment code.  A woman maynot be happy with him. And I think when a girl is so young as MissBrooke isher friends ought to interfere a little to hinder her fromdoing anything foolish. You laughbecause you fancy I have somefeeling on my own account. But upon my honorit is not that.  Ishould feel just the same if I were Miss Brooke's brother or uncle."

"Wellbut what should you do?"

"Ishould say that the marriage must not be decided on until she was ofage.  And depend upon itin that caseit would never come off.I wish you saw it as I do--I wish you would talk to Brooke about it."

Sir Jamesrose as he was finishing his sentencefor he saw Mrs. Cadwalladerentering from the study.  She held by the hand her youngestgirlabout five years oldwho immediately ran to papaand was madecomfortable on his knee.

"Ihear what you are talking about" said the wife.  "Butyou will make no impression on Humphrey.  As long as the fishrise to his baiteverybody is what he ought to be.  Bless youCasaubon has got a trout-streamand does not care about fishing init himself: could there be a better fellow?"

"Wellthere is something in that" said the Rectorwith his quietinward laugh.  "It is a very good quality in a man to havea trout-stream."

"Butseriously" said Sir Jameswhose vexation had not yet spentitself"don't you think the Rector might do some good byspeaking?"

"OhI told you beforehand what he would say" answered Mrs.Cadwalladerlifting up her eyebrows.  "I have done what Icould: I wash my hands of the marriage."

"Inthe first place" said the Rectorlooking rather grave"itwould be nonsensical to expect that I could convince Brookeand makehim act accordingly.  Brooke is a very good fellowbut pulpy;he will run into any mouldbut he won't keep shape."

"Hemight keep shape long enough to defer the marriage" said SirJames.

"Butmy dear Chettamwhy should I use my influence to Casaubon'sdisadvantageunless I were much surer than I am that I should beacting for the advantage of Miss Brooke?  I know no harm ofCasaubon. I don't care about his Xisuthrus and Fee-fo-fum and therest; but then he doesn't care about my fishing-tackle. As to theline he took on the Catholic Questionthat was unexpected; but hehas always been civil to meand I don't see why I should spoil hissport. For anything I can tellMiss Brooke may be happier with himthan she would be with any other man."

"Humphrey! I have no patience with you.  You know you would rather dineunder the hedge than with Casaubon alone.  You have nothing tosay to each other."

"Whathas that to do with Miss Brooke's marrying him?  She does not doit for my amusement."

"Hehas got no good red blood in his body" said Sir James.

"No.Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was allsemicolons and parentheses" said Mrs. Cadwallader.

"Whydoes he not bring out his bookinstead of marrying" said SirJameswith a disgust which he held warranted by the sound feeling ofan English layman.

"Ohhe dreams footnotesand they run away with all his brains. They saywhen he was a little boyhe made an abstract of `Hop o' my Thumb'and he has been making abstracts ever since. Ugh!  And that isthe man Humphrey goes on saying that a woman may be happy with."

"Wellhe is what Miss Brooke likes" said the Rector.  "Idon't profess to understand every young lady's taste."

"Butif she were your own daughter?" said Sir James.

"Thatwould be a different affair.  She is NOT my daughterand Idon't feel called upon to interfere.  Casaubon is as good asmost of us.  He is a scholarly clergymanand creditable to thecloth.  Some Radical fellow speechifying at Middlemarch saidCasaubon was the learned straw-chopping incumbentand Freke was thebrick-and-mortar incumbentand I was the angling incumbent. And uponmy wordI don't see that one is worse or better than the other."The Rector ended with his silent laugh.  He always saw the jokeof any satire against himself.  His conscience was large andeasylike the rest of him: it did only what it could do without anytrouble.

Clearlythere would be no interference with Miss Brooke's marriage throughMr. Cadwallader; and Sir James felt with some sadness that she was tohave perfect liberty of misjudgment. It was a sign of his gooddisposition that he did not slacken at all in his intention ofcarrying out Dorothea's de. sign of the cottages.  Doubtlessthis persistence was the best course for his own dignity: but prideonly helps us to be generous; it never makes us soany more thanvanity makes us witty. She was now enough aware of Sir James'sposition with regard to herto appreciate the rectitude of hisperseverance in a landlord's dutyto which he had at first beenurged by a lover's complaisanceand her pleasure in it was greatenough to count for something even in her present happiness. Per.  haps she gave to Sir James Chettam's cottages all theinterest she could spare from Mr. Casaubonor rather from thesymphony of hopeful dreamsadmiring trustand passionate selfdevotion which that learned gentleman had set playing in her soul. Hence it happened that in the good baronet's succeed ing visitswhile he was beginning to pay small attentions to Celiahe foundhimself talking with more and more pleasure to Dorothea.  Shewas perfectly unconstrained and without irritation towards him nowand he was gradually discovering the delight there is in frankkindness and companionship between a man and a woman who have nopassion to hide or confess.

CHAPTERIX

  1st Gent. An ancient land in ancient oracles
   Iscalled "law-thirsty": all the struggle there
  Was after order and a perfect rule.
   Praywhere liesuch lands now? . . .
   2d Gent.  Whywhere theylay of old--in human souls.

Mr.Casaubon's behavior about settlements was highly satisfactory to Mr.Brookeand the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly alongshortening the weeks of courtship.  The betrothed bride must seeher future homeand dictate any changes that she would like to havemade there.  A woman dictates before marriage in order that shemay have an appetite for submission afterwards.  And certainlythe mistakes that we male and female mortals make when we have ourown way might fairly raise some wonder that we are so fond of it.

On a graybut dry November morning Dorothea drove to Lowick in company with heruncle and Celia.  Mr. Casaubon's home was the manor-house. Closebyvisible from some parts of the gardenwas the little churchwith the old parsonage opposite. In the beginning of his careerMr.Casaubon had only held the livingbut the death of his brother hadput him in possession of the manor also.  It had a small parkwith a fine old oak here and thereand an avenue of limes towardsthe southwest frontwith a sunk fence between park andpleasure-groundso that from the drawing-room windows the glanceswept uninterruptedly along a slope of greensward till the limesended in a level of corn and pastureswhich often seemed to meltinto a lake under the setting sun. This was the happy side of thehousefor the south and east looked rather melancholy even under thebrightest morning.  The grounds here were more confinedtheflower-beds showed no very careful tendanceand large clumps oftreeschiefly of sombre yewshad risen highnot ten yards from thewindows.  The buildingof greenish stonewas in the oldEnglish stylenot uglybut small-windowed and melancholy-looking:the sort of house that must have childrenmany flowersopenwindowsand little vistas of bright thingsto make it seem a joyoushome.  In this latter end of autumnwith a sparse remnant ofyellow leaves falling slowly athwart the dark evergreens in astillness without sunshinethe house too had an air of autumnaldeclineand Mr. Casaubonwhen he presented himselfhad no bloomthat could be thrown into relief by that background.

"Ohdear!" Celia said to herself"I am sure Freshitt Hallwould have been pleasanter than this." She thought of the whitefreestonethe pillared porticoand the terrace full of flowersSirJames smiling above them like a prince issuing from his enchantmentin a rose-bushwith a handkerchief swiftly metamorphosed from themost delicately odorous petals--Sir Jameswho talked so agreeablyalways about things which had common-sense in themand not aboutlearning!  Celia had those light young feminine tastes whichgrave and weatherworn gentlemen sometimes prefer in a wife; buthappily Mr. Casaubon's bias had been differentfor he would have hadno chance with Celia.

Dorotheaon the contraryfound the house and grounds all that she could wish:the dark book-shelves in the long librarythe carpets and curtainswith colors subdued by timethe curious old maps and bird's-eyeviews on the walls of the corridorwith here and there an old vasebelowhad no oppression for herand seemed more cheerful than theeasts and pictures at the Grangewhich her uncle had long agobrought home from his travels--they being probably among the ideas hehad taken in at one time. To poor Dorothea these severe classicalnudities and smirking Renaissance-Correggiosities were painfullyinexplicablestaring into the midst of her Puritanic conceptions:she had never been taught how she could bring them into any sort ofrelevance with her life. But the owners of Lowick apparently had notbeen travellersand Mr. Casaubon's studies of the past were notcarried on by means of such aids.

Dorotheawalked about the house with delightful emotion. Everything seemedhallowed to her: this was to be the home of her wifehoodand shelooked up with eyes full of confidence to Mr. Casaubon when he drewher attention specially to some actual arrangement and asked her ifshe would like an alteration. All appeals to her taste she metgratefullybut saw nothing to alter. His efforts at exact courtesyand formal tenderness had no defect for her.  She filled up allblanks with unmanifested perfectionsinterpreting him as sheinterpreted the works of Providenceand accounting for seemingdiscords by her own deafness to the higher harmonies.  And thereare many blanks left in the weeks of courtship which a loving faithfills with happy assurance.

"Nowmy dear DorotheaI wish you to favor me by pointing out which roomyou would like to have as your boudoir" said Mr. Casaubonshowing that his views of the womanly nature were sufficiently largeto include that requirement.

"Itis very kind of you to think of that" said Dorothea"butI assure you I would rather have all those matters decided for me. Ishall be much happier to take everything as it is--just as you havebeen used to have itor as you will yourself choose it to be. I haveno motive for wishing anything else."

"OhDodo" said Celia"will you not have the bow-windowed roomup-stairs?"

Mr.Casaubon led the way thither.  The bow-window looked down theavenue of limes; the furniture was all of a faded blueand therewere miniatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging ina group.  A piece of tapestry over a door also showed ablue-green world with a pale stag in it.  The chairs and tableswere thin-legged and easy to upset.  It was a room where onemight fancy the ghost of a tight-laced lady revisiting the scene ofher embroidery. A light bookcase contained duodecimo volumes ofpolite literature in calfcompleting the furniture.

"Yes"said Mr. Brooke"this would be a pretty room with some newhangingssofasand that sort of thing.  A little bare now."

"Nouncle" said Dorotheaeagerly.  "Pray do not speak ofaltering anything.  There are so many other things in the worldthat want altering--I like to take these things as they are. And youlike them as they aredon't you?" she addedlooking at Mr.Casaubon.  "Perhaps this was your mother's room when shewas young."

"Itwas" he saidwith his slow bend of the head.

"Thisis your mother" said Dorotheawho had turned to examine thegroup of miniatures.  "It is like the tiny one you broughtme; onlyI should thinka better portrait.  And this oneoppositewho is this?"

"Herelder sister.  They werelike you and your sisterthe only twochildren of their parentswho hang above themyou see."

"Thesister is pretty" said Celiaimplying that she thought lessfavorably of Mr. Casaubon's mother.  It was a new open ing toCelia's imaginationthat he came of a family who had all been youngin their time--the ladies wearing necklaces.

"Itis a peculiar face" said Dorothealooking closely. "Those deep gray eyes rather near together--and the delicateirregular nose with a sort of ripple in it--and all the powderedcurls hanging backward. Altogether it seems to me peculiar ratherthan pretty.  There is not even a family likeness between herand your mother."

"No.And they were not alike in their lot."

"Youdid not mention her to me" said Dorothea.

"Myaunt made an unfortunate marriage.  I never saw her."

Dorotheawondered a littlebut felt that it would be indelicate just then toask for any information which Mr. Casaubon did not profferand sheturned to the window to admire the view.  The sun had latelypierced the grayand the avenue of limes cast shadows.

"Shallwe not walk in the garden now?" said Dorothea.

"Andyou would like to see the churchyou know" said Mr. Brooke."It is a droll little church.  And the village.  Itall lies in a nut-shell. By the wayit will suit youDorothea; forthe cottages are like a row of alms-houses--little gardensgilly-flowersthat sort of thing."

"Yesplease" said Dorothealooking at Mr. Casaubon"I shouldlike to see all that." She had got nothing from him more graphicabout the Lowick cottages than that they were "not bad."

They weresoon on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders andclumps of treesthis being the nearest way to the churchMr.Casaubon said.  At the little gate leading into the churchyardthere was a pause while Mr. Casaubon went to the parsonage close byto fetch a key.  Celiawho had been hanging a little in therearcame up presentlywhen she saw that Mr. Casaubon was goneawayand said in her easy staccatowhich always seemed tocontradict the suspicion of any malicious intent--

"Doyou knowDorotheaI saw some one quite young coming up one of thewalks."

"Isthat astonishingCelia?"

"Theremay be a young gardeneryou know--why not?" said Mr. Brooke. "Itold Casaubon he should change his gardener."

"Nonot a gardener" said Celia; "a gentleman with asketch-book. He had light-brown curls.  I only saw his back. But he was quite young."

"Thecurate's sonperhaps" said Mr. Brooke.  "Ahthereis Casaubon againand Tucker with him.  He is going tointroduce Tucker. You don't know Tucker yet."

Mr. Tuckerwas the middle-aged curateone of the "inferior clergy"who are usually not wanting in sons.  But after theintroductionthe conversation did not lead to any question about hisfamilyand the startling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten byevery one but Celia.  She inwardly declined to believe that thelight-brown curls and slim figure could have any relationship to Mr.Tuckerwho was just as old and musty-looking as she would haveexpected Mr. Casaubon's curate to be; doubtless an excellent man whowould go to heaven (for Celia wished not to be unprincipled)but thecorners of his mouth were so unpleasant.  Celia thought withsome dismalness of the time she should have to spend as bridesmaid atLowickwhile the curate had probably no pretty little children whomshe could likeirrespective of principle.

Mr. Tuckerwas invaluable in their walk; and perhaps Mr. Casaubon had not beenwithout foresight on this headthe curate being able to answer allDorothea's questions about the villagers and the other parishioners. Everybodyhe assured herwas well off in Lowick: not a cottager inthose double cottages at a low rent but kept a pigand the strips ofgarden at the back were well tended.  The small boys woreexcellent corduroythe girls went out as tidy servantsor did alittle straw-plaiting at home: no looms hereno Dissent; and thoughthe public disposition was rather towards laying by money thantowards spiritualitythere was not much vice. The speckled fowlswere so numerous that Mr. Brooke observed"Your farmers leavesome barley for the women to gleanI see. The poor folks here mighthave a fowl in their potas the good French king used to wish forall his people.  The French eat a good many fowls--skinny fowlsyou know."

"Ithink it was a very cheap wish of his" said Dorotheaindignantly. "Are kings such monsters that a wish like that mustbe reckoned a royal virtue?"

"Andif he wished them a skinny fowl" said Celia"that wouldnot be nice.  But perhaps he wished them to have fat fowls."

"Yesbut the word has dropped out of the textor perhaps was subauditum;that ispresent in the king's mindbut not uttered" said Mr.Casaubonsmiling and bending his head towards Celiawho immediatelydropped backward a littlebecause she could not bear Mr. Casaubon toblink at her.

Dorotheasank into silence on the way back to the house.  She felt somedisappointmentof which she was yet ashamedthat there was nothingfor her to do in Lowick; and in the next few minutes her mind hadglanced over the possibilitywhich she would have preferredoffinding that her home would be in a parish which had a larger shareof the world's miseryso that she might have had more active dutiesin it.  Thenrecurring to the future actually before hershemade a picture of more complete devotion to Mr. Casaubon's aims inwhich she would await new duties.  Many such might revealthemselves to the higher knowledge gained by her in thatcompanionship.

Mr. Tuckersoon left themhaving some clerical work which would not allow himto lunch at the Hall; and as they were re-entering the garden throughthe little gateMr. Casaubon said--

"Youseem a little sadDorothea.  I trust you are pleased with whatyou have seen."

"I amfeeling something which is perhaps foolish and wrong" answeredDorotheawith her usual openness--"almost wishing that thepeople wanted more to be done for them here.  I have known sofew ways of making my life good for anything.  Of coursemynotions of usefulness must be narrow.  I must learn new ways ofhelping people."

"Doubtless"said Mr. Casaubon.  "Each position has its correspondingduties.  YoursI trustas the mistress of Lowickwill notleave any yearning unfulfilled."

"IndeedI believe that" said Dorotheaearnestly.  "Do notsuppose that I am sad."

"Thatis well.  Butif you are not tiredwe will take another way tothe house than that by which we came."

Dorotheawas not at all tiredand a little circuit was made towards a fineyew-treethe chief hereditary glory of the grounds on this side ofthe house.  As they approached ita figureconspicuous on adark background of evergreenswas seated on a benchsketching theold tree.  Mr. Brookewho was walking in front with Celiaturned his headand said--

"Whois that youngsterCasaubon?"

They hadcome very near when Mr. Casaubon answered--

"Thatis a young relative of minea second cousin: the grandsonin fact"he addedlooking at Dorothea"of the lady whose portrait youhave been noticingmy aunt Julia."

The youngman had laid down his sketch-book and risen.  His bushylight-brown curlsas well as his youthfulnessidentified him atonce with Celia's apparition.

"Dorothealet me introduce to you my cousinMr. Ladislaw. Willthis is MissBrooke."

The cousinwas so close nowthatwhen he lifted his hatDorothea could see apair of gray eves rather near togethera delicate irregular nosewith a little ripple in itand hair falling backward; but there wasa mouth and chin of a more prominentthreatening aspect thanbelonged to the type of the grandmother's miniature.  YoungLadislaw did not feel it necessary to smileas if he were charmedwith this introduction to his future second cousin and her relatives;but wore rather a pouting air of discontent.

"Youare an artistI see" said Mr. Brooketaking up thesketch-book and turning it over in his unceremonious fashion.

"NoI only sketch a little.  There is nothing fit to be seen there"said young Ladislawcoloringperhaps with temper rather thanmodesty.

"Ohcomethis is a nice bitnow.  I did a little in this waymyself at one timeyou know.  Look herenow; this is what Icall a nice thingdone with what we used to call BRIO." Mr.Brooke held out towards the two girls a large colored sketch of stonyground and treeswith a pool.

"I amno judge of these things" said Dorotheanot coldlybut withan eager deprecation of the appeal to her.  "You knowuncleI never see the beauty of those pictures which you say are somuch praised. They are a language I do not understand.  Isuppose there is some relation between pictures and nature which I amtoo ignorant to feel--just as you see what a Greek sentence standsfor which means nothing to me." Dorothea looked up at Mr.Casaubonwho bowed his head towards herwhile Mr. Brooke saidsmiling nonchalantly--

"Blessmenowhow different people are!  But you had a bad style ofteachingyou know--else this is just the thing for girls--sketchingfine art and so on.  But you took to drawing plans; you don'tunderstand morbidezzaand that kind of thing.  You will come tomy houseI hopeand I will show you what I did in this way"he continuedturning to young Ladislawwho had to be recalled fromhis preoccupation in observing Dorothea.  Ladislaw had made uphis mind that she must be an unpleasant girlsince she was going tomarry Casaubonand what she said of her stupidity about pictureswould have confirmed that opinion even if he had believed her. As itwashe took her words for a covert judgmentand was certain thatshe thought his sketch detestable.  There was too muchcleverness in her apology: she was laughing both at her uncle andhimself. But what a voice!  It was like the voice of a soul thathad once lived in an AEolian harp.  This must be one of Nature'sinconsistencies. There could be no sort of passion in a girl whowould marry Casaubon. But he turned from herand bowed his thanksfor Mr. Brooke's invitation.

"Wewill turn over my Italian engravings together" continued thatgood-natured man.  "I have no end of those thingsthat Ihave laid by for years.  One gets rusty in this part of thecountryyou know. Not youCasaubon; you stick to your studies; butmy best ideas get undermost--out of useyou know.  You cleveryoung men must guard against indolence.  I was too indolentyouknow: else I might have been anywhere at one time."

"Thatis a seasonable admonition" said Mr. Casaubon; "but now wewill pass on to the houselest the young ladies should be tired ofstanding."

When theirbacks were turnedyoung Ladislaw sat down to go on with hissketchingand as he did so his face broke into an expression ofamusement which increased as he went on drawingtill at last hethrew back his head and laughed aloud.  Partly it was thereception of his own artistic production that tickled him; partly thenotion of his grave cousin as the lover of that girl; and partly Mr.Brooke's definition of the place he might have held but for theimpediment of indolence.  Mr. Will Ladislaw's sense of theludicrous lit up his features very agreeably: it was the pureenjoyment of comicalityand had no mixture of sneering andself-exaltation.

"Whatis your nephew going to do with himselfCasaubon?" said Mr.Brookeas they went on.

"Mycousinyou mean--not my nephew."

"Yesyescousin.  But in the way of a careeryou know."

"Theanswer to that question is painfully doubtful.  On leaving Rugbyhe declined to go to an English universitywhere I would gladly haveplaced himand chose what I must consider the anomalous course ofstudying at Heidelberg.  And now he wants to go abroad againwithout any special objectsave the vague purpose of what he callsculturepreparation for he knows not what.  He declines tochoose a profession."

"Hehas no means but what you furnishI suppose."

"Ihave always given him and his friends reason to understand that Iwould furnish in moderation what was necessary for providing him witha scholarly educationand launching him respectably. I am-thereforebound to fulfil the expectation so raised" said Mr. Casaubonputting his conduct in the light of mere rectitude: a trait ofdelicacy which Dorothea noticed with admiration.

"Hehas a thirst for travelling; perhaps he may turn out a Bruce or aMungo Park" said Mr. Brooke.  "I had a notion of thatmyself at one time."

"Nohe has no bent towards explorationor the enlargement of ourgeognosis: that would be a special purpose which I could recognizewith some approbationthough without felicitating him on a careerwhich so often ends in premature and violent death. But so far is hefrom having any desire for a more accurate knowledge of the earth'ssurfacethat he said he should prefer not to know the sources of theNileand that there should be some unknown regions preserved ashunting grounds for the poetic imagination."

"Wellthere is something in thatyou know" said Mr. Brookewho hadcertainly an impartial mind.

"ItisI fearnothing more than a part of his general inaccuracy andindisposition to thoroughness of all kindswhich would be a badaugury for him in any professioncivil or sacredeven were he sofar submissive to ordinary rule as to choose one."

"Perhapshe has conscientious scruples founded on his own unfitness"said Dorotheawho was interesting herself in finding a favorableexplanation. "Because the law and medicine should be veryserious professions to undertakeshould they not?  People'slives and fortunes depend on them."

"Doubtless;but I fear that my young relative Will Ladislaw is chiefly determinedin his aversion to these callings by a dislike to steady applicationand to that kind of acquirement which is needful instrumentallybutis not charming or immediately inviting to self-indulgent taste. I have insisted to him on what Aristotle has stated with admirablebrevitythat for the achievement of any work regarded as an endthere must be a prior exercise of many energies or acquiredfacilities of a secondary orderdemanding patience. I have pointedto my own manuscript volumeswhich represent the toil of yearspreparatory to a work not yet accomplished. But in vain.  Tocareful reasoning of this kind he replies by calling himself Pegasusand every form of prescribed work `harness.'"

Celialaughed.  She was surprised to find that Mr. Casaubon could saysomething quite amusing.

"Wellyou knowhe may turn out a Byrona Chattertona Churchill--thatsort of thing--there's no telling" said Mr. Brooke. "Shallyou let him go to Italyor wherever else he wants to go?"

"Yes;I have agreed to furnish him with moderate supplies for a year or so;he asks no more.  I shall let him be tried by the test offreedom."

"Thatis very kind of you" said Dorothealooking up at Mr. Casaubonwith delight.  "It is noble.  After allpeople mayreally have in them some vocation which is not quite plain tothemselvesmay they not?  They may seem idle and weak becausethey are growing. We should be very patient with each otherIthink."

"Isuppose it is being engaged to be married that has made you thinkpatience good" said Celiaas soon as she and Dorothea werealone togethertaking off their wrappings.

"Youmean that I am very impatientCelia."

"Yes;when people don't do and say just what you like." Celia hadbecome less afraid of "saying things" to Dorothea sincethis engagement: cleverness seemed to her more pitiable than ever.

CHAPTERX

"Hehad catched a great coldhad he had no other clothes to wear

thanthe skin of a bear not yet killed."--FULLER.

YoungLadislaw did not pay that visit to which Mr. Brooke had invited himand only six days afterwards Mr. Casaubon mentioned that his youngrelative had started for the Continentseeming by this coldvagueness to waive inquiry.  IndeedWill had declined to fix onany more precise destination than the entire area of Europe. Geniushe heldis necessarily intolerant of fetters: on the one hand itmust have the utmost play for its spontaneity; on the otherit mayconfidently await those messages from the universe which summon it toits peculiar workonly placing itself in an attitude of receptivitytowards all sublime chances.  The attitudes of receptivity arevariousand Will had sincerely tried many of them. He was notexcessively fond of winebut he had several times taken too muchsimply as an experiment in that form of ecstasy; he had fasted tillhe was faintand then supped on lobster; he had made himself illwith doses of opium.  Nothing greatly original had resulted fromthese measures; and the effects of the opium had convinced him thatthere was an entire dissimilarity between his constitution and DeQuincey's. The superadded circumstance which would evolve the geniushad not yet come; the universe had not yet beckoned. Even Caesar'sfortune at one time wasbut a grand presentiment. We know what amasquerade all development isand what effective shapes may bedisguised in helpless embryos.--In factthe world is full of hopefulanalogies and handsome dubious eggs called possibilities. Will sawclearly enough the pitiable instances of long incubation producing nochickand but for gratitude would have laughed at Casaubonwhoseplodding applicationrows of note-booksand small taper of learnedtheory exploring the tossed ruins of the worldseemed to enforce amoral entirely encouraging to Will's generous reliance on theintentions of the universe with regard to himself. He held thatreliance to be a mark of genius; and certainly it is no mark to thecontrary; genius consisting neither in self-conceit nor in humilitybut in a power to make or donot anything in generalbut somethingin particular.  Let him start for the Continentthenwithoutour pronouncing on his future.  Among all forms of mistakeprophecy is the most gratuitous.

But atpresent this caution against a too hasty judgment interests me morein relation to Mr. Casaubon than to his young cousin. If to DorotheaMr. Casaubon had been the mere occasion which had set alight the fineinflammable material of her youthful illusionsdoes it follow thathe was fairly represented in the minds of those less impassionedpersonages who have hitherto delivered their judgments concerninghim?  I protest against any absolute conclusionany prejudicederived from Mrs. Cadwallader's contempt for a neighboringclergyman's alleged greatness of soulor Sir James Chettam's pooropinion of his rival's legs--from Mr. Brooke's failure to elicit acompanion's ideasor from Celia's criticism of a middle-agedscholar's personal appearance.  I am not sure that the greatestman of his ageif ever that solitary superlative existedcouldescape these unfavorable reflections of himself in various smallmirrors; and even Miltonlooking for his portrait in a spoonmustsubmit to have the facial angle of a bumpkin.  Moreoverif Mr.Casaubonspeaking for himselfhas rather a chilling rhetoricit isnot therefore certain that there is no good work or fine feeling inhim. Did not an immortal physicist and interpreter of hieroglyphswrite detestable verses?  Has the theory of the solar systembeen advanced by graceful manners and conversational tact? Suppose we turn from outside estimates of a manto wonderwithkeener interestwhat is the report of his own consciousness abouthis doings or capacity: with what hindrances he is carrying on hisdaily labors; what fading of hopesor what deeper fixity ofself-delusion the years are marking off within him; and with whatspirit he wrestles against universal pressurewhich will one day betoo heavy for himand bring his heart to its final pause. Doubtless his lot is important in his own eyes; and the chief reasonthat we think he asks too large a place in our consideration must beour want of room for himsince we refer him to the Divine regardwith perfect confidence; nayit is even held sublime for ourneighbor to expect the utmost therehowever little he may have gotfrom us. Mr. Casaubontoowas the centre of his own world; if hewas liable to think that others were providentially made for himandespecially to consider them in the light of their fitness for theauthor of a "Key to all Mythologies" this trait is notquite alien to usandlike the other mendicant hopes of mortalsclaims some of our pity.

Certainlythis affair of his marriage with Miss Brooke touched him more nearlythan it did any one of the persons who have hitherto shown theirdisapproval of itand in the present stage of things I feel moretenderly towards his experience of success than towards thedisappointment of the amiable Sir James.  For in truthas theday fixed for his marriage came nearerMr. Casaubon did not find hisspirits rising; nor did the contemplation of that matrimonial gardenscenewhereas all experience showedthe path was to be borderedwith flowersprove persistently more enchanting bo him than theaccustomed vaults where he walked taper in hand.  He did notconfess to himselfstill less could he have breathed to anotherhissurprise that though he had won a lovely and noble-hearted girl hehad not won delight--which he had also regarded as an object to befound by search.  It is true that he knew all the classicalpassages implying the contrary; but knowing classical passageswefindis a mode of motionwhich explains why they leave so littleextra force for their personal application.

Poor Mr.Casaubon had imagined that his long studious bachelorhood had storedup for him a compound interest of enjoymentand that large drafts onhis affections would not fail to be honored; for we all of usgraveor lightget our thoughts entangled in metaphorsand act fatally onthe strength of them.  And now he was in danger of beingsaddened by the very conviction that his circumstances were unusuallyhappy: there was nothing external by which he could account for acertain blankness of sensibility which came over him just when hisexpectant gladness should have been most livelyjust when heexchanged the accustomed dulness of his Lowick library for his visitsto the Grange.  Here was a weary experience in which he was asutterly condemned to loneliness as in the despair which sometimesthreatened him while toiling in the morass of authorship withoutseeming nearer to the goal.  And his was that worst lonelinesswhich would shrink from sympathy.  He could not but wish thatDorothea should think him not less happy than the world would expecther successful suitor to be; and in relation to his authorship heleaned on her young trust and venerationhe liked to draw forth herfresh interest in listeningas a means of encouragement to himself:in talking to her he presented all his performance and intention withthe reflected confidence of the pedagogueand rid himself for thetime of that chilling ideal audience which crowded his laboriousuncreative hours with the vaporous pressure of Tartarean shades.

For toDorotheaafter that toy-box history of the world adapted to youngladies which had made the chief part of her educationMr. Casaubon'stalk about his great book was full of new vistas; and this sense ofrevelationthis surprise of a nearer introduction to Stoics andAlexandriansas people who had ideas not totally unlike her ownkept in abeyance for the time her usual eagerness for a bindingtheory which could bring her own life and doctrine into strictconnection with that amazing pastand give the remotest sources ofknowledge some bearing on her actions.  That more completeteaching would come--Mr. Casaubon would tell her all that: she waslooking forward to higher initiation in ideasas she was lookingforward to marriageand blending her dim conceptions of both. Itwould be a great mistake to suppose that Dorothea would have caredabout any share in Mr. Casaubon's learning as mere accomplishment;for though opinion in the neighborhood of Freshitt and Tipton hadpronounced her cleverthat epithet would not have described her tocircles in whose more precise vocabulary cleverness implies mereaptitude for knowing and doingapart from character. All hereagerness for acquirement lay within that full current of sympatheticmotive in which her ideas and impulses were habitually swept along. She did not want to deck herself with knowledge--to wear it loosefrom the nerves and blood that fed her action; and if she had writtena book she must have done it as Saint Theresa didunder the commandof an authority that constrained her conscience. But something sheyearned for by which her life might be filled with action at oncerational and ardent; and since the time was gone by for guidingvisions and spiritual directorssince prayer heightened yearning butnot instructionwhat lamp was there but knowledge? Surely learnedmen kept-the only oil; and who more learned than Mr. Casaubon?

Thus inthese brief weeks Dorothea's joyous grateful expectation wasunbrokenand however her lover might occasionally be conscious offlatnesshe could never refer it to any slackening of heraffectionate interest.

The seasonwas mild enough to encourage the project of extending the weddingjourney as far as Romeand Mr. Casaubon was anxious for this becausehe wished to inspect some manuscripts in the Vatican.

"Istill regret that your sister is not to accompany us" he saidone morningsome time after it had been ascertained that Celiaobjected to goand that Dorothea did not wish for her companionship."You will have many lonely hoursDorotheasfor I shall beconstrained to make the utmost use of my time during our stay inRomeand I should feel more at liberty if you had a companion."

The words"I should feel more at liberty" grated on Dorothea. For thefirst time in speaking to Mr. Casaubon she colored from annoyance.

"Youmust have misunderstood me very much" she said"if youthink I should not enter into the value of your time--if you thinkthat I should not willingly give up whatever interfered with yourusing it to the best purpose."

"Thatis very amiable in youmy dear Dorothea" said Mr. Casaubonnot in the least noticing that she was hurt; "but if you had alady as your companionI could put you both under the care of aciceroneand we could thus achieve two purposes in the same space oftime."

"Ibeg you will not refer to this again" said Dorothearatherhaughtily. But immediately she feared that she was wrongand turningtowards him she laid her hand on hisadding in a different tone"Pray do not be anxious about me.  I shall have so much tothink of when I am alone.  And Tantripp will be a sufficientcompanionjust to take care of me.  I could not bear to haveCelia: she would be miserable."

It wastime to dress.  There was to be a dinner-party that daythelast of the parties which were held at the Grange as properpreliminaries to the weddingand Dorothea was glad of a reason formoving away at once on the sound of the bellas if she needed morethan her usual amount of preparation.  She was ashamed of beingirritated from some cause she could not define even to herse1f; forthough she had no intention to be untruthfulher reply had nottouched the real hurt within her.  Mr. Casaubon's words had beenquite reasonableyet they had brought a vague instantaneous sense ofaloofness on his part.

"SurelyI am in a strangely selfish weak state of mind" she said toherself.  "How can I have a husband who is so much above mewithout knowing that he needs me less than I need him?"

Havingconvinced herself that Mr. Casaubon was altogether rightsherecovered her equanimityand was an agreeable image of serenedignity when she came into the drawing-room in her silver-graydress--the simple lines of her dark-brown hair parted over her browand coiled massively behindin keeping with the entire absence fromher manner and expression of all search after mere effect. Sometimeswhen Dorothea was in companythere seemed to be as complete an airof repose about her as if she had been a picture of Santa Barbaralooking out from her tower into the clear air; but these intervals ofquietude made the energy of her speech and emotion the more remarkedwhen some outward appeal had touched her.

She wasnaturally the subject of many observations this eveningfor thedinner-party was large and rather more miscellaneous as to the maleportion than any which had been held at the Grange since Mr. Brooke'snieces had resided with himso that the talking was done in duos andtrios more or less inharmonious. There was the newly elected mayor ofMiddlemarchwho happened to be a manufacturer; the philanthropicbanker his brother-in-lawwho predominated so much in the town thatsome called him a Methodistothers a hypocriteaccording to theresources of their vocabulary; and there were various professionalmen.  In factMrs. Cadwallader said that Brooke was beginningto treat the Middlemarchersand that she preferred the farmers atthe tithe-dinnerwho drank her health unpretentiouslyand were notashamed of their grandfathers' furniture.  For in that part ofthe countrybefore reform had done its notable part in developingthe political consciousnessthere was a clearer distinction of ranksand a dimmer distinction of parties; so that Mr. Brooke'smiscellaneous invitations seemed to belong to that general laxitywhich came from his inordinate travel and habit of taking too much inthe form of ideas.

Alreadyas Miss Brooke passed out of the dining-roomopportunity was foundfor some interjectional "asides"

"Afine womanMiss Brooke! an uncommonly fine womanby God!" saidMr. Standishthe old lawyerwho had been so long concerned with thelanded gentry that he had become landed himselfand used that oathin a deep-mouthed manner as a sort of armorial bearingsstamping thespeech of a man who held a good position.

Mr.Bulstrodethe bankerseemed to be addressedbut that gentlemandisliked coarseness and profanityand merely bowed. The remark wastaken up by Mr. Chichelya middle-aged bachelor and coursingcelebritywho had a complexion something like an Easter egga fewhairs carefully arrangedand a carriage implying the consciousnessof a distinguished appearance.

"Yesbut not my style of woman: I like a woman who lays herself out alittle more to please us.  There should be a little filigreeabout a woman--something of the coquette.  A man likes a sort ofchallenge.  The more of a dead set she makes at you the better."

"There'ssome truth in that" said Mr. Standishdisposed to be genial."Andby Godit's usually the way with them.  I suppose itanswers some wise ends: Providence made them soehBulstrode?"

"Ishould be disposed to refer coquetry to another source" saidMr. Bulstrode.  "I should rather refer it to the devil."

"Ayto be surethere should be a little devil in a woman" said Mr.Chichelywhose study of the fair sex seemed to have been detrimentalto his theology.  "And I like them blondwith a certaingaitand a swan neck.  Between ourselvesthe mayor's daughteris more to my taste than Miss Brooke or Miss Celia either. If I werea marrying man I should choose Miss Vincy before either of them."

"Wellmake upmake up" said Mr. Standishjocosely; "you seethe middle-aged fellows early the day."

Mr.Chichely shook his head with much meaning: he was not going to incurthe certainty of being accepted by the woman he would choose.

The MissVincy who had the honor of being Mr. Chichely's ideal was of coursenot present; for Mr. Brookealways objecting to go too farwouldnot have chosen that his nieces should meet the daughter of aMiddlemarch manufacturerunless it were on a public occasion. Thefeminine part of the company included none whom Lady Chettam or Mrs.Cadwallader could object to; for Mrs. Renfrewthe colonel's widowwas not only unexceptionable in point of breedingbut alsointeresting on the ground of her complaintwhich puzzled thedoctorsand seemed clearly a case wherein the fulness ofprofessional knowledge might need the supplement of quackery. LadyChettamwho attributed her own remarkable health to home-madebitters united with constant medical attendanceentered with muchexercise of the imagination into Mrs. Renfrew's account of symptomsand into the amazing futility in her case of allstrengtheningmedicines.

"Wherecan all the strength of those medicines gomy dear?" said themild but stately dowagerturning to Mrs. Cadwallader reflectivelywhen Mrs. Renfrew's attention was called away.

"Itstrengthens the disease" said the Rector's wifemuch toowell-born not to be an amateur in medicine.  "Everythingdepends on the constitution: some people make fatsome bloodandsome bile--that's my view of the matter; and whatever they take is asort of grist to the mill."

"Thenshe ought to take medicines that would reduce--reduce the diseaseyou knowif you are rightmy dear.  And I think what you sayis reasonable."

"Certainlyit is reasonable.  You have two sorts of potatoesfed on thesame soil.  One of them grows more and more watery--"

"Ah!like this poor Mrs. Renfrew--that is what I think. Dropsy! There is no swelling yet--it is inward.  I should say she oughtto take drying medicinesshouldn't you?--or a dry hot-air bath. Manythings might be triedof a drying nature."

"Lether try a certain person's pamphlets" said Mrs. Cadwallader inan undertoneseeing the gentlemen enter.  "He does notwant drying."

"Whomy dear?" said Lady Chettama charming womannot so quick asto nullify the pleasure of explanation.

"Thebridegroom--Casaubon. He has certainly been drying up faster sincethe engagement: the flame of passionI suppose."

"Ishould think he is far from having a good constitution" saidLady Chettamwith a still deeper undertone.  "And then hisstudies--so very dryas you say."

"Reallyby the side of Sir Jameshe looks like a death's head skinned overfor the occasion.  Mark my words: in a year from this time thatgirl will hate him.  She looks up to him as an oracle nowandby-and-by she will be at the other extreme.  All flightiness!"

"Howvery shocking!  I fear she is headstrong.  But tell me--youknow all about him--is there anything very bad?  What is thetruth?"

"Thetruth? he is as bad as the wrong physic--nasty to takeand sure todisagree."

"Therecould not be anything worse than that" said Lady Chettamwithso vivid a conception of the physic that she seemed to have learnedsomething exact about Mr. Casaubon's disadvantages. "HoweverJames will hear nothing against Miss Brooke.  He says she is themirror of women still."

"Thatis a generous make-believe of his.  Depend upon ithe likeslittle Celia betterand she appreciates him.  I hope you likemy little Celia?"

"Certainly;she is fonder of geraniumsand seems more docilethough not so finea figure.  But we were talking of physic. Tell me about this newyoung surgeonMr. Lydgate.  I am told he is wonderfully clever:he certainly looks it--a fine brow indeed."

"Heis a gentleman.  I heard him talking to Humphrey.  He talkswell."

"Yes.Mr. Brooke says he is one of the Lydgates of Northumberlandreallywell connected.  One does not expect it in a practitioner ofthat kind.  For my own partI like a medical man more on afooting with the servants; they are often all the cleverer.  Iassure you I found poor Hicks's judgment unfailing; I never knew himwrong. He was coarse and butcher-likebut he knew my constitution.It was a loss to me his going off so suddenly.  Dear mewhat avery animated conversation Miss Brooke seems to be having with thisMr. Lydgate!"

"Sheis talking cottages and hospitals with him" said Mrs.Cadwalladerwhose ears and power of interpretation were quick. "I believe he is a sort of philanthropistso Brooke is sure totake him up."

"James"said Lady Chettam when her son came near"bring Mr. Lydgate andintroduce him to me.  I want to test him."

Theaffable dowager declared herself delighted with this opportunity ofmaking Mr. Lydgate's acquaintancehaving heard of his success intreating fever on a new plan.

Mr.Lydgate had the medical accomplishment of looking perfectly gravewhatever nonsense was talked to himand his dark steady eyes gavehim impressiveness as a listener.  He was as little as possiblelike the lamented Hicksespecially in a certain careless refinementabout his toilet and utterance.  Yet Lady Chettam gathered muchconfidence in him. He confirmed her view of her own constitution asbeing peculiarby admitting that all constitutions might be calledpeculiarand he did not deny that hers might be more peculiar thanothers. He did not approve of a too lowering systemincludingreckless cuppingnoron the other handof incessant port wine andbark.  He said "I think so" with an air of so muchdeference accompanying the insight of agreementthat she formed themost cordial opinion of his talents.

"I amquite pleased with your protege" she said to Mr. Brooke beforegoing away.

"Myprotege?--dear me!--who is that?" said Mr. Brooke.

"Thisyoung Lydgatethe new doctor.-He seems to me to understand hisprofession admirably."

"OhLydgate! he is not my protegeyou know; only I knew an uncle of hiswho sent me a letter about him.  HoweverI think he is likelyto be first-rate--has studied in Parisknew Broussais; has ideasyou know--wants to raise the profession."

"Lydgatehas lots of ideasquite newabout ventilation and dietthat sortof thing" resumed Mr. Brookeafter he had handed out LadyChettamand had returned to be civil to a group of Middlemarchers.

"Hangitdo you think that is quite sound?--upsetting The old treatmentwhich has made Englishmen what they re?" said Mr. Standish.

"Medicalknowledge is at a low ebb among us" said Mr. Bulstrodewhospoke in a subdued toneand had rather a sickly wir "Ifor myparthail the advent of Mr. Lydgate.  I hope to find goodreason for confiding the new hospital to his management."

"Thatis all very fine" replied Mr. Standishwho was not fond of Mr.Bulstrode; "if you like him to try experiments on your hospitalpatientsand kill a few people for charity I have no objection. ButI am not going to hand money out of my purse to have experimentstried on me.  I like treatment that has been tested a little."

"Wellyou knowStandishevery dose you take is an experiment-anexperimentyou know" said Mr. Brookenodding towards thelawyer.

"Ohif you talk in that sense!" said Mr. Standishwith as muchdisgust at such non-legal quibbling as a man can well betray towardsa valuable client.

"Ishould be glad of any treatment that would cure me without reducingme to a skeletonlike poor Grainger" said Mr. Vincythemayora florid manwho would have served for a study of flesh instriking contrast with the Franciscan tints of Mr. Bulstrode. "It'san uncommonly dangerous thing to be left without any padding againstthe shafts of diseaseas somebody said--and I think it a very goodexpression myself."

Mr.Lydgateof coursewas out of hearing.  He had quitted theparty earlyand would have thought it altogether tedious but for thenovelty of certain introductionsespecially the introduction to MissBrookewhose youthful bloomwith her approaching marriage to thatfaded scholarand her interest in matters socially usefulgave herthe piquancy of an unusual combination.

"Sheis a good creature--that fine girl--but a little too earnest"he thought.  "It is troublesome to talk to such women. They are always wanting reasonsyet they are too ignorant tounderstand the merits of any questionand usually fall hack on theirmoral sense to settle things after their own taste."

EvidentlyMiss Brooke was not Mr. Lydgate's style of woman any more than Mr.Chichely's. Consideredindeedin relation to the latterwhose miedwas maturedshe was altogether a mistakeand calculated to shockhis trust in final causesincluding the adaptation of fine youngwomen to purplefaced bachelors.  But Lydgate was less ripeandmight possibly have experience before him which would modify hisopinion as to the most excellent things in woman.

MissBrookehoweverwas not again seen by either of these gentlemenunder her maiden name.  Not long after that dinner-party she hadbecome Mrs. Casaubonand was on her way to Rome.

CHAPTERXI

  "But deeds and language such as men do use
   Andpersons such as comedy would choose
    When shewould show an image of the times
   And sport withhuman folliesnot with crimes."
   --BEN JONSON.

Lydgatein factwas already conscious of being fascinated by a womanstrikingly different from Miss Brooke: he did not in the leastsuppose that he had lost his balance and fallen in lovebut he hadsaid of that particular woman"She is grace itself; she isperfectly lovely and accomplished.  That is what a woman oughtto be: she ought to produce the effect of exquisite music."Plain women he regarded as he did the other severe facts of lifetobe faced with philosophy and investigated by science.  ButRosamond Vincy seemed to have the true melodic charm; and when a manhas seen the woman whom he would have chosen if he had intended tomarry speedilyhis remaining a bachelor will usually depend on herresolution rather than on his.  Lydgate believed that he shouldnot marry for several years: not marry until he had trodden out agood clear path for himself away from the broad road which was quiteready made. He had seen Miss Vincy above his horizon almost as longas it had taken Mr. Casaubon to become engaged and married: but thislearned gentleman was possessed of a fortune; he had assembled hisvoluminous notesand had made that sort of reputation which precedesperformance--often the larger part of a man's fame.  He took awifeas we have seento adorn the remaining quadrant of his courseand be a little moon that would cause hardly a calculableperturbation. But Lydgate was youngpoorambitious.  He hadhis half-century before him instead of behind himand he had come toMiddlemarch bent on doing many things that were not directly fittedto make his fortune or even secure him a good income.  To a manunder such circumstancestaking a wife is something more than aquestion of adornmenthowever highly he may rate this; and Lydgatewas disposed to give it the first place among wifely functions. To his tasteguided by a single conversationhere was the point onwhich Miss Brooke would be found wantingnotwithstanding herundeniable beauty. She did not look at things from the properfeminine angle. The society of such women was about as relaxing asgoing from your work to teach the second forminstead of recliningin a paradise with sweet laughs for bird-notesand blue eyes for aheaven.

Certainlynothing at present could seem much less important to Lydgate than theturn of Miss Brooke's mindor to Miss Brooke than the qualities ofthe woman who had attracted this young surgeon. But any one watchingkeenly the stealthy convergence of human lotssees a slowpreparation of effects from one life on anotherwhich tells like acalculated irony on the indifference or the frozen stare with whichwe look at our unintroduced neighbor. Destiny stands by sarcasticwith our dramatis personae folded in her hand.

Oldprovincial society had its share of this subtle movement: had notonly its striking downfallsits brilliant young professional dandieswho ended by living up an entry with a drab and six children fortheir establishmentbut also those less marked vicissitudes whichare constantly shifting the boundaries of social intercourseandbegetting new consciousness of interdependence.  Some slipped alittle downwardsome got higher footing: people denied aspiratesgained wealthand fastidious gentlemen stood for boroughs; some werecaught in political currentssome in ecclesiasticaland perhapsfound themselves surprisingly grouped in consequence; while a fewpersonages or families that stood with rocky firmness amid all thisfluctuationwere slowly presenting new aspects in spite of solidityand altering with the double change of self and beholder. Municipal town and rural parish gradually made fresh threads ofconnection--graduallyas the old stocking gave way to thesavings-bankand the worship of the solar guinea became extinct;while squires and baronetsand even lords who had once livedblamelessly afar from the civic mindgathered the faultiness ofcloser acquaintanceship.  Settlerstoocame from distantcountiessome with an alarming novelty of skillothers with anoffensive advantage in cunning.  In factmuch the same sort ofmovement and mixture went on in old England as we find in olderHerodotuswho alsoin telling what had beenthought it well totake a woman's lot for his starting-point; though Ioas a maidenapparently beguiled by attractive merchandisewas the reverse ofMiss Brookeand in this respect perhaps bore more resemblance toRosamond Vincywho had excellent taste in costumewith thatnymph-like figure and pure blindness which give the largest range tochoice in the flow and color of drapery.  But these things madeonly part of her charm. She was admitted to be the flower of Mrs.Lemon's schoolthe chief school in the countywhere the teachingincluded all that was demanded in the accomplished female--even toextrassuch as the getting in and out of a carriage.  Mrs.Lemon herself had always held up Miss Vincy as an example: no pupilshe saidexceeded that young lady for mental acquisition andpropriety of speechwhile her musical execution was quiteexceptional. We cannot help the way in which people speak of usandprobably if Mrs. Lemon had undertaken to describe Juliet or Imogenthese heroines would not have seemed poetical.  The first visionof Rosamond would have been enough with most judges to dispel anyprejudice excited by Mrs. Lemon's praise.

Lydgatecould not be long in Middlemarch without having that agreeablevisionor even without making the acquaintance of the Vincy family;for though Mr. Peacockwhose practice he had paid something to enteronhad not been their doctor (Mrs. Vincy not liking the loweringsystem adopted by him)he had many patients among their connectionsand acquaintances.  For who of any consequence in Middlemarchwas not connected or at least acquainted with the Vincys?  Theywere old manufacturersand had kept a good house for threegenerationsin which there had naturally been much intermarryingwith neighbors more or less decidedly genteel.  Mr. Vincy'ssister had made a wealthy match in accepting Mr. Bulstrodewhohoweveras a man not born in the townand altogether of dimly knownoriginwas considered to have done well in uniting himself with areal Middlemarch family; on the other handMr. Vincy had descended alittlehaving taken an innkeeper's daughter.  But on this sidetoo there was a cheering sense of money; for Mrs. Vincy's sister hadbeen second wife to rich old Mr. Featherstoneand had died childlessyears agoso that her nephews and nieces might be supposed to touchthe affections of the widower.  And it happened that Mr.Bulstrode and Mr. Featherstonetwo of Peacock's most importantpatientshadfrom different causesgiven an especially goodreception to his successorwho had raised some partisanship as wellas discussion. Mr. Wrenchmedical attendant to the Vincy familyvery early had grounds for thinking lightly of Lydgate's professionaldiscretionand there was no report about him which was not retailedat the Vincys'where visitors were frequent.  Mr. Vincy wasmore inclined to general good-fellowship than to taking sidesbutthere was no need for him to be hasty in making any new manacquaintance. Rosamond silently wished that her father would inviteMr. Lydgate. She was tired of the faces and figures she had alwaysbeen used to--the various irregular profiles and gaits and turns ofphrase distinguishing those Middlemarch young men whom she had knownas boys. She had been at school with girls of higher positionwhosebrothersshe felt sureit would have been possible for her to bemore interested inthan in these inevitable Middlemarch companions.But she would not have chosen to mention her wish to her father; andhefor his partwas in no hurry on the subject.  An aldermanabout to be mayor must by-and-by enlarge his dinner-partiesbut atpresent there were plenty of guests at his well-spread table.

That tableoften remained covered with the relics of the family breakfast longafter Mr. Vincy had gone with his second son to the warehouseandwhen Miss Morgan was already far on in morning lessons with theyounger girls in the schoolroom.  It awaited the family laggardwho found any sort of inconvenience (to others) less disagreeablethan getting up when he was called.  This was the case onemorning of the October in which we have lately seen Mr. Casaubonvisiting the Grange; and though the room was a little overheated withthe firewhich had sent the spaniel panting to a remote cornerRosamondfor some reasoncontinued to sit at her embroidery longerthan usualnow and then giving herself a little shakeand layingher work on her knee to contemplate it with an air of hesitatingweariness. Her mammawho had returned from an excursion to thekitchensat on the other side of the small work-table with an air ofmore entire placidityuntilthe clock again giving notice that itwas going to strikeshe looked up from the lace-mending which wasoccupying her plump fingers and rang the bell.

"Knockat Mr. Fred's door againPritchardand tell him it has struckhalf-past ten."

This wassaid without any change in the radiant good-humor of Mrs. Vincy'sfacein which forty-five years had delved neither angles norparallels; and pushing back her pink capstringsshe let her workrest on her lapwhile she looked admiringly at her daughter.

"Mamma"said Rosamond"when Fred comes down I wish you would not lethim have red herrings.  I cannot bear the smell of them all overthe house at this hour of the morning."

"Ohmy dearyou are so hard on your brothers!  It is the only faultI have to find with you.  You are the sweetest temper in theworldbut you are so tetchy with your brothers."

"Nottetchymamma: you never hear me speak in an unladylike way."

"Wellbut you want to deny them things."

"Brothersare so unpleasant."

"Ohmy dearyou must allow for young men.  Be thankful if they havegood hearts.  A woman must learn to put up with little things.You will be married some day."

"Notto any one who is like Fred."

"Don'tdecry your own brothermy dear.  Few young men have lessagainst themalthough he couldn't take his degree--I'm sure I can'tunderstand whyfor he seems to me most clever.  And you knowyourself he was thought equal to the best society at college. Soparticular as you aremy dearI wonder you are not glad to havesuch a gentlemanly young man for a brother.  You are alwaysfinding fault with Bob because he is not Fred."

"Ohnomammaonly because he is Bob."

"Wellmy dearyou will not find any Middlemarch young man who has notsomething against him."

"But"--hereRosamond's face broke into a smile which suddenly revealed twodimples.  She herself thought unfavorably of these dimples andsmiled little in general society.  "But I shall not marryany Middlemarch young man."

"Soit seemsmy lovefor you have as good as refused the pick of them;and if there's better to be hadI'm sure there's no girl betterdeserves it."

"Excusememamma--I wish you would not say`the pick of them.'"

"Whywhat else are they?"

"Imeanmammait is rather a vulgar expression."

"Verylikelymy dear; I never was a good speaker.  What should Isay?"

"Thebest of them."

"Whythat seems just as plain and common.  If I had had time tothinkI should have said`the most superior young men.' But withyour education you must know."

"Whatmust Rosy knowmother?" said Mr. Fredwho had slid inunobserved through the half-open door while the ladies were bendingover their workand now going up to the fire stood with his backtowards itwarming the soles of his slippers.

"Whetherit's right to say `superior young men'" said Mrs. Vincyringing the bell.

"Ohthere are so many superior teas and sugars now.  Superior isgetting to be shopkeepers' slang."

"Areyou beginning to dislike slangthen?" said Rosamondwith mildgravity.

"Onlythe wrong sort.  All choice of words is slang.  It marks aclass."

"Thereis correct English: that is not slang."

"Ibeg your pardon: correct English is the slang of prigs who writehistory and essays.  And the strongest slang of all is the slangof poets."

"Youwill say anythingFredto gain your point."

"Welltell me whether it is slang or poetry to call an ox a leg-plaiter."

"Ofcourse you can call it poetry if you like."

"AhaMiss Rosyyou don't know Homer from slang.  I shall invent anew game; I shall write bits of slang and poetry on slipsand givethem to you to separate."

"Dearmehow amusing it is to hear young people talk!" said Mrs.Vincywith cheerful admiration.

"Haveyou got nothing else for my breakfastPritchard?" said Fredtothe servant who brought in coffee and buttered toast; while he walkedround the table surveying the hampotted beefand other coldremnantswith an air of silent rejectionand polite forbearancefrom signs of disgust.

"Shouldyou like eggssir?"

"Eggsno!  Bring me a grilled bone."

"ReallyFred" said Rosamondwhen the servant had left the room"ifyou must have hot things for breakfastI wish you would come downearlier.  You can get up at six o'clock to go out hunting; Icannot understand why you find it so difficult to get up on othermornings."

"Thatis your want of understandingRosy.  I can get up to go huntingbecause I like it."

"Whatwould you think of me if I came down two hours after every one elseand ordered grilled bone?"

"Ishould think you were an uncommonly fast young lady" said Fredeating his toast with the utmost composure.

"Icannot see why brothers are to make themselves disagreeableany morethan sisters."

"Idon't make myself disagreeable; it is you who find me so.Disagreeable is a word that describes your feelings and not myactions."

"Ithink it describes the smell of grilled bone."

"Notat all.  It describes a sensation in your little nose associatedwith certain finicking notions which are the classics of Mrs. Lemon'sschool.  Look at my mother you don't see her objecting toeverything except what she does herself.  She is my notion of apleasant woman."

"Blessyou bothmy dearsand don't quarrel" said Mrs. Vincywithmotherly cordiality.  "ComeFredtell us all about thenew doctor. How is your uncle pleased with him?"

"PrettywellI think.  He asks Lydgate all sorts of questions and thenscrews up his face while he hears the answersas if they werepinching his toes.  That's his way.  Ahhere comes mygrilled bone."

"Buthow came you to stay out so latemy dear?  You only said youwere going to your uncle's."

"OhI dined at Plymdale's. We had whist.  Lydgate was there too."

"Andwhat do you think of him?  He is very gentlemanlyI suppose.They say he is of excellent family--his relations quite countypeople."

"Yes"said Fred.  "There was a Lydgate at John's who spent no endof money.  I find this man is a second cousin of his. But richmen may have very poor devils for second cousins."

"Italways makes a differencethoughto be of good family" saidRosamondwith a tone of decision which showed that she had thoughton this subject.  Rosamond felt that she might have been happierif she had not been the daughter of a Middlemarch manufacturer. Shedisliked anything which reminded her that her mother's father hadbeen an innkeeper.  Certainly any one remembering the fact mightthink that Mrs. Vincy had the air of a very handsome good-humoredlandladyaccustomed to the most capricious orders of gentlemen.

"Ithought it was odd his name was Tertius" said the bright-facedmatron"but of course it's a name in the family. But nowtellus exactly what sort of man he is."

"Ohtallishdarkclever--talks well--rather a prigI think."

"Inever can make out what you mean by a prig" said Rosamond.

"Afellow who wants to show that he has opinions."

"Whymy deardoctors must have opinions" said Mrs. Vincy. "Whatare they there for else?"

"Yesmotherthe opinions they are paid for.  But a prig is a fellowwho is always making you a present of his opinions."

"Isuppose Mary Garth admires Mr. Lydgate" said Rosamondnotwithout a touch of innuendo.

"ReallyI can't say." said Fredrather glumlyas he left the tableand taking up a novel which he had brought down with himthrewhimself into an arm-chair. "If you are jealous of hergooftener to Stone Court yourself and eclipse her."

"Iwish you would not be so vulgarFred.  If you have finishedpray ring the bell."

"Itis truethough--what your brother saysRosamond" Mrs. Vincybeganwhen the servant had cleared the table.  "It is athousand pities you haven't patience to go and see your uncle moreso proud of you as he isand wanted you to live with him. There's no knowing what he might have done for you as well as forFred. God knowsI'm fond of having you at home with mebut I canpart with my children for their good.  And now it stands toreason that your uncle Featherstone will do something for MaryGarth."

"MaryGarth can bear being at Stone Courtbecause she likes that betterthan being a governess" said Rosamondfolding up her work. "Iwould rather not have anything left to me if I must earn it byenduring much of my uncle's cough and his ugly relations."

"Hecan't be long for this worldmy dear; I wouldn't hasten his endbutwhat with asthma and that inward complaintlet us hope there issomething better for him in another.  And I have no ill-willtoward's Mary Garthbut there's justice to be thought of. And Mr.Featherstone's first wife brought him no moneyas my sister did. Hernieces and nephews can't have so much claim as my sister's. And Imust say I think Mary Garth a dreadful plain girl--more fit for agoverness."

"Everyone would not agree with you theremother" said Fredwhoseemed to be able to read and listen too.

"Wellmy dear" said Mrs. Vincywheeling skilfully"if she HADsome fortune left her--a man marries his wife's relationsand theGarths are so poorand live in such a small way. But I shall leaveyou to your studiesmy dear; for I must go and do some shopping."

"Fred'sstudies are not very deep" said Rosamondrising with hermamma"he is only reading a novel."

"Wellwellby-and-by he'll go to his Latin and things" said Mrs.Vincysoothinglystroking her son's head.  "There's afire in the smoking-room on purpose.  It's your father's wishyou know--Fredmy dear--and I always tell him you will be goodandgo to college again to take your degree."

Fred drewhis mother's hand down to his lipsbut said nothing.

"Isuppose you are not going out riding to-day?" said Rosamondlingering a little after her mamma was gone.

"No;why?"

"Papasays I may have the chestnut to ride now."

"Youcan go with me to-morrowif you like.  Only I am going to StoneCourtremember."

"Iwant to ride so muchit is indifferent to me where we go."Rosamond really wished to go to Stone Courtof all other places.

"OhI sayRosy" said Fredas she was passing out of the room"ifyou are going to the pianolet me come and play some airs with you."

"Praydo not ask me this morning."

"Whynot this morning?"

"ReallyFredI wish you would leave off playing the flute. A man looks verysilly playing the flute.  And you play so out of tune."

"Whennext any one makes love to youMiss RosamondI will tell him howobliging you are."

"Whyshould you expect me to oblige you by hearing you play the fluteanymore than I should expect you to oblige me by not playing it?"

"Andwhy should you expect me to take you out riding?"

Thisquestion led to an adjustmentfor Rosamond had set her mind on thatparticular ride.

So Fredwas gratified with nearly an hour's practice of "Ar hyd y nos""Ye banks and braes" and other favorite airs from his"Instructor on the Flute;" a wheezy performanceinto whichhe threw much ambition and an irrepressible hopefulness.

CHAPTERXII

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

The rideto Stone Courtwhich Fred and Rosamond took the next morninglaythrough a pretty bit of midland landscapealmost all meadows andpastureswith hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and tospread out coral fruit for the birds.  Little details gave eachfield a particular physiognomydear to the eyes that have looked onthem from childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses weredank and trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bareplace in mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; thesudden slope of the old marl-pit making a red background for theburdock; the huddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without atraceable way of approach; the gray gate and fences against thedepths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovelits oldoldthatch full of mossy hills and valleys with wondrous modulations oflight and shadow such as we travel far to see in later lifeand seelargerbut not more beautiful.  These are the things that makethe gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls--the things theytoddled amongor perhaps learned by heart standing between theirfather's knees while he drove leisurely.

But theroadeven the byroadwas excellent; for Lowickas we have seenwas 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 Courtand atthe end of the first halfthe house was already visiblelooking asif it had been arrested in its growth toward a stone mansion by anunexpected budding of farm-buildings on its left flankwhich hadhindered it from becoming anything more than the substantial dwellingof a gentleman farmer.  It was not the less agreeable an objectin the distance for the cluster of pinnacled corn-ricks whichbalanced the fine row of walnuts on the right.

Presentlyit was possible to discern something that might be a gig on thecircular drive before the front door.

"Dearme" said Rosamond"I hope none of my uncle's horriblerelations are there."

"Theyarethough.  That is Mrs. Waule's gig--the last yellow gigleftI should think.  When I see Mrs. Waule in itI understandhow yellow can have been worn for mourning.  That gig seems tome more funereal than a hearse.  But then Mrs. Waule always hasblack crape on. How does she manage itRosy?  Her friends can'talways be dying."

"Idon't know at all.  And she is not in the least evangelical"said Rosamondreflectivelyas if that religious point of view wouldhave fully accounted for perpetual crape.  "Andnot poor"she addedafter a moment's pause.

"Noby George!  They are as rich as Jewsthose Waules andFeatherstones; I meanfor people like themwho don't want to spendanything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vulturesand areafraid of a farthing going away from their side of the family. But I believe he hates them all."

The Mrs.Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes of thesedistant connectionshad happened to say this very morning (not atall with a defiant airbut in a lowmuffiedneutral toneas of avoice heard through cotton wool) that she did not wish "to enjoytheir good opinion." She was seatedas she observedon her ownbrother's hearthand had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twentyyears before she had been Jane Waulewhich entitled her to speakwhen her own brother's name had been made free with by those who hadno right to it.

"Whatare you driving at there?" said Mr. Featherstoneholding hisstick between his knees and settling his wigwhile he gave her amomentary sharp glancewhich seemed to react on him like a draughtof cold air and set him coughing.

Mrs. Waulehad to defer her answer till he was quiet againtill Mary Garth hadsupplied him with fresh syrupand he had begun to rub the gold knobof his sticklooking bitterly at the fire. It was a bright firebutit made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint of Mrs.Waule's facewhich was as neutral as her voice; having mere chinksfor eyesand lips that hardly moved in speaking.

"Thedoctors can't master that coughbrother.  It's just like what Ihave; for I'm your own sisterconstitution and everything. Butas I was sayingit's a pity Mrs. Vincy's family can't be betterconducted."

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

"Andno more than can be provedif what everybody says is true. Mybrother Solomon tells me it's the talk up and down in Middlemarch howunsteady young Vincy isand has been forever gambling at billiardssince home he came."

"Nonsense! What's a game at billiards?  It's a good gentlemanly game; andyoung Vincy is not a clodhopper.  If your son John took tobilliardsnowhe'd make a fool of himself."

"Yournephew John never took to billiards or any other gamebrotherandis far from losing hundreds of poundswhichif what everybody saysis truemust be found somewhere else than out of Mr. Vincy thefather's pocket.  For they say he's been losing money for yearsthough nobody would think soto see him go coursing and keeping openhouse as they do.  And I've heard say Mr. Bulstrode condemnsMrs. Vincy beyond anything for her flightinessand spoiling herchildren so."!

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

"WellMrs. Bulstrode is Mr. Vincy's own sisterand they do say that Mr.Vincy mostly trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourselfbrotherwhen a woman past forty has pink strings always flyingandthat light way of laughing at everythingit's very unbecoming. Butindulging your children is one thingand finding money to pay theirdebts is another.  And it's openly said that young Vincy hasraised money on his expectations.  I don't say whatexpectations. Miss Garth hears meand is welcome to tell again. I know young people hang together."

"Nothank youMrs. Waule" said Mary Garth.  "I dislikehearing scandal too much to wish to repeat it."

Mr.Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a brief convulsiveshow of laughterwhich had much the same genuineness as an oldwhist-player's chuckle over a bad hand.  Still looking at thefirehe said--

"Andwho pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn't got expectations?  Such afinespirited fellow is like enough to have 'em."

There wasa slight pause before Mrs. Waule repliedand when she did sohervoice seemed to be slightly moistened with tearsthough her face wasstill dry.

"Whetheror nobrotherit is naturally painful to me and my brother Solomonto hear your name made free withand your complaint being such asmay carry you off suddenand people who are no more Featherstonesthan the Merry-Andrew at the fairopenly reckoning on your propertycoming to THEM.  And me your own sisterand Solomon your ownbrother!  And if that's to be itwhat has it pleased theAlmighty to make families for?" Here Mrs. Waule's tears fellbut with moderation.

"Comeout with itJane!" said Mr. Featherstonelooking at her. "Youmean to sayFred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance himmoney on what he says he knows about my willeh?"

"Inever said sobrother" (Mrs. Waule's voice had again become dryand unshaken). "It was told me by my brother Solomon last nightwhen he called coming from market to give me advice about the oldwheatme being a widowand my son John only three-and-twentythough steady beyond anything.  And he had it from mostundeniable authorityand not onebut many."

"Stuffand nonsense!  I don't believe a word of it.  It's all agot-up story.  Go to the windowmissy; I thought I heard ahorse. See if the doctor's coming."

"Notgot up by mebrothernor yet by Solomonwhowhatever else he maybe--and I don't deny he has oddities--has made his will and partedhis property equal between such kin as he's friends with; thoughformy partI think there are times when some should be considered morethan others.  But Solomon makes it no secret what he means todo."

"Themore fool he!" said Mr. Featherstonewith some difficulty;breaking into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth tostand near himso 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 quietRosamond enteredbearing up herriding-habit with much grace.  She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs.Waulewho said stiffly"How do you domiss?" smiled andnodded silently to Maryand remained standing till the coughingshould ceaseand allow her uncle to notice her.

"Heydaymiss!" he said at last"you have a fine color. Where'sFred?"

"Seeingabout the horses.  He will be in presently."

"Sitdownsit down.  Mrs. Wauleyou'd better go."

Even thoseneighbors who had called Peter Featherstone an old foxhad neveraccused him of being insincerely politeand his sister was quiteused to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he marked hissense of blood-relationship. Indeedshe herself was accustomed tothink that entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeablywas included in the Almighty's intentions about families. She roseslowly without any sign of resentmentand said in her usual muffledmonotone"BrotherI hope the new doctor will be able to dosomething for you.  Solomon says there's great talk of hiscleverness.  I'm sure it's my wish you should be spared. Andthere's none more ready to nurse you than your own sister and yourown niecesif you'd only say the word.  There's RebeccaandJoannaand Elizabethyou know."

"AyayI remember--you'll see I've remembered 'em all--all dark andugly.  They'd need have some moneyeh?  There never wasany beauty in the women of our family; but the Featherstones havealways had some moneyand the Waules too.  Waule had money too.A warm man was Waule.  Ayay; money's a good egg; and if you've got money to leave behind youlay it in a warm nest. Good-byMrs. Waule." Here Mr. Featherstone pulled at both sides of hiswig as if he wanted to deafen himselfand his sister went awayruminating on this oracular speech of his.  Notwithstanding herjealousy of the Vincys and of Mary Garththere remained as thenethermost sediment in her mental shallows a persuasion that herbrother Peter Featherstone could never leave his chief property awayfrom his blood-relations:--elsewhy had the Almighty carried off histwo wives both childlessafter he had gained so much by manganeseand thingsturning up when nobody expected it?--and why was there aLowick parish churchand the Waules and Powderells all sit ting inthe same pew for generationsand the Featherstone pew next to themifthe Sunday after her brother Peter's deatheverybody was to knowthat the property was gone out of the family?  The human mindhas at no period accepted a moral chaos; and so preposterous a resultwas not strictly conceivable. But we are frightened at much that isnot strictly conceivable.

When Fredcame in the old man eyed him with a peculiar twinklewhich theyounger had often had reason to interpret as pride in thesatisfactory details of his appearance.

"Youtwo misses go away" said Mr. Featherstone.  "I wantto speak to Fred."

"Comeinto my roomRosamondyou will not mind the cold for a littlewhile" said Mary.  The two girls had not only known eachother in childhoodbut had been at the same provincial schooltogether (Mary as an articled pupil)so that they had many memoriesin commonand liked very well to talk in private.  Indeedthistete-a-tete was one of Rosamond's objects in coming to Stone Court.

OldFeatherstone would not begin the dialogue till the door had beenclosed.  He continued to look at Fred with the same twinkle andwith one of his habitual grimacesalternately screwing and wideninghis mouth; and when he spokeit was in a low tonewhich might betaken for that of an informer ready to be bought offrather than forthe tone of an offended senior.  He was not a man to feel anystrong moral indignation even on account of trespasses againsthimself.  It was natural that others should want to get anadvantage over himbut thenhe was a little too cunning for them.

"Sosiryou've been paying ten per cent for money which you've promisedto pay off by mortgaging my land when I'm dead and goneeh? You put my life at a twelvemonthsay.  But I can alter my willyet."

Fredblushed.  He had not borrowed money in that wayfor excellentreasons.  But he was conscious of having spoken with someconfidence (perhaps with more than he exactly remembered) about hisprospect of getting Featherstone's land as a future means of payingpresent debts.

"Idon't know what you refer tosir.  I have certainly neverborrowed any money on such an insecurity.  Please to explain."

"Nosirit's you must explain.  I can alter my will yetlet metell you.  I'm of sound mind--can reckon compound interest in myheadand remember every fool's name as well as I could twenty yearsago. What the deuce?  I'm under eighty.  I sayyou mustcontradict this story."

"Ihave contradicted itsir" Fred answeredwith a touch ofimpatiencenot remembering that his uncle did not verballydiscriminate contradicting from disprovingthough no one was furtherfrom confounding the two ideas than old Featherstonewho oftenwondered that so many fools took his own assertions for proofs. "ButI contradict it again.  The story is a silly lie."

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

"Namethe authorityand make him name the man of whom I borrowed themoneyand then I can disprove the story."

"It'spretty good authorityI think--a man who knows most of what goes onin Middlemarch.  It's that finereligiouscharitable uncle o'yours.  Come now!" Here Mr. Featherstone had his peculiarinward shake which signified merriment.

"Mr.Bulstrode?"

"Whoelseeh?"

"Thenthe story has grown into this lie out of some sermonizing words hemay have let fall about me.  Do they pretend that he named theman who lent me the money?"

"Ifthere is such a mandepend upon it Bulstrode knows him. Butsupposing you only tried to get the money lentand didn't getit--Bulstrode 'ud know that too.  You bring me a writing fromBulstrode to say he doesn't believe you've ever promised to pay yourdebts 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 hisfaculties.

Fred felthimself to be in a disgusting dilemma.

"Youmust be jokingsir.  Mr. Bulstrodelike other menbelievesscores of things that are not trueand he has a prejudice againstme. I could easily get him to write that he knew no facts in proof ofthe report you speak ofthough it might lead to unpleasantness. ButI could hardly ask him to write down what he believes or does notbelieve about me." Fred paused an instantand then addedinpolitic appeal to his uncle's vanity"That is hardly a thingfor a gentleman to ask." But he was disappointed in the result.

"AyI know what you mean.  You'd sooner offend me than Bulstrode.And what's he?--he's got no land hereabout that ever I heard tell of.A speckilating fellow!  He may come down any daywhen the devilleaves off backing him.  And that's what his religion means: hewants God A'mighty to come in.  That's nonsense!  There'sone thing I made out pretty clear when I used to go to church--andit's this: God A'mighty sticks to the land.  He promises landand He gives landand He makes chaps rich with corn and cattle. Butyou take the other side.  You like Bulstrode and speckilationbetter than Featherstone and land."

"Ibeg your pardonsir" said Fredrisingstanding with his backto the fire and beating his boot with his whip.  "I likeneither Bulstrode nor speculation." He spoke rather sulkilyfeeling himself stalemated.

"Wellwellyou can do without methat's pretty clear" said oldFeatherstonesecretly disliking the possibility that Fred would showhimself at all independent.  "You neither want a bit ofland to make a squire of you instead of a starving parsonnor a liftof a hundred pound by the way.  It's all one to me. I can makefive codicils if I likeand I shall keep my bank-notes for anest-egg. It's all one to me."

Fredcolored again.  Featherstone had rarely given him presents ofmoneyand at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with theimmediate prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospectof the land.

"I amnot ungratefulsir.  I never meant to show disregard for anykind intentions you might have towards me.  On the contrary."

"Verygood.  Then prove it.  You bring me a letter from Bulstrodesaying he doesn't believe you've been cracking and promising to payyour debts out o' my landand thenif there's any scrape you've gotintowe'll see if I can't back you a bit. Come now!  That's abargain.  Heregive me your arm.  I'll try and walk roundthe room."

Fredinspite of his irritationhad kindness enough in him to be a littlesorry for the unlovedunvenerated old manwho with his dropsicallegs looked more than usually pitiable in walking. While giving hisarmhe thought that he should not himself like to be an old fellowwith his constitution breaking up; and he waited good-temperedlyfirst before the window to hear the wonted remarks about theguinea-fowls and the weather-cockand then before the scantybook-shelvesof which the chief glories in dark calf were JosephusCulpepperKlopstock's "Messiah" and several volumes ofthe "Gentleman's Magazine."

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

Fred gavehim the titles.

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

"Theyamuse hersir.  She is very fond of reading."

"Alittle too fond" said Mr. Featherstonecaptiously.  "Shewas for reading when she sat with me.  But I put a stop to that.She's got the newspaper to read out loud.  That's enough for onedayI should think.  I can't abide to see her reading toherself. You mind and not bring her any more booksdo you hear?"

"YessirI hear." Fred had received this order beforeand hadsecretly disobeyed it.  He intended to disobey it again.

"Ringthe bell" said Mr. Featherstone; "I want missy to comedown."

Rosamondand Mary had been talking faster than their male friends. They didnot think of sitting downbut stood at the toilet-table near thewindow while Rosamond took off her hatadjusted her veilandapplied little touches of her finger-tips to her hair--hair ofinfantine fairnessneither flaxen nor yellow.  Mary Garthseemed all the plainer standing at an angle between the twonymphs--the one in the glassand the one out of itwho looked ateach other with eyes of heavenly bluedeep enough to hold the mostexquisite meanings an ingenious beholder could put into themanddeep enough to hide the meanings of the owner if these should happento be less exquisite.  Only a few children in Middlemarch lookedblond by the side of Rosamondand the slim figure displayed by herriding-habit had delicate undulations.  In factmost men inMiddlemarchexcept her brothersheld that Miss Vincy was the bestgirl in the worldand some called her an angel.  Mary Garthonthe contraryhad the aspect of an ordinary sinner: she was brown;her curly dark hair was rough and stubborn; her stature was low; andit would not be true to declarein satisfactory antithesisthat shehad all the virtues.  Plainness has its peculiar temptations andvices quite as much as beauty; it is apt either to feign amiabilityornot feigning itto show all the repulsive ness of discontent: atany rateto be called an ugly thing in contrast with that lovelycreature your companionis apt to produce some effect beyond a senseof fine veracity and fitness in the phrase. At the age oftwo-and-twenty Mary had certainly not attained that perfect goodsense and good principle which are usually recommended to the lessfortunate girlas if they were to be obtained in quantities readymixedwith a flavor of resignation as required. Her shrewdness had astreak of satiric bitterness continually renewed and never carriedutterly out of sightexcept by a strong current of gratitude towardsthose whoinstead of telling her that she ought to be contenteddidsomething to make her so. Advancing womanhood had tempered herplainnesswhich was of a good human sortsuch as the mothers of ourrace have very commonly worn in all latitudes under a more or lessbecoming headgear. Rembrandt would have painted her with pleasureand would have made her broad features look out of the canvas withintelligent honesty. For honestytruth-telling fairnesswas Mary'sreigning virtue: she neither tried to create illusionsnor indulgedin them for her own behoofand when she was in a good mood she hadhumor enough in her to laugh at herself.  When she and Rosamondhappened both to be reflected in the glassshe saidlaughingly--

"Whata brown patch I am by the side of youRosy!  You are the mostunbecoming companion."

"Ohno!  No one thinks of your appearanceyou are so sensible andusefulMary.  Beauty is of very little consequence in reality"said Rosamondturning her head towards Marybut with eyes swervingtowards the new view of her neck in the glass.

"Youmean my beauty" said Maryrather sardonically.

Rosamondthought"Poor Maryshe takes the kindest things ill."Aloud she said"What have you been doing lately?"

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

"Itis a wretched life for you."

"No"said Marycurtlywith a little toss of her head.  "Ithink my life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan's."

"Yes;but Miss Morgan is so uninterestingand not young."

"Sheis interesting to herselfI suppose; and I am not at all sure thateverything gets easier as one gets older."

"No"said Rosamondreflectively; "one wonders what such people dowithout any prospect.  To be surethere is religion as asupport. But" she addeddimpling"it is very differentwith you'Mary. You may have an offer."

"Hasany one told you he means to make me one?"

"Ofcourse not.  I meanthere is a gentleman who may fall in lovewith youseeing you almost every day."

A certainchange in Mary's face was chiefly determined by the resolve not toshow any change.

"Doesthat always make people fall in love?" she answeredcarelessly;"it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting eachother."

"Notwhen they are interesting and agreeable.  I hear that Mr.Lydgate is both."

"OhMr. Lydgate!" said Marywith an unmistakable lapse intoindifference.  "You want to know something about him"she addednot choosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness.

"Merelyhow you like him."

"Thereis no question of liking at present.  My liking always wantssome little kindness to kindle it.  I am not magnanimous enoughto like people who speak to me without seeming to see me."

"Ishe so haughty?" said Rosamondwith heightened satisfaction."You know that he is of good family?"

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

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

"Howcan one describe a man?  I can give you an inventory: heavyeyebrowsdark eyesa straight nosethick dark hairlarge solidwhite hands--and--let me see--ohan exquisite cambricpocket-handkerchief. But you will see him.  You know this isabout the time of his visits."

Rosamondblushed a littlebut saidmeditatively"I rather like ahaughty manner.  I cannot endure a rattling young man."

"Idid not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pourtous les goutsas little Mamselle used to sayand if any girl canchoose the particular sort of conceit she would likeI should thinkit is youRosy."

"Haughtinessis not conceit; I call Fred conceited."

"Iwish no one said any worse of him.  He should be more careful.Mrs. Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady."Mary spoke from a girlish impulse which got the better of herjudgment. There was a vague uneasiness associated with the word"unsteady" which she hoped Rosamond might say something todissipate. But she purposely abstained from mentioning Mrs. Waule'smore special insinuation.

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

"Whatdo you mean by horrid?"

"Heis so idleand makes papa so angryand says he will not takeorders."

"Ithink Fred is quite right."

"Howcan you say he is quite rightMary?  I thought you had moresense of religion."

"Heis not fit to be a clergyman."

"Buthe ought to be fit."--"Wellthenhe is not what he oughtto be. I know some other people who are in the same case."

"Butno one approves of them.  I should not like to marry aclergyman; but there must be clergymen."

"Itdoes not follow that Fred must be one."

"Butwhen papa has been at the expense of educating him for it! And onlysupposeif he should have no fortune left him?"

"Ican suppose that very well" said Marydryly.

"ThenI wonder you can defend Fred" said Rosamondinclined to pushthis point.

"Idon't defend him" said Marylaughing; "I would defend anyparish from having him for a clergyman."

"Butof course if he were a clergymanhe must be different."

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

"Itis of no use saying anything to youMary.  You always takeFred's part."

"Whyshould I not take his part?" said Marylighting up. "Hewould take mine.  He is the only person who takes the leasttrouble to oblige me."

"Youmake me feel very uncomfortableMary" said Rosamondwith hergravest mildness; "I would not tell mamma for the world."

"Whatwould you not tell her?" said Maryangrily.

"Praydo not go into a rageMary" said Rosamondmildly as ever.

"Ifyour mamma is afraid that Fred will make me an offertell her that Iwould not marry him if he asked me.  But he is not going to dosothat I am aware.  He certainly never has asked me."

"Maryyou are always so violent."

"Andyou are always so exasperating."

"I? What can you blame me for?"

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

"Idid not mean to quarrel" said Rosamondputting on her hat.

"Quarrel? Nonsense; we have not quarrelled.  If one is not to get into arage sometimeswhat is the good of being friends?"

"Am Ito repeat what you have said?" "Just as you please.  Inever say what I am afraid of having repeated.  But let us godown."

Mr.Lydgate was rather late this morningbut the visitors stayed longenough to see him; for Mr. Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing tohimand she herself was-so kind as to propose a second favorite songof his--"Flow onthou shining river"--after she had sung"Homesweet home" (which she detested). This hard-headedold Overreach approved of the sentimental songas the suitablegarnish for girlsand also as fundamentally finesentiment beingthe right thing for a song.

Mr.Featherstone was still applauding the last performanceand assuringmissy that her voice was as clear as a blackbird'swhen Mr.Lydgate's horse passed the window.

His dullexpectation of the usual disagreeable routine with an agedpatient--who can hardly believe that medicine would not "set himup" if the doctor were only clever enough--added to his generaldisbelief in Middlemarch charmsmade a doubly effective backgroundto this vision of Rosamondwhom old Featherstone made hasteostentatiously to introduce as his niecethough he had never thoughtit worth while to speak of Mary Garth in that light.  Nothingescaped Lydgate in Rosamond's graceful behavior: how delicately shewaived the notice which the old man's want of taste had thrust uponher by a quiet gravitynot showing her dimples on the wrongoccasionbut showing them afterwards in speaking to Maryto whomshe addressed herself with so much good-natured interestthatLydgateafter quickly examining Mary more fully than he had donebeforesaw an adorable kindness in Rosamond's eyes.  But Maryfrom some cause looked rather out of temper.

"MissRosy has been singing me a song--you've nothing to say against thatehdoctor?" said Mr. Featherstone.  "I like it betterthan your physic."

"Thathas made me forget how the time was going" said Rosamondrising to reach her hatwhich she had laid aside before singingsothat her flower-like head on its white stem was seen in perfectionabove-her riding-habit. "Fredwe must really go."

"Verygood" said Fredwho had his own reasons for not being in thebest spiritsand wanted to get away.

"MissVincy is a musician?" said Lydgatefollowing 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 ofparts that entered into her physique: she even acted her owncharacterand so wellthat she did not know it to be precisely herown.)

"Thebest in MiddlemarchI'll be bound" said Mr. Featherstone"letthe next be who she will.  EhFred?  Speak up for yoursister."

"I'mafraid I'm out of courtsir.  My evidence would be good fornothing."

"Middlemarchhas not a very high standarduncle" said Rosamondwith apretty lightnessgoing towards her whipwhich lay at a distance.

Lydgatewas quick in anticipating her.  He reached the whip before shedidand turned to present it to her.  She bowed and looked athim: he of course was looking at herand their eyes met with thatpeculiar meeting which is never arrived at by effortbut seems likea sudden divine clearance of haze. I think Lydgate turned a littlepaler than usualbut Rosamond blushed deeply and felt a certainastonishment.  After thatshe was really anxious to goand didnot know what sort of stupidity her uncle was talking of when shewent to shake hands with him.

Yet thisresultwhich she took to be a mutual impressioncalled falling inlovewas just what Rosamond had contemplated beforehand. Ever sincethat important new arrival in Middlemarch she had woven a littlefutureof which something like this scene was the necessarybeginning.  Strangerswhether wrecked and clinging to a raftor duly escorted and accompanied by portmanteaushave always had acircumstantial fascination for the virgin mindagainst which nativemerit has urged itself in vain.  And a stranger was absolutelynecessary to Rosamond's social romancewhich had always turned on alover and bridegroom who was not a Middlemarcherand who had noconnections at all like her own: of lateindeedthe constructionseemed to demand that he should somehow be related to a baronet. Now that she and the stranger had metreality proved much moremoving than anticipationand Rosamond could not doubt that this wasthe great epoch of her life. She judged of her own symptoms as thoseof awakening loveand she held it still more natural that Mr.Lydgate should have fallen in love at first sight of her.  Thesethings happened so often at ballsand why not by the morning lightwhen the complexion showed all the better for it?  Rosamondthough no older than Marywas rather used to being fallen in lovewith; but shefor her parthad remained indifferent andfastidiously critical towards both fresh sprig and faded bachelor. And here was Mr. Lydgate suddenly corresponding to her idealbeingaltogether foreign to Middlemarchcarrying a certain air ofdistinction congruous with good familyand possessing connectionswhich offered vistas of that middle-class heavenrank: a man oftalentalsowhom it would be especially delightful to enslave: infacta man who had touched her nature quite newlyand brought avivid interest into her life which was better than any fancied"might-be" such as she was in the habit of opposing to theactual.

Thusinriding homeboth the brother and the sister were preoccupied andinclined to be silent.  Rosamondwhose basis for her structurehad the usual airy slightnesswas of remarkably detailed andrealistic imagination when the foundation had been once presupposed;and before they had ridden a mile she was far on in the costume andintroductions of her wedded lifehaving determined on her house inMiddle-marchand foreseen the visits she would pay to her husband'shigh-bred relatives at a distancewhose finished manners she couldappropriate as thoroughly as she had done her school accomplishmentspreparing herself thus for vaguer elevations which might ultimatelycome.  There was nothing financialstill less sordidin herprevisions: she cared about what were considered refinementsand notabout the money that was to pay for them.

Fred'smindon the other handwas 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 himand would be still more so if hewere the occasion of any additional coolness between his own familyand the Bulstrodes.  Thenhe himself hated having to go andspeak to his uncle Bulstrodeand perhaps after drinking wine he hadsaid many foolish things about Featherstone's propertyand these hadbeen magnified by report.  Fred felt that he made a wretchedfigure as a fellow who bragged about expectations from a queer oldmiser like Featherstoneand went to beg for certificates at hisbidding.  But--those expectations!  He really had themandhe saw no agreeable alternative if he gave them up; besideshe hadlately made a debt which galled him extremelyand old Featherstonehad almost bargained to pay it off.  The whole affair wasmiserably small: his debts were smalleven his expectations were notanything so very magnificent.  Fred had known men to whom hewould have been ashamed of confessing the smallness of his scrapes.Such ruminations naturally produced a streak of misanthropicbitterness. To be born the son of a Middlemarch manufacturerandinevitable heir to nothing in particularwhile such men asMainwaring and Vyan--certainly life was a poor businesswhen aspirited young fellowwith a good appetite for the best ofeverythinghad so poor an outlook.

It had notoccurred to Fred that the introduction of Bulstrode's name in thematter was a fiction of old Featherstone's; nor could this have madeany difference to his position.  He saw plainly enough that theold man wanted to exercise his power by tormenting him a littleandalso probably to get some satisfaction out of seeing him onunpleasant terms with Bulstrode.  Fred fancied that he saw tothe bottom of his uncle Featherstone's soulthough in reality halfwhat he saw there was no more than the reflex of his owninclinations. The difficult task of knowing another soul is not foryoung gentlemen whose consciousness is chiefly made up of their ownwishes.

Fred'smain point of debate with himself waswhether he should tell hisfatheror try to get through the affair without his father'sknowledge.  It was probably Mrs. Waule who had been talkingabout him; and if Mary Garth had repeated Mrs. Waule's report toRosamondit would be sure to reach his fatherwho would as surelyquestion him about it.  He said to Rosamondas they slackenedtheir pace--

"Rosydid Mary tell you that Mrs. Waule had said anything about me?"

"Yesindeedshe did."

"What?"

"Thatyou were very unsteady."

"Wasthat all?"

"Ishould think that was enoughFred."

"Youare sure she said no more?"

"Marymentioned nothing else.  But reallyFredI think you ought tobe ashamed."

"Ohfudge!  Don't lecture me.  What did Mary say about it?"

"I amnot obliged to tell you.  You care so very much what Mary saysand you are too rude to allow me to speak."

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

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

"Howdo you know what men would fall in love with?  Girls neverknow."

"AtleastFredlet me advise YOU not to fall in love with herfor shesays she would not marry you if you asked her."

"Shemight have waited till I did ask her."

"Iknew it would nettle youFred."

"Notat all.  She would not have said so if you had not provokedher." Before reaching homeFred concluded that he would tellthe whole affair as simply as possible to his fatherwho mightperhaps take on himself the unpleasant business of speaking toBulstrode.

BOOK II

OLD ANDYOUNG

CHAPTERXIII

  1st Gent. How class your man?--as better than the most
  Orseeming betterworse beneath that cloak?
   Assaint or knavepilgrim or hypocrite?
     2dGent.  Naytell me how you class your wealth of books
  The drifted relics of all time.
   As well sort them atonce by size and livery:
   Vellumtall copiesand thecommon calf
     Will hardly cover morediversity
   Than all your labels cunningly devised
  To class your unread authors.

Inconsequence of what he had heard from FredMr. Vincy determined tospeak with Mr. Bulstrode in his private room at the Bank at half-pastonewhen he was usually free from other callers. But a visitor hadcome in at one o'clockand Mr. Bulstrode had so much to say to himthat there was little chance of the interview being over in half anhour.  The banker's speech was fluentbut it was also copiousand he used up an appreciable amount of time in brief meditativepauses.  Do not imagine his sickly aspect to have been of theyellowblack-haired sort:  he had a pale blond skinthingray-besprinkled brown hairlight-gray eyesand a large forehead. Loud men called his subdued tone an undertoneand sometimes impliedthat it was inconsistent with openness; though there seems to be noreason why a loud man should not be given to concealment of anythingexcept his own voiceunless it can be shown that Holy Writ hasplaced the seat of candor in the lungs. Mr. Bulstrode had also adeferential bending attitude in listeningand an apparently fixedattentiveness in his eyes which made those persons who thoughtthemselves worth hearing infer that he was seeking the utmostimprovement from their discourse.  Otherswho expected to makeno great figuredisliked this kind of moral lantern turned on them. If you are not proud of your cellarthere is no thrill ofsatisfaction in seeing your guest hold up his wine-glass to the lightand look judicial.  Such joys are reserved for conscious merit.Hence Mr. Bulstrode's close attention was not agreeable to thepublicans and sinners in Middlemarch; it was attributed by some tohis being a Phariseeand by others to his being Evangelical. Lesssuperficial reasoners among them wished to know who his father andgrandfather wereobserving that five-and-twenty years ago nobody hadever heard of a Bulstrode in Middlemarch.  To his presentvisitorLydgatethe scrutinizing look was a matter of indifference:he simply formed an unfavorable opinion of the banker's constitutionand concluded that he had an eager inward life with little enjoymentof tangible things.

"Ishall be exceedingly obliged if you will look in on me hereoccasionallyMr. Lydgate" the banker observedafter a briefpause. "Ifas I dare to hopeI have the privilege of findingyou a valuable coadjutor in the interesting matter of hospitalmanagementthere will be many questions which we shall need todiscuss in private.  As to the new hospitalwhich is nearlyfinishedI shall consider what you have said about the advantages ofthe special destination for fevers.  The decision will rest withmefor though Lord Medlicote has given the land and timber for thebuildinghe is not disposed to give his personal attention to theobject."

"Thereare few things better worth the pains in a provincial town likethis" said Lydgate.  "A fine fever hospital inaddition to the old infirmary might be the nucleus of a medicalschool herewhen once we get our medical reforms; and what would domore for medical education than the spread of such schools over thecountry? A born provincial man who has a grain of public spirit aswell as a few ideasshould do what he can to resist the rush ofeverything that is a little better than common towards London. Any valid professional aims may often find a freerif not a richerfieldin the provinces."

One ofLydgate's gifts was a voice habitually deep and sonorousyet capableof becoming very low and gentle at the right moment. About hisordinary bearing there was a certain flinga fearless expectation ofsuccessa confidence in his own powers and integrity much fortifiedby contempt for petty obstacles or seductions of which he had had noexperience.  But this proud openness was made lovable by anexpression of unaffected good-will. Mr. Bulstrode perhaps liked himthe better for the difference between them in pitch and manners; hecertainly liked him the betteras Rosamond didfor being a strangerin Middlemarch.  One can begin so many things with a newperson!-- even begin to be a better man.

"Ishall rejoice to furnish your zeal with fuller opportunities"Mr. Bulstrode answered; "I meanby confiding to you thesuperintendence of my new hospitalshould a maturer knowledge favorthat issuefor I am determined that so great an object shall not beshackled by our two physicians.  IndeedI am encouraged toconsider your advent to this town as a gracious indication that amore manifest blessing is now to be awarded to my effortswhich havehitherto been much with stood.  With regard to the oldinfirmarywe have gained the initial point--I mean your election. And now I hope you will not shrink from incurring a certain amount ofjealousy and dislike from your professional brethren by presentingyourself as a reformer."

"Iwill not profess bravery" said Lydgatesmiling"but Iacknowledge a good deal of pleasure in fightingand I should notcare for my professionif I did not believe that better methods wereto be found and enforced there as well as everywhere else."

"Thestandard of that profession is low in Middlemarchmy dear sir"said the banker.  "I mean in knowledge and skill; not insocial statusfor our medical men are most of them connected withrespectable townspeople here.  My own imperfect health hasinduced me to give some attention to those palliative resources whichthe divine mercy has placed within our reach.  I have consultedeminent men in the metropolisand I am painfully aware of thebackwardness under which medical treatment labors in our provincialdistricts."

"Yes;--withour present medical rules and educationone must be satisfied nowand then to meet with a fair practitioner. As to all the higherquestions which determine the starting-point of a diagnosis--as tothe philosophy of medial evidence--any glimmering of these can onlycome from a scientific culture of which country practitioners haveusually no more notion than the man in the moon."

Mr.Bulstrodebending and looking intentlyfound the form which Lydgatehad given to his agreement not quite suited to his comprehension. Under such circumstances a judicious man changes the topic and enterson ground where his own gifts may be more useful.

"I amaware" he said"that the peculiar bias of medical abilityis towards material means.  NeverthelessMr. LydgateI hope weshall not vary in sentiment as to a measure in which you are notlikely to be actively concernedbut in which your sympatheticconcurrence may be an aid to me.  You recognizeI hope; theexistence of spiritual interests in your patients?"

"CertainlyI do.  But those words are apt to cover different meanings todifferent minds."

"Precisely. And on such subjects wrong teaching is as fatal as no teaching. Now a point which I have much at heart to secure is a new regulationas to clerical attendance at the old infirmary. The building standsin Mr. Farebrother's parish.  You know Mr. Farebrother?"

"Ihave seen him.  He gave me his vote.  I must call to thankhim. He seems a very bright pleasant little fellow.  And Iunderstand he is a naturalist."

"Mr.Farebrothermy dear siris a man deeply painful to contemplate. Isuppose there is not a clergyman in this country who has greatertalents."  Mr. Bulstrode paused and looked meditative.

"Ihave not yet been pained by finding any excessive talent inMiddlemarch" said Lydgatebluntly.

"WhatI desire" Mr. Bulstrode continuedlooking still more serious"is that Mr. Farebrother's attendance at the hospital should besuperseded by the appointment of a chaplain--of Mr. Tykein fact--and that no other spiritual aid should be called in."

"As amedial man I could have no opinion on such a point unless I knew Mr.Tykeand even then I should require to know the cases in which hewas applied."  Lydgate smiledbut he was bent on beingcircumspect.

"Ofcourse you cannot enter fully into the merits of this measure atpresent.  But"--here Mr. Bulstrode began to speak with amore chiselled emphasis--"the subject is likely to be referredto the medical board of the infirmaryand what I trust I may ask ofyou isthat in virtue of the cooperation between us which I now lookforward toyou will notso far as you are concernedbe influencedby my opponents in this matter."

"Ihope I shall have nothing to do with clerical disputes" saidLydgate. "The path I have chosen is to work well in my ownprofession."

"MyresponsibilityMr. Lydgateis of a broader kind. With meindeedthis question is one of sacred accountableness; whereas with myopponentsI have good reason to say that it is an occasion forgratifying a spirit of worldly opposition. But I shall not thereforedrop one iota of my convictionsor cease to identify myself withthat truth which an evil generation hates. I have devoted myself tothis object of hospital-improvementbut I will boldly confess toyouMr. Lydgatethat I should have no interest in hospitals if Ibelieved that nothing more was concerned therein than the cure ofmortal diseases.  I have another ground of actionand in theface of persecution I will not conceal it."

Mr.Bulstrode's voice had become a loud and agitated whisper as he saidthe last words.

"Therewe certainly differ" said Lydgate.  But he was not sorrythat the door was now openedand Mr. Vincy was announced. Thatflorid sociable personage was become more interesting to him since hehad seen Rosamond.  Not thatlike herhe had been weaving anyfuture in which their lots were united; but a man naturally remembersa charming girl with pleasureand is willing to dine where he maysee her again.  Before he took leaveMr. Vincy had given thatinvitation which he had been "in no hurry about" forRosamond at breakfast had mentioned that she thought her uncleFeatherstone had taken the new doctor into great favor.

Mr.Bulstrodealone with his brother-in-lawpoured himself out a glassof waterand opened a sandwich-box.

"Icannot persuade you to adopt my regimenVincy?"

"Nono; I've no opinion of that system.  Life wants padding"said Mr. Vincyunable to omit his portable theory.  "However"he went onaccenting the wordas if to dismiss all irrelevance"what I came here to talk about was a little affair of my youngscapegraceFred's."

"Thatis a subject on which you and I are likely to take quite as differentviews as on dietVincy."

"Ihope not this time."  (Mr. Vincy was resolved to begood-humored.) "The fact isit's about a whim of oldFeatherstone's. Somebody has been cooking up a story out of spiteand telling it to the old manto try to set him against Fred. He's very fond of Fredand is likely to do something handsome forhim; indeed he has as good as told Fred that he means to leave himhis landand that makes other people jealous."

"VincyI must repeatthat you will not get any concurrence from me as tothe course you have pursued with your eldest son.  It wasentirely from worldly vanity that you destined him for the Church:with a family of three sons and four daughtersyou were notwarranted in devoting money to an expensive education which hassucceeded in nothing but in giving him extravagant idle habits. Youare now reaping the consequences."

To pointout other people's errors was a duty that Mr. Bulstrode rarely shrankfrombut Mr. Vincy was not equally prepared to be patient. When aman has the immediate prospect of being mayorand is readyin theinterests of commerceto take up a firm attitude on politicsgenerallyhe has naturally a sense of his importance to theframework of things which seems to throw questions of private conductinto the background.  And this particular reproof irritated himmore than any other.  It was eminently superfluous to him to betold that he was reaping the consequences.  But he felt his neckunder Bulstrode's yoke; and though he usually enjoyed kickinghe wasanxious to refrain from that relief.

"Asto thatBulstrodeit's no use going back.  I'm not one of yourpattern menand I don't pretend to be.  I couldn't foreseeeverything in the trade; there wasn't a finer business in Middlemarchthan oursand the lad was clever.  My poor brother was in theChurchand would have done well--had got preferment alreadybutthat stomach fever took him off:  else he might have been a deanby this time.  I think I was justified in what I tried to do forFred.  If you come to religionit seems to me a man shouldn'twant to carve out his meat to an ounce beforehand:--one must trust alittle to Providence and be generous. It's a good British feeling totry and raise your family a little: in my opinionit's a father'sduty to give his sons a fine chance."

"Idon't wish to act otherwise than as your best friendVincywhen Isay that what you have been uttering just now is one mass ofworldliness and inconsistent folly."

"Verywell" said Mr. Vincykicking in spite of resolutions"Inever professed to be anything but worldly; andwhat's moreI don'tsee anybody else who is not worldly.  I suppose you don'tconduct business on what you call unworldly principles. The onlydifference I see is that one worldliness is a little bit honesterthan another."

"Thiskind of discussion is unfruitfulVincy" said Mr. Bulstrodewhofinishing his sandwichhad thrown himself back in his chairand shaded his eyes as if weary.  "You had some moreparticular business."

"Yesyes.  The long and short of it issomebody has told oldFeatherstonegiving you as the authoritythat Fred has beenborrowing or trying to borrow money on the prospect of his land. Ofcourse you never said any such nonsense.  But the old fellowwill insist on it that Fred should bring him a denial in yourhandwriting; that isjust a bit of a note saying you don't believe aword of such stuffeither of his having borrowed or tried to borrowin such a fool's way.  I suppose you can have no objection to dothat."

"Pardonme.  I have an objection.  I am by no means sure that yoursonin his recklessness and ignorance--I will use no severer word--has not tried to raise money by holding out his future prospectsoreven that some one may not have been foolish enough to supply him onso vague a presumption:  there is plenty of such laxmoney-lending as of other folly in the world."

"ButFred gives me his honor that he has never borrowed money on thepretence of any understanding about his uncle's land. He is not aliar.  I don't want to make him better than he is. I have blownhim up well--nobody can say I wink at what he does. But he is not aliar.  And I should have thought--but I may be wrong-- thatthere was no religion to hinder a man from believing the best of ayoung fellowwhen you don't know worse.  It seems to me itwould be a poor sort of religion to put a spoke in his wheel byrefusing to say you don't believe such harm of him as you've got nogood reason to believe."

"I amnot at all sure that I should be befriending your son by smoothinghis way to the future possession of Featherstone's property. I cannotregard wealth as a blessing to those who use it simply as a harvestfor this world.  You do not like to hear these thingsVincybut on this occasion I feel called upon to tell you that I have nomotive for furthering such a disposition of property as that whichyou refer to.  I do not shrink from saying that it will not tendto your son's eternal welfare or to the glory of God. Why then shouldyou expect me to pen this kind of affidavitwhich has no object butto keep up a foolish partiality and secure a foolish bequest?"

"Ifyou mean to hinder everybody from having money but saints andevangelistsyou must give up some profitable partnershipsthat'sall I can say" Mr. Vincy burst out very bluntly. "It maybe for the glory of Godbut it is not for the glory of theMiddlemarch tradethat Plymdale's house uses those blue and greendyes it gets from the Brassing manufactory; they rot the silkthat'sall I know about it.  Perhaps if other people knew so much ofthe profit went to the glory of Godthey might like it better. But Idon't mind so much about that--I could get up a pretty rowif Ichose."

Mr.Bulstrode paused a little before he answered.  "You pain mevery much by speaking in this wayVincy.  I do not expect youto understand my grounds of action--it is not an easy thing even tothread a path for principles in the intricacies of the world-- stillless to make the thread clear for the careless and the scoffing. Youmust rememberif you pleasethat I stretch my tolerance towards youas my wife's brotherand that it little becomes you to complain ofme as withholding material help towards the worldly position of yourfamily.  I must remind you that it is not your own prudence orjudgment that has enabled you to keep your place in the trade."

"Verylikely not; but you have been no loser by my trade yet" saidMr. Vincythoroughly nettled (a result which was seldom muchretarded by previous resolutions). "And when you marriedHarrietI don't see how you could expect that our families shouldnot hang by the same nail.  If you've changed your mindandwant my family to come down in the worldyou'd better say so. I've never changed; I'm a plain Churchman nowjust as I used to bebefore doctrines came up.  I take the world as I find itintrade and everything else. I'm contented to be no worse than myneighbors.  But if you want us to come down in the worldsayso.  I shall know better what to do then."

"Youtalk unreasonably.  Shall you come down in the world for want ofthis letter about your son?"

"Wellwhether or notI consider it very unhandsome of you to refuse it.Such doings may be lined with religionbut outside they have anastydog-in-the-manger look.  You might as well slander Fred:it comes pretty near to it when you refuse to say you didn't set aslander going.  It's this sort of thing---this tyrannicalspiritwanting to play bishop and banker everywhere--it's this sortof thing makes a man's name stink."

"Vincyif you insist on quarrelling with meit will be exceedingly painfulto Harriet as well as myself" said Mr. Bulstrodewith a triflemore eagerness and paleness than usual.

"Idon't want to quarrel.  It's for my interest--and perhaps foryours too--that we should be friends.  I bear you no grudge; Ithink no worse of you than I do of other people.  A man who halfstarves himselfand goes the length in family prayersand so onthat you dobelieves in his religion whatever it may be:  youcould turn over your capital just as fast with cursing andswearing:-- plenty of fellows do.  You like to be masterthere's no denying that; you must be first chop in heavenelse youwon't like it much. But you're my sister's husbandand we ought tostick together; and if I know Harrietshe'll consider it your faultif we quarrel because you strain at a gnat in this wayand refuse todo Fred a good turn.  And I don't mean to say I shall bear itwell.  I consider it unhandsome."

Mr. Vincyrosebegan to button his great-coatand looked steadily at hisbrother-in-lawmeaning to imply a demand for a decisive answer.

This wasnot the first time that Mr. Bulstrode had begun by admonishing Mr.Vincyand had ended by seeing a very unsatisfactory reflection ofhimself in the coarse unflattering mirror which that manufacturer'smind presented to the subtler lights and shadows of his fellow-men;and perhaps his experience ought to have warned him how the scenewould end.  But a full-fed fountain will be generous with itswaters even in the rainwhen they are worse than useless; and a finefount of admonition is apt to be equally irrepressible.

It was notin Mr. Bulstrode's nature to comply directly in consequence ofuncomfortable suggestions.  Before changing his coursehealways needed to shape his motives and bring them into accordancewith his habitual standard.  He saidat last--

"Iwill reflect a littleVincy.  I will mention the subject toHarriet.  I shall probably send you a letter."

"Verywell.  As soon as you canplease.  I hope it will all besettled before I see you to-morrow."

CHAPTERXIV

  "Follows here the strict receipt
   For that sauceto dainty meat
   Named Idlenesswhich many eat
  By preferenceand call it sweet:
   First watch formorselslike a hound
   Mix well with buffetsstirthem round
   With good thick oil of flatteries
  And froth with mean self-lauding lies.
   Serve warm: the vessels you must choose
   To keep it in are deadmen's shoes."

Mr.Bulstrode's consultation of Harriet seemed to have had the effectdesired by Mr. Vincyfor early the next morning a letter came whichFred could carry to Mr. Featherstone as the required testimony.

The oldgentleman was staying in bed on account of the cold weatherand asMary Garth was not to be seen in the sitting-roomFred wentup-stairs immediately and presented the letter to his unclewhopropped up comfortably on a bed-restwas not less able than usual toenjoy his consciousness of wisdom in distrusting and frustratingmankind.  He put on his spectacles to read the letterpursingup his lips and drawing down their corners.

"Underthe circumstances I will not decline to state my conviction-- tchah!what fine words the fellow puts!  He's as fine as anauctioneer-- that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance ofmoney on bequests promised by Mr. Featherstone--promised? who said Ihad ever promised?  I promise nothing--I shall make codicils aslong as I like--and that considering the nature of such a proceedingit is unreasonable to presume that a young man of sense and characterwould attempt it--ahbut the gentleman doesn't say you are a youngman of sense and charactermark you thatsir!--As to my own concernwith any report of such a natureI distinctly affirm that I nevermade any statement to the effect that your son had borrowed money onany property that might accrue to him on Mr. Featherstone's demise--bless my heart! `property'--accrue--demise!  Lawyer Standish isnothing to him.  He couldn't speak finer if he wanted to borrow.Well" Mr. Featherstone here looked over his spectacles at Fredwhile he handed back the letter to him with a contemptuous gesture"you don't suppose I believe a thing because Bulstrode writes itout fineeh?"

Fredcolored.  "You wished to have the lettersir.  Ishould think it very likely that Mr. Bulstrode's denial is as good asthe authority which told you what he denies."

"Everybit.  I never said I believed either one or the other. And nowwhat d' you expect?" said Mr. Featherstonecurtlykeeping onhis spectaclesbut withdrawing his hands under his wraps.

"Iexpect nothingsir."  Fred with difficulty restrainedhimself from venting his irritation.  "I came to bring youthe letter. If you like I will bid you good morning."

"Notyetnot yet.  Ring the bell; I want missy to come."

It was aservant who came in answer to the bell.

"Tellmissy to come!" said Mr. Featherstoneimpatiently.  "Whatbusiness had she to go away?"  He spoke in the same tonewhen Mary came.

"Whycouldn't you sit still here till I told you to go? want my waistcoatnow.  I told you always to put it on the bed."

Mary'seyes looked rather redas if she had been crying.  It was clearthat Mr. Featherstone was in one of his most snappish humors thismorningand though Fred had now the prospect of receiving themuch-needed present of moneyhe would have preferred being free toturn round on the old tyrant and tell him that Mary Garth was toogood to be at his beck.  Though Fred had risen as she enteredthe roomshe had barely noticed himand looked as if her nerveswere quivering with the expectation that something would be thrown ather.  But she never had anything worse than words to dread. Whenshe went to reach the waistcoat from a pegFred went up to her andsaid"Allow me."

"Letit alone!  You bring itmissyand lay it down here" saidMr. Featherstone.  "Now you go away again till I call you"he addedwhen the waistcoat was laid down by him.  It was usualwith him to season his pleasure in showing favor to one person bybeing especially disagreeable to anotherand Mary was always at handto furnish the condiment.  When his own relatives came she wastreated better.  Slowly he took out a bunch of keys from thewaistcoat pocketand slowly he drew forth a tin box which was underthe bed-clothes.

"Youexpect I am going to give you a little fortuneeh?" he saidlooking above his spectacles and pausing in the act of opening thelid.

"Notat allsir.  You were good enough to speak of making me apresent the other dayelseof courseI should not have thought ofthe matter."  But Fred was of a hopeful dispositionand avision had presented itself of a sum just large enough to deliver himfrom a certain anxiety.  When Fred got into debtit alwaysseemed to him highly probable that something or other-- he did notnecessarily conceive what--would come to pass enabling him to pay indue time.  And now that the providential occurrence wasapparently close at handit would have been sheer absurdity to thinkthat the supply would be short of the need:  as absurd as afaith that believed in half a miracle for want of strength to believein a whole one.

Thedeep-veined hands fingered many bank-notes-one after the otherlaying them down flat againwhile Fred leaned back in his chairscorning to look eager.  He held himself to be a gentleman atheartand did not like courting an old fellow for his money. At lastMr. Featherstone eyed him again over his spectacles andpresented him with a little sheaf of notes:  Fred could seedistinctly that there were but fiveas the less significant edgesgaped towards him. But theneach might mean fifty pounds.  Hetook themsaying--

"I amvery much obliged to yousir" and was going to roll them upwithout seeming to think of their value.  But this did not suitMr. Featherstonewho was eying him intently.

"Comedon't you think it worth your while to count 'em?  You takemoney like a lord; I suppose you lose it like one."

"Ithought I was not to look a gift-horse in the mouthsir.  But Ishall be very happy to count them."

Fred wasnot so happyhoweverafter he had counted them.  For theyactually presented the absurdity of being less than his hopefulnesshad decided that they must be.  What can the fitness of thingsmeanif not their fitness to a man's expectations?  Failingthisabsurdity and atheism gape behind him.  The collapse forFred was severe when he found that he held no more than fivetwentiesand his share in the higher education of this country didnot seem to help him. Nevertheless he saidwith rapid changes in hisfair complexion--

"Itis very handsome of yousir."

"Ishould think it is" said Mr. Featherstonelocking his box andreplacing itthen taking off his spectacles deliberatelyand atlengthas if his inward meditation had more deeply convinced himrepeating"I should think it handsome."

"Iassure yousirI am very grateful" said Fredwho had hadtime to recover his cheerful air.

"Soyou ought to be.  You want to cut a figure in the worldand Ireckon Peter Featherstone is the only one you've got to trust to."Here the old man's eyes gleamed with a curiously mingled satisfactionin the consciousness that this smart young fellow relied upon himand that the smart young fellow was rather a fool for doing so.

"Yesindeed:  I was not born to very splendid chances.  Few menhave been more cramped than I have been" said Fredwith somesense of surprise at his own virtueconsidering how hardly he wasdealt with. "It really seems a little too bad to have to ride abroken-winded hunterand see menwhoare not half such good judgesas yourselfable to throw away any amount of money on buying badbargains."

"Wellyou can buy yourself a fine hunter now.  Eighty pound is enoughfor thatI reckon--and you'll have twenty pound over to get yourselfout of any little scrape" said Mr. Featherstonechucklingslightly.

"Youare very goodsir" said Fredwith a fine sense of contrastbetween the words and his feeling.

"Ayrather a better uncle than your fine uncle Bulstrode. You won't getmuch out of his spekilationsI think.  He's got a pretty strongstring round your father's legby what I heareh?"

"Myfather never tells me anything about his affairssir."

"Wellhe shows some sense there.  But other people find 'em outwithout his telling.  HE'LL never have much to leave you: he'llmost-like die without a will--he's the sort of man to do it-- let 'emmake him mayor of Middlemarch as much as they like. But you won't getmuch by his dying without a willthough you ARE the eldest son."

Fredthought that Mr. Featherstone had never been so disagreeable before. Truehe had never before given him quite so much money at once.

"ShallI destroy this letter of Mr. Bulstrode'ssir?" said Fredrising with the letter as if he would put it in the fire.

"AyayI don't want it.  It's worth no money to me."

Fredcarried the letter to the fireand thrust the poker through it withmuch zest.  He longed to get out of the roombut he was alittle ashamed before his inner selfas well as before his uncletorun away immediately after pocketing the money.  Presentlythefarm-bailiff came up to give his master a reportand Fredto hisunspeakable reliefwas dismissed with the injunction to come againsoon.

He hadlonged not only to be set free from his unclebut also to find MaryGarth.  She was now in her usual place by the firewith sewingin her hands and a book open on the little table by her side. Her eyelids had lost some of their redness nowand she had her usualair of self-command.

"Am Iwanted up-stairs?" she saidhalf rising as Fred entered.

"No;I am only dismissedbecause Simmons is gone up."

Mary satdown againand resumed her work.  She was certainly treatinghim with more indifference than usual:  she did not know howaffectionately indignant he had felt on her behalf up-stairs.

"MayI stay here a littleMaryor shall I bore you?"

"Praysit down" said Mary; "you will not be so heavy a bore asMr. John Waulewho was here yesterdayand he sat down withoutasking my leave."

"Poorfellow!  I think he is in love with you."

"I amnot aware of it.  And to me it is one of the most odious thingsin a girl's lifethat there must always be some supposition offalling in love coming between her and any man who is kind to herand to whom she is grateful.  I should have thought that Iatleastmight have been safe from all that.  I have no ground forthe nonsensical vanity of fancying everybody who comes near me is inlove with me."

Mary didnot mean to betray any feelingbut in spite of herself she ended ina tremulous tone of vexation.

"ConfoundJohn Waule!  I did not mean to make you angry.  I didn'tknow you had any reason for being grateful to me.  I forgot whata great service you think it if any one snuffs a candle for you. Fredalso had his prideand was not going to show that he knew what hadcalled forth this outburst of Mary's.

"OhI am not angryexcept with the ways of the world.  I do like tobe spoken to as if I had common-sense. I really often feel as if Icould understand a little more than I ever hear even from younggentlemen who have been to college."  Mary had recoveredand she spoke with a suppressed rippling under-current of laughterpleasant to hear.

"Idon't care how merry you are at my expense this morning" saidFred"I thought you looked so sad when you came up-stairs. Itis a shame you should stay here to be bullied in that way."

"OhI have an easy life--by comparison.  I have tried being ateacherand I am not fit for that:  my mind is too fond ofwandering on its own way.  I think any hardship is better thanpretending to do what one is paid forand never really doing it. Everything here I can do as well as any one else could; perhapsbetter than some--Rosyfor example.  Though she is just thesort of beautiful creature that is imprisoned with ogres in fairytales."

"ROSY!"cried Fredin a tone of profound brotherly scepticism.

"ComeFred!" said Maryemphatically; "you have no right to be socritical."

"Doyou mean anything particular--just now?"

"NoI mean something general--always."

"Ohthat I am idle and extravagant.  WellI am not fit to be a poorman.  I should not have made a bad fellow if I had been rich."

"Youwould have done your duty in that state of life to which it has notpleased God to call you" said Marylaughing.

"WellI couldn't do my duty as a clergymanany more than you could doyours as a governess.  You ought to have a little fellow-feelingthereMary."

"Inever said you ought to be a clergyman.  There are other sortsof work.  It seems to me very miserable not to resolve on somecourse and act accordingly."

"So Icouldif--" Fred broke offand stood upleaning against themantel-piece.

"Ifyou were sure you should not have a fortune?"

"Idid not say that.  You want to quarrel with me.  It is toobad of you to be guided by what other people say about me."

"Howcan I want to quarrel with you?  I should be quarrelling withall my new books" said Marylifting the volume on the table."However naughty you may be to other peopleyou are good tome."

"BecauseI like you better than any one else.  But I know you despiseme."

"YesI do--a little" said Marynoddingwith a smile.

"Youwould admire a stupendous fellowwho would have wise opinions abouteverything."

"YesI should."  Mary was sewing swiftlyand seemed provokinglymistress of the situation.  When a conversation has taken awrong turn for uswe only get farther and farther into the swamp ofawkwardness. This was what Fred Vincy felt.

"Isuppose a woman is never in love with any one she has always known--ever since she can remember; as a man often is.  It is alwayssome new fellow who strikes a girl."

"Letme see" said Marythe corners of her mouth curling archly; "Imust go back on my experience.  There is Juliet--she seems anexample of what you say.  But then Ophelia had probably knownHamlet a long while; and Brenda Troil--she had known Mordaunt Mertonever since they were children; but then he seems to have been anestimable young man; and Minna was still more deeply in love withClevelandwho was a stranger.  Waverley was new to FloraMacIvor; but then she did not fall in love with him.  And thereare Olivia and Sophia Primroseand Corinne--they may be said to havefallen in love with new men.  Altogethermy experience israther mixed."

Marylooked up with some roguishness at Fredand that look of hers wasvery dear to himthough the eyes were nothing more than clearwindows where observation sat laughingly.  He was certainly anaffectionate fellowand as he had grown from boy to manhe hadgrown in love with his old playmatenotwithstanding that share inthe higher education of the country which had exalted his views ofrank and income.

"Whena man is not lovedit is no use for him to say that he could be abetter fellow--could do anything--I meanif he were sure of beingloved in return."

"Notof the least use in the world for him to say he COULD be better. Mightcouldwould--they are contemptible auxiliaries."

"Idon't see how a man is to be good for much unless he has some onewoman to love him dearly."

"Ithink the goodness should come before he expects that."

"Youknow betterMary.  Women don't love men for their goodness."

"Perhapsnot.  But if they love themthey never think them bad."

"Itis hardly fair to say I am bad."

"Isaid nothing at all about you."

"Inever shall be good for anythingMaryif you will not say that youlove me--if you will not promise to marry me--I meanwhen I am ableto marry."

"If Idid love youI would not marry you:  I would certainly notpromise ever to marry you."

"Ithink that is quite wickedMary.  If you love meyou ought topromise to marry me."

"Onthe contraryI think it would be wicked in me to marry you even if Idid love you."

"Youmeanjust as I amwithout any means of maintaining a wife. Ofcourse:  I am but three-and-twenty."

"Inthat last point you will alter.  But I am not so sure of anyother alteration.  My father says an idle man ought not toexistmuch lessbe married."

"ThenI am to blow my brains out?"

"No;on the whole I should think you would do better to pass yourexamination.  I have heard Mr. Farebrother say it isdisgracefully easy."

"Thatis all very fine.  Anything is easy to him.  Not thatcleverness has anything to do with it.  I am ten times clevererthan many men who pass."

"Dearme!" said Maryunable to repress her sarcasm; "thataccounts for the curates like Mr. Crowse.  Divide yourcleverness by tenand the quotient--dear me!--is able to take adegree.  But that only shows you are ten times more idle thanthe others."

"Wellif I did passyou would not want me to go into the Church?"

"Thatis not the question--what I want you to do.  You have aconscience of your ownI suppose.  There! there is Mr. Lydgate.I must go and tell my uncle."

"Mary"said Fredseizing her hand as she rose; "if you will not giveme some encouragementI shall get worse instead of better."

"Iwill not give you any encouragement" said Maryreddening."Your friends would dislike itand so would mine.  Myfather would think it a disgrace to me if I accepted a man who gotinto debtand would not work!"

Fred wasstungand released her hand.  She walked to the doorbut thereshe turned and said:  "Fredyou have always been so goodso generous to me.  I am not ungrateful.  But never speakto me in that way again."

"Verywell" said Fredsulkilytaking up his hat and whip. Hiscomplexion showed patches of pale pink and dead white. Like many aplucked idle young gentlemanhe was thoroughly in loveand with aplain girlwho had no money!  But having Mr. Featherstone'sland in the backgroundand a persuasion thatlet Mary say what shewouldshe really did care for himFred was not utterly in despair.

When hegot homehe gave four of the twenties to his motherasking her tokeep them for him.  "I don't want to spend that moneymother. I want it to pay a debt with.  So keep it safe away frommy fingers."

"Blessyoumy dear" said Mrs. Vincy.  She doted on her eldestson and her youngest girl (a child of six)whom others thought hertwo naughtiest children.  The mother's eyes are not alwaysdeceived in their partiality:  she at least can best judge whois the tenderfilial-hearted child.  And Fred was certainlyvery fond of his mother. Perhaps it was his fondness for anotherperson also that made him particularly anxious to take some securityagainst his own liability to spend the hundred pounds.  For thecreditor to whom he owed a hundred and sixty held a firmer securityin the shape of a bill signed by Mary's father.

CHAPTERXV

  "Black eyes you have leftyou say
   Blue eyesfail to draw you;
   Yet you seem more rapt to-day
  Than of old we saw you.

  "OhI track the fairest fair
   Through new hauntsof pleasure;
   Footprints here and echoes there
  Guide me to my treasure:

  "Lo! she turns--immortal youth
   Wrought to mortalstature
   Fresh as starlight's aged truth--

 

  Many-namedNature!"

A greathistorianas he insisted on calling himselfwho had the happinessto be dead a hundred and twenty years agoand so to take his placeamong the colossi whose huge legs our living pettiness is observed towalk underglories in his copious remarks and digressions as theleast imitable part of his workand especially in those initialchapters to the successive books of his historywhere he seems tobring his armchair to the proscenium and chat with us in all thelusty ease of his fine English.  But Fielding lived when thedays were longer (for timelike moneyis measured by our needs)when summer afternoons were spaciousand the clock ticked slowly inthe winter evenings.  We belated historians must not lingerafter his example; and if we did soit is probable that our chatwould be thin and eageras if delivered from a campstool in aparrot-house. I at least have so much to do in unraveling certainhuman lotsand seeing how they were woven and interwoventhat allthe light I can command must be concentrated on this particular weband not dispersed over that tempting range of relevancies called theuniverse.

At presentI have to make the new settler Lydgate better known to any oneinterested in him than he could possibly be even to those who hadseen the most of him since his arrival in Middlemarch. For surely allmust admit that a man may be puffed and belaudedenviedridiculedcounted upon as a tool and fallen in love withor at least selectedas a future husbandand yet remain virtually unknown-- known merelyas a cluster of signs for his neighbors' false suppositions. Therewas a general impressionhoweverthat Lydgate was not altogether acommon country doctorand in Middlemarch at that time such animpression was significant of great things being expected from him.For everybody's family doctor was remarkably cleverand wasunderstood to have immeasurable skill in the management and trainingof the most skittish or vicious diseases.  The evidence of hiscleverness was of the higher intuitive orderlying in hislady-patients' immovable convictionand was unassailable by anyobjection except that their intuitions were opposed by others equallystrong; each lady who saw medical truth in Wrench and "thestrengthening treatment" regarding Toller and "the loweringsystem" as medical perdition. For the heroic times of copiousbleeding and blistering had not yet departedstill less the times ofthorough-going theorywhen disease in general was called by some badnameand treated accordingly without shilly-shally--as ifforexampleit were to be called insurrectionwhich must not be firedon with blank-cartridgebut have its blood drawn at once.  Thestrengtheners and the lowerers were all "clever" men insomebody's opinionwhich is really as much as can be said for anyliving talents. Nobody's imagination had gone so far as to conjecturethat Mr. Lydgate could know as much as Dr. Sprague and Dr. Minchinthe two physicianswho alone could offer any hope when danger wasextremeand when the smallest hope was worth a guinea.  StillI repeatthere was a general impression that Lydgate was somethingrather more uncommon than any general practitioner in Middlemarch.And this was true.  He was but seven-and-twentyan age at whichmany men are not quite common--at which they are hopeful ofachievementresolute in avoidancethinking that Mammon shall neverput a bit in their mouths and get astride their backsbut ratherthat Mammonif they have anything to do with himshall draw theirchariot.

He hadbeen left an orphan when he was fresh from a public school. Hisfathera military manhad made but little provision for threechildrenand when the boy Tertius asked to have a medical educationit seemed easier to his guardians to grant his request byapprenticing him to a country practitioner than to make anyobjections on the score of family dignity.  He was one of therarer lads who early get a decided bent and make up their minds thatthere is something particular in life which they would like to do forits own sakeand not because their fathers did it.  Most of uswho turn to any subject with love remember some morning or eveninghour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volumeorsat with parted lips listening to a new talkeror for very lack ofbooks began to listen to the voices withinas the first traceablebeginning of our love. Something of that sort happened to Lydgate. He was a quick fellowand when hot from playwould toss himself ina cornerand in five minutes be deep in any sort of book that hecould lay his hands on: if it were Rasselas or Gulliverso much thebetterbut Bailey's Dictionary would door the Bible with theApocrypha in it. Something he must readwhen he was not riding theponyor running and huntingor listening to the talk of men. All this was true of him at ten years of age; he had then readthrough "Chrysalor the Adventures of a Guinea" which wasneither milk for babesnor any chalky mixture meant to pass formilkand it had already occurred to him that books were stuffandthat life was stupid. His school studies had not much modified thatopinionfor though he "did" his classics and mathematicshe was not pre-eminent in them. It was said of himthat Lydgatecould do anything he likedbut he had certainly not yet liked to doanything remarkable. He was a vigorous animal with a readyunderstandingbut no spark had yet kindled in him an intellectualpassion; knowledge seemed to him a very superficial affaireasilymastered:  judging from the conversation of his eldershe hadapparently got already more than was necessary for mature life. Probably this was not an exceptional result of expensive teaching atthat period of short-waisted coatsand other fashions which have notyet recurred.  Butone vacationa wet day sent him to thesmall home library to hunt once more for a book which might have somefreshness for him:  in vain! unlessindeedhe took down adusty row of volumes with gray-paper backs and dingy labels--thevolumes of an old Cyclopaedia which he had never disturbed.  Itwould at least be a novelty to disturb them. They were on the highestshelfand he stood on a chair to get them down.  But he openedthe volume which he first took from the shelf:  somehowone isapt to read in a makeshift attitudejust where it might seeminconvenient to do so.  The page he opened on was under the headof Anatomyand the first passage that drew his eyes was on thevalves of the heart.  He was not much acquainted with valves ofany sortbut he knew that valvae were folding-doorsand throughthis crevice came a sudden light startling him with his first vividnotion of finely adjusted mechanism in the human frame.  Aliberal education had of course left him free to read the indecentpassages in the school classicsbut beyond a general sense ofsecrecy and obscenity in connection with his internal structurehadleft his imagination quite unbiassedso that for anything he knewhis brains lay in small bags at his templesand he had no morethought of representing to himself how his blood circulated than howpaper served instead of gold. But the moment of vocation had comeand before he got down from his chairthe world was made new to himby a presentiment of. endless processes filling the vast spacesplanked out of his sight by that wordy ignorance which he hadsupposed to be knowledge. From that hour Lydgate felt the growth ofan intellectual passion.

We are notafraid of telling over and over again how a man comes to fall in lovewith a woman and be wedded to heror else be fatally parted fromher.  Is it due to excess of poetry or of stupidity that we arenever weary of describing what King James called a woman's "makdomand her fairnesse" never weary of listening to the twanging ofthe old Troubadour stringsand are comparatively uninterested inthat other kind of "makdom and fairnesse" which must bewooed with industrious thought and patient renunciation of smalldesires? In the story of this passiontoothe development varies:sometimes it is the glorious marriagesometimes frustration andfinal parting.  And not seldom the catastrophe is bound up withthe other passionsung by the Troubadours.  For in themultitude of middle-aged men who go about their vocations in a dailycourse determined for them much in the same way as the tie of theircravatsthere is always a good number who once meant to shape theirown deeds and alter the world a little.  The story of theircoming to be shapen after the average and fit to be packed by thegrossis hardly ever told even in their consciousness; for perhapstheir ardor in generous unpaid toil cooled as imperceptibly as theardor of other youthful lovestill one day their earlier self walkedlike a ghost in its old home and made the new furniture ghastly.Nothing in the world more subtle than the process of their gradualchange!  In the beginning they inhaled it unknowingly: you and Imay have sent some of our breath towards infecting themwhen weuttered our conforming falsities or drew our silly conclusions: orperhaps it came with the vibrations from a woman's glance.

Lydgatedid not mean to be one of those failuresand there was the betterhope of him because his scientific interest soon took the form of aprofessional enthusiasm:  he had a youthful belief in hisbread-winning worknot to be stifled by that initiation in makeshiftcalled his 'prentice days; and he carried to his studies in LondonEdinburghand Paristhe conviction that the medical profession asit might be was the finest in the world; presenting the most perfectinterchange between science and art; offering the most directalliance between intellectual conquest and the social good. Lydgate's nature demanded this combination: he was an emotionalcreaturewith a flesh-and-blood sense of fellowship which withstoodall the abstractions of special study. He cared not only for "cases"but for John and Elizabethespecially Elizabeth.

There wasanother attraction in his profession:  it wanted reformandgave a man an opportunity for some indignant resolve to reject itsvenal decorations and other humbugand to be the possessor ofgenuine though undemanded qualifications.  He went to study inParis with the determination that when he provincial home again hewould settle in some provincial town as a general practitionerandresist the irrational severance between medical and surgicalknowledge in the interest of his own scientific pursuitsas well asof the general advance:  he would keep away from the range ofLondon intriguesjealousiesand social trucklingand wincelebrityhowever slowlyas Jenner had doneby the independentvalue of his work.  For it must be remembered that this was adark period; and in spite of venerable colleges which used greatefforts to secure purity of knowledge by making it scarceand toexclude error by a rigid exclusiveness in relation to fees andappointmentsit happened that very ignorant young gentlemen werepromoted in townand many more got a legal right to practise overlarge areas in the country.  Alsothe high standard held up tothe public mind by the College of which which gave its peculiarsanction to the expensive and highly rarefied medical instructionobtained by graduates of Oxford and Cambridgedid not hinderquackery from having an excellent time of it; for since professionalpractice chiefly consisted in giving a great many drugsthe publicinferred that it might be better off with more drugs stillif theycould only be got cheaplyand hence swallowed large cubic measuresof physic prescribed by unscrupulous ignorance which had taken nodegrees. Considering that statistics had not yet embraced acalculation as to the number of ignorant or canting doctors whichabsolutely must exist in the teeth of all changesit seemed toLydgate that a change in the units was the most direct mode ofchanging the numbers. He meant to be a unit who would make a certainamount of difference towards that spreading change which would oneday tell appreciably upon the averagesand in the mean time have thepleasure of making an advantageous difference to the viscera of hisown patients. But he did not simply aim at a more genuine kind ofpractice than was common.  He was ambitious of a wider effect: he was fired with the possibility that he might work out the proof ofan anatomical conception and make a link in the chain of discovery.

Does itseem incongruous to you that a Middlemarch surgeon should dream ofhimself as a discoverer?  Most of usindeedknow little of thegreat originators until they have been lifted up among theconstellations and already rule our fates.  But that Herschelfor examplewho "broke the barriers of the heavens"--didhe not once play a provincial church-organand give music-lessons tostumbling pianists?  Each of those Shining Ones had to walk onthe earth among neighbors who perhaps thought much more of his gaitand his garments than of anything which was to give him a title toeverlasting fame:  each of them had his little local personalhistory sprinkled with small temptations and sordid careswhich madethe retarding friction of his course towards final companionship withthe immortals.  Lydgate was not blind to the dangers of suchfrictionbut he had plenty of confidence in his resolution to avoidit as far as possible:  being seven-and-twentyhe felt himselfexperienced.  And he was not going to have his vanities provokedby contact with the showy worldly successes of the capitalbut tolive among people who could hold no rivalry with that pursuit of agreat idea which was to be a twin object with the assiduous practiceof his profession.  There was fascination in the hope that thetwo purposes would illuminate each other: the careful observation andinference which was his daily workthe use of the lens to furtherhis judgment in special caseswould further his thought as aninstrument of larger inquiry. Was not this the typical pre-eminenceof his profession?  He would be a good Middlemarch doctorandby that very means keep himself in the track of far-reachinginvestigation.  On one point he may fairly claim approval atthis particular stage of his career: he did not mean to imitate thosephilanthropic models who make a profit out of poisonous pickles tosupport themselves while they are exposing adulterationor holdshares in a gambling-hell that they may have leisure to represent thecause of public morality. He intended to begin in his own case someparticular reforms which were quite certainly within his reachandmuch less of a problem than the demonstrating of an anatomicalconception.  One of these reforms was to act stoutly on thestrength of a recent legal decisionand simply prescribewithoutdispensing drugs or taking percentage from druggists.  This wasan innovation for one who had chosen to adopt the style of generalpractitioner in a country townand would be felt as offensivecriticism by his professional brethren. But Lydgate meant to innovatein his treatment alsoand he was wise enough to see that the bestsecurity for his practising honestly according to his belief was toget rid of systematic temptations to the contrary.

Perhapsthat was a more cheerful time for observers and theorizers than thepresent; we are apt to think it the finest era of the world whenAmerica was beginning to be discoveredwhen a bold sailoreven ifhe were wreckedmight alight on a new kingdom; and about 1829 thedark territories of Pathology were a fine America for a spiritedyoung adventurer.  Lydgate was ambitious above all to contributetowards enlarging the scientificrational basis of his profession.The more he became interested in special questions of diseasesuchas the nature of fever or feversthe more keenly he felt the needfor that fundamental knowledge of structure which just at thebeginning of the century had been illuminated by the brief andglorious career of Bichatwho died when he was only one-and-thirtybutlike another Alexanderleft a realm large enough for manyheirs. That great Frenchman first carried out the conception thatliving bodiesfundamentally consideredare not associations oforgans which can be understood by studying them first apartand thenas it were federally; but must be regarded as consisting of certainprimary webs or tissuesout of which the various organs--brainheartlungsand so on-- are compactedas the variousaccommodations of a house are built up in various proportions ofwoodironstonebrickzincand the resteach material havingits peculiar composition and proportions. No manone seescanunderstand and estimate the entire structure or its parts--what areits frailties and what its repairswithout knowing the nature of thematerials.  And the conception wrought out by Bichatwith hisdetailed study of the different tissuesacted necessarily on medicalquestions as the turning of gas-light would act on a dimoil-litstreetshowing new connections and hitherto hidden facts ofstructure which must be taken into account in considering thesymptoms of maladies and the action of medicaments.  But resultswhich depend on human conscience and intelligence work slowlyandnow at the end of 1829most medical practice was still strutting orshambling along the old pathsand there was still scientific work tobe done which might have seemed to be a direct sequence of Bichat's.This great seer did not go beyond the consideration of the tissues asultimate facts in the living organismmarking the limit ofanatomical analysis; but it was open to another mind to sayhave notthese structures some common basis from which they have all startedas your sarsnetgauzenetsatinand velvet from the raw cocoon? Here would be another lightas of oxy-hydrogenshowing the verygrain of thingsand revising ail former explanations.  Of thissequence to Bichat's workalready vibrating along many currents ofthe European mindLydgate was enamoured; he longed to demonstratethe more intimate relations of living structureand help to definemen's thought more accurately after the true order.  The workhad not yet been donebut only prepared for those who knew how touse the preparation. What was the primitive tissue?  In that wayLydgate put the question-- not quite in the way required by theawaiting answer; but such missing of the right word befalls manyseekers.  And he counted on quiet intervals to be watchfullyseizedfor taking up the threads of investigation--on many hints tobe won from diligent applicationnot only of the scalpelbut of themicroscopewhich research had begun to use again with new enthusiasmof reliance.  Such was Lydgate's plan of his future:  to dogood small work for Middlemarchand great work for the world.

He wascertainly a happy fellow at this time:  to be seven-and-twentywithout any fixed viceswith a generous resolution that his actionshould be beneficentand with ideas in his brain that made lifeinteresting quite apart from the cultus of horseflesh and othermystic rites of costly observancewhich the eight hundred poundsleft him after buying his practice would certainly not have gone farin paying for.  He was at a starting-point which makes many aman's career a fine subject for bettingif there were any gentlemengiven to that amusement who could appreciate the complicatedprobabilities of an arduous purposewith all the possible thwartingsand furtherings of circumstanceall the niceties of inward balanceby which a man swims and makes his point or else is carriedheadlong.  The risk would remain even with close knowledge ofLydgate's character; for character too is a process and anunfolding.  The man was still in the makingas much as theMiddlemarch doctor and immortal discovererand there were bothvirtues and faults capable of shrinking or expanding. The faults willnotI hopebe a reason for the withdrawal of your interest in him. Among our valued friends is there not some one or other who is alittle too self-confident and disdainful; whose distinguished mind isa little spotted with commonness; who is a little pinched here andprotuberant there with native. prejudices; or whose better energiesare liable to lapse down the wrong channel under the influence oftransient solicitations? All these things might be alleged againstLydgatebut thenthey are the periphrases of a polite preacherwhotalks of Adamand would not like to mention anything painful to thepew-renters. The particular faults from which these delicategeneralities are distilled have distinguishable physiognomiesdictionaccentand grimaces; filling up parts in very variousdramas.  Our vanities differ as our noses do:  all conceitis not the same conceitbut varies in correspondence with theminutiae of mental make in which one of us differs from another. Lydgate's conceit was of the arrogant sortnever simperingneverimpertinentbut massive in its claims and benevolently contemptuous.He would do a great deal for noodlesbeing sorry for themandfeeling quite sure that they could have no power over him: he hadthought of joining the Saint Simonians when he was in Parisin orderto turn them against some of their own doctrines. All his faults weremarked by kindred traitsand were those of a man who had a finebaritonewhose clothes hung well upon himand who even in hisordinary gestures had an air of inbred distinction. Where then laythe spots of commonness? says a young lady enamoured of that carelessgrace.  How could there be any commonness in a man so well-bredso ambitious of social distinctionso generous and unusual in hisviews of social duty?  As easily as there may be stupidity in aman of genius if you take him unawares on the wrong subjector asmany a man who has the best will to advance the social millenniummight be ill-inspired in imagining its lighter pleasures; unable togo beyond Offenbach's musicor the brilliant punning in the lastburlesque.  Lydgate's spots of commonness lay in the complexionof his prejudiceswhichin spite of noble intention and sympathywere half of them such as are found in ordinary men of the world:that distinction of mind which belonged to his intellectual ardordid not penetrate his feeling and judgment about furnitureor womenor the desirability of its being known (without his telling) that hewas better born than other country surgeons.  He did not mean tothink of furniture at present; but whenever he did so it was to befeared that neither biology nor schemes of reform would lift himabove the vulgarity of feeling that there would be an incompatibilityin his furniture not being of the best.

As towomenhe had once already been drawn headlong by impetuous follywhich he meant to be finalsince marriage at some distant periodwould of course not be impetuous.  For those who want to beacquainted with Lydgate it will be good to know what was that case ofimpetuous follyfor it may stand as an example of the fitfulswerving of passion to which he was pronetogether with thechivalrous kindness which helped to make him morally lovable. Thestory can be told without many words.  It happened when he wasstudying in Parisand just at the time whenover and above hisother workhe was occupied with some galvanic experiments. Oneeveningtired with his experimentingand not being able to elicitthe facts he neededhe left his frogs and rabbits to some reposeunder their trying and mysterious dispensation of unexplained shocksand went to finish his evening at the theatre of the Porte SaintMartinwhere there was a melodrama which he had already seen severaltimes; attractednot by the ingenious work of the collaboratingauthorsbut by an actress whose part it was to stab her lovermistaking him for the evil-designing duke of the piece.  Lydgatewas in love with this actressas a man is in love with a woman whomhe never expects to speak to. She was a Provencalewith dark eyesaGreek profileand rounded majestic formhaving that sort of beautywhich carries a sweet matronliness even in youthand her voice was asoft cooing. She had but lately come to Parisand bore a virtuousreputationher husband acting with her as the unfortunate lover. It was her acting which was "no better than it should be"but the public was satisfied.  Lydgate's only relaxation now wasto go and look at this womanjust as he might have thrown himselfunder the breath of the sweet south on a bank of violets for a whilewithout prejudice to his galvanismto which he would presentlyreturn. But this evening the old drama had a new catastrophe. At the moment when the heroine was to act the stabbing of her loverand he was to fall gracefullythe wife veritably stabbed herhusbandwho fell as death willed.  A wild shriek pierced thehouseand the Provencale fell swooning:  a shriek and a swoonwere demanded by the playbut the swooning too was real this time.Lydgate leaped and climbedhe hardly knew howon to the stageandwas active in helpmaking the acquaintance of his heroine by findinga contusion on her head and lifting her gently in his arms. Parisrang with the story of this death:--was it a murder?  Some ofthe actress's warmest admirers were inclined to believe in her guiltand liked her the better for it (such was the taste of those times);but Lydgate was not one of these.  He vehemently contended forher innocenceand the remote impersonal passion for her beauty whichhe had felt beforehad passed now into personal devotionand tenderthought of her lot.  The notion of murder was absurd: no motivewas discoverablethe young couple being understood to dote on eachother; and it was not unprecedented that an accidental slip of thefoot should have brought these grave consequences. The legalinvestigation ended in Madame Laure's release. Lydgate by this timehad had many interviews with herand found her more and moreadorable.  She talked little; but that was an additional charm. She was melancholyand seemed grateful; her presence was enoughlike that of the evening light. Lydgate was madly anxious about heraffectionand jealous lest any other man than himself should win itand ask her to marry him. But instead of reopening her engagement atthe Porte Saint Martinwhere she would have been all the morepopular for the fatal episodeshe left Paris without warningforsaking her little court of admirers. Perhaps no one carriedinquiry far except Lydgatewho felt that all science had come to astand-still while he imagined the unhappy Laurestricken byever-wandering sorrowherself wanderingand finding no faithfulcomforter.  Hidden actresseshoweverare not so difficult tofind as some other hidden factsand it was not long before Lydgategathered indications that Laure had taken the route to Lyons. Hefound her at last acting with great success at Avignon under the samenamelooking more majestic than ever as a forsaken wife carrying herchild in her arms.  He spoke to her after the playwas receivedwith the usual quietude which seemed to him beautiful as clear depthsof waterand obtained leave to visit her the next day; when he wasbent on telling her that he adored herand on asking her to marryhim.  He knew that this was like the sudden impulse of amadman--incongruous even with his habitual foibles.  No matter!It was the one thing which he was resolved to do.  He had twoselves within him apparentlyand they must learn to accommodate eachother and bear reciprocal impediments.  Strangethat some ofuswith quick alternate visionsee beyond our infatuationsandeven while we rave on the heightsbehold the wide plain where ourpersistent self pauses and awaits us.

To haveapproached Laure with any suit that was not reverentially tenderwould have been simply a contradiction of his whole feeling towardsher.

"Youhave come all the way from Paris to find me?" she said to himthe next daysitting before him with folded armsand looking at himwith eyes that seemed to wonder as an untamed ruminating animalwonders.  "Are all Englishmen like that?"

"Icame because I could not live without trying to see you. You arelonely; I love you; I want you to consent to be my wife; I will waitbut I want you to promise that you will marry me-- no one else."

Laurelooked at him in silence with a melancholy radiance from under hergrand eyelidsuntil he was full of rapturous certaintyand kneltclose to her knees.

"Iwill tell you something" she saidin her cooing waykeepingher arms folded.  "My foot really slipped."

"IknowI know" said Lydgatedeprecatingly.  "It was afatal accident-- a dreadful stroke of calamity that bound me to youthe more."

AgainLaure paused a little and then saidslowly"I MEANT TO DO IT."

Lydgatestrong man as he wasturned pale and trembled: moments seemed topass before he rose and stood at a distance from her.

"Therewas a secretthen" he said at lasteven vehemently. "Hewas brutal to you:  you hated him."

"No!he wearied me; he was too fond:  he would live in Parisand notin my country; that was not agreeable to me."

"GreatGod!" said Lydgatein a groan of horror.  "And youplanned to murder him?"

"Idid not plan:  it came to me in the play--I MEANT TO DO IT."

Lydgatestood muteand unconsciously pressed his hat on while he looked ather.  He saw this woman--the first to whom he had given hisyoung adoration--amid the throng of stupid criminals.

"Youare a good young man" she said.  "But I do not likehusbands. I will never have another."

Three daysafterwards Lydgate was at his galvanism again in his Paris chambersbelieving that illusions were at an end for him. He was saved fromhardening effects by the abundant kindness of his heart and hisbelief that human life might be made better. But he had more reasonthan ever for trusting his judgmentnow that it was so experienced;and henceforth he would take a strictly scientific view of womanentertaining no expectations but such as were justified beforehand.

No one inMiddle march was likely to have such a notion of Lydgate's past ashas here been faintly shadowedand indeed the respectable townsfolkthere were not more given than mortals generally to any eager attemptat exactness in the representation to themselves of what did not comeunder their own senses.  Not only young virgins of that townbut gray-bearded men alsowere often in haste to conjecture how anew acquaintance might be wrought into their purposescontented withvery vague knowledge as to the way in which life had been shaping himfor that instrumentality.  Middlemarchin factcounted onswallowing Lydgate and assimilating him very comfortably.

CHAPTERXVI

  "All that in woman is adored
   In thy fair self Ifind--
   For the whole sex can but afford
  The handsome and the kind."
   --SIR CHARLESSEDLEY.

Thequestion whether Mr. Tyke should be appointed as salaried chaplain tothe hospital was an exciting topic to the Middlemarchers; and Lydgateheard it discussed in a way that threw much light on the powerexercised in the town by Mr. Bulstrode.  The banker wasevidently a rulerbut there was an opposition partyand even amonghis supporters there were some who allowed it to be seen that theirsupport was a compromiseand who frankly stated their impressionthat the general scheme of thingsand especially the casualties oftraderequired you to hold a candle to the devil.

Mr.Bulstrode's power was not due simply to his being a country bankerwho knew the financial secrets of most traders in the town and couldtouch the springs of their credit; it was fortified by a beneficencethat was at once ready and severe--ready to confer obligationsandsevere in watching the result.  He had gatheredas anindustrious man always at his posta chief share in administeringthe town charitiesand his private charities were both minute andabundant. He would take a great deal of pains about apprenticing Teggthe shoemaker's sonand he would watch over Tegg's church-going; hewould defend Mrs. Strype the washerwoman against Stubbs's unjustexaction on the score of her drying-groundand he wouldhimself-scrutinize a calumny against Mrs. Strype.  His privateminor loans were numerousbut he would inquire strictly into thecircumstances both before and after.  In this way a man gathersa domain in his neighbors' hope and fear as well as gratitude; andpowerwhen once it has got into that subtle regionpropagatesitselfspreading out of all proportion to its external means. It was a principle with Mr. Bulstrode to gain as much power aspossiblethat he might use it for the glory of God.  He wentthrough a great deal of spiritual conflict and inward argument inorder to adjust his motivesand make clear to himself what God'sglory required.  Butas we have seenhis motives were notalways rightly appreciated.  There were many crass minds inMiddlemarch whose reflective scales could only weigh things in thelump; and they had a strong suspicion that since Mr. Bulstrode couldnot enjoy life in their fashioneating and drinking so little as hedidand worreting himself about everythinghe must have a sort ofvampire's feast in the sense of mastery.

Thesubject of the chaplaincy came up at Mr. Vincy's table when Lydgatewas dining thereand the family connection with Mr. Bulstrode didnothe observedprevent some freedom of remark even on the part ofthe host himselfthough his reasons against the proposed arrangementturned entirely on his objection to Mr. Tyke's sermonswhich wereall doctrineand his preference for Mr. Farebrotherwhose sermonswere free from that taint.  Mr. Vincy liked well enough thenotion of the chaplain's having a salarysupposing it were given toFarebrotherwho was as good a little fellow as ever breathedandthe best preacher anywhereand companionable too.

"Whatline shall you takethen?" said Mr. Chichelythe coroneragreat coursing comrade of Mr. Vincy's.

"OhI'm precious glad I'm not one of the Directors now. I shall vote forreferring the matter to the Directors and the Medical Boardtogether.  I shall roll some of my responsibility on yourshouldersDoctor" said Mr. Vincyglancing first at Dr.Spraguethe senior physician of the townand then at Lydgate whosat opposite.  "You medical gentlemen must consult whichsort of black draught you will prescribeehMr. Lydgate?"

"Iknow little of either" said Lydgate; "but in generalappointments are apt to be made too much a question of personalliking. The fittest man for a particular post is not always the bestfellow or the most agreeable.  Sometimesif you wanted to get areformyour only way would be to pension off the good fellows whomeverybody is fond ofand put them out of the question."

Dr.Spraguewho was considered the physician of most "weight"though Dr. Minchin was usually said to have more "penetration"divested his large heavy face of all expressionand looked at hiswine-glass while Lydgate was speaking.  Whatever was notproblematical and suspected about this young man--for exampleacertain showiness as to foreign ideasand a disposition to unsettlewhat had been settled and forgotten by his elders-- was positivelyunwelcome to a physician whose standing had been fixed thirty yearsbefore by a treatise on Meningitisof which at least one copy marked"own" was bound in calf.  For my part I have somefellow-feeling with Dr. Sprague:  one's self-satisfaction is anuntaxed kind of property which it is very unpleasant to finddeprecated.

Lydgate'sremarkhoweverdid not meet the sense of the company. Mr. Vincysaidthat if he could have HIS wayhe would not put disagreeablefellows anywhere.

"Hangyour reforms!" said Mr. Chichely.  "There's no greaterhumbug in the world.  You never hear of a reformbut it meanssome trick to put in new men.  I hope you are not one of the`Lancet's' menMr. Lydgate--wanting to take the coronership out ofthe hands of the legal profession:  your words appear to pointthat way."

"Idisapprove of Wakley" interposed Dr. Sprague"no manmore: he is an ill-intentioned fellowwho would sacrifice therespectability of the professionwhich everybody knows depends onthe London Collegesfor the sake of getting some notoriety forhimself.  There are men who don't mind about being kicked blueif they can only get talked about.  But Wakley is rightsometimes" the Doctor addedjudicially.  "I couldmention one or two points in which Wakley is in the right."

"Ohwell" said Mr. Chichely"I blame no man for standing upin favor of his own cloth; butcoming to argumentI should like toknow how a coroner is to judge of evidence if he has not had a legaltraining?"

"Inmy opinion" said Lydgate"legal training only makes a manmore incompetent in questions that require knowledge a of anotherkind. People talk about evidence as if it could really be weighed inscales by a blind Justice.  No man can judge what is goodevidence on any particular subjectunless he knows that subjectwell.  A lawyer is no better than an old woman at a post-mortemexamination. How is he to know the action of a poison?  Youmight as well say that scanning verse will teach you to scan thepotato crops."

"Youare awareI supposethat it is not the coroner's business toconduct the post-mortembut only to take the evidence of the medicalwitness?" said Mr. Chichelywith some scorn.

"Whois often almost as ignorant as the coroner himself" saidLydgate. "Questions of medical jurisprudence ought not to beleft to the chance of decent knowledge in a medical witnessand thecoroner ought not to be a man who will believe that strychnine willdestroy the coats of the stomach if an ignorant practitioner happensto tell him so."

Lydgatehad really lost sight of the fact that Mr. Chichely was his Majesty'scoronerand ended innocently with the question"Don't youagree with meDr. Sprague?"

"To acertain extent--with regard to populous districtsand in themetropolis" said the Doctor.  "But I hope it will belong before this part of the country loses the services of my friendChichelyeven though it might get the best man in our profession tosucceed him. I am sure Vincy will agree with me."

"Yesyesgive me a coroner who is a good coursing man" said Mr.Vincyjovially.  "And in my opinionyou're safest with alawyer.  Nobody can know everything. Most things are `visitationof God.'  And as to poisoningwhywhat you want to know is thelaw.  Comeshall we join the ladies?"

Lydgate'sprivate opinion was that Mr. Chichely might be the very coronerwithout bias as to the coats of the stomachbut he had not meant tobe personal.  This was one of the difficulties of moving in goodMiddlemarch society:  it was dangerous to insist on knowledge asa qualification for any salaried office.  Fred Vincy had calledLydgate a prigand now Mr. Chichely was inclined to call himprick-eared; especially whenin the drawing-roomhe seemed to bemaking himself eminently agreeable to Rosamondwhom he had easilymonopolized in a tete-a-tetesince Mrs. Vincy herself sat at thetea-table. She resigned no domestic function to her daughter; and thematron's blooming good-natured facewith the two volatile pinkstrings floating from her fine throatand her cheery manners tohusband and childrenwas certainly among the great attractions ofthe Vincy house--attractions which made it all the easier to fall inlove with the daughter.  The tinge of unpretentiousinoffensivevulgarity in Mrs. Vincy gave more effect to Rosamond's refinementwhich was beyond what Lydgate had expected.

Certainlysmall feet and perfectly turned shoulders aid the impression ofrefined mannersand the right thing said seems quite astonishinglyright when it is accompanied with exquisite curves of lip andeyelid.  And Rosamond could say the right thing; for she wasclever with that sort of cleverness which catches every tone exceptthe humorous.  Happily she never attempted to jokeand thisperhaps was the most decisive mark of her cleverness.

She andLydgate readily got into conversation.  He regretted that he hadnot heard her sing the other day at Stone Court. The only pleasure heallowed himself during the latter part of his stay in Paris was to goand hear music.

"Youhave studied musicprobably?" said Rosamond.

"NoI know the notes of many birdsand I know many melodies by ear; butthe music that I don't know at alland have no notion aboutdelights me--affects me.  How stupid the world is that it doesnot make more use of such a pleasure within its reach!"

"Yesand you will find Middlemarch very tuneless.  There are hardlyany good musicians.  I only know two gentlemen who sing at allwell."

"Isuppose it is the fashion to sing comic songs in a rhythmic wayleaving you to fancy the tune--very much as if it were tapped on adrum?"

"Ahyou have heard Mr. Bowyer" said Rosamondwith one of her raresmiles.  "But we are speaking very ill of our neighbors."

Lydgatewas almost forgetting that he must carry on the conversationinthinking how lovely this creature washer garment seeming to be madeout of the faintest blue skyherself so immaculately blondas ifthe petals of some gigantic flower had just opened and disclosed her;and yet with this infantine blondness showing so much readyself-possessed grace.  Since he had had the memory of LaureLydgate had lost all taste for large-eyed silence:  the divinecow no longer attracted himand Rosamond was her very opposite. Buthe recalled himself.

"Youwill let me hear some music to-nightI hope."

"Iwill let you hear my attemptsif you like" said Rosamond."Papa is sure to insist on my singing.  But I shall tremblebefore youwho have heard the best singers in Paris.  I haveheard very little: I have only once been to London.  But ourorganist at St. Peter's is a good musicianand I go on studying withhim."

"Tellme what you saw in London."

"Verylittle."  (A more naive girl would have said"Oheverything!" But Rosamond knew better.) "A few of theordinary sightssuch as raw country girls are always taken to."

"Doyou call yourself a raw country girl?" said Lydgatelooking ather with an involuntary emphasis of admirationwhich made Rosamondblush with pleasure.  But she remained simply seriousturnedher long neck a littleand put up her hand to touch her wondroushair-plaits-- an habitual gesture with her as pretty as any movementsof a kitten's paw.  Not that Rosamond was in the least like akitten: she was a sylph caught young and educated at Mrs. Lemon's.

"Iassure you my mind is raw" she said immediately; "I passat Middlemarch.  I am not afraid of talking to our oldneighbors. But I am really afraid of you."

"Anaccomplished woman almost always knows more than we menthough herknowledge is of a different sort.  I am sure you could teach mea thousand things--as an exquisite bird could teach a bear if therewere any common language between them.  Happilythere is acommon language between women and menand so the bears can gettaught."

"Ahthere is Fred beginning to strum!  I must go and hinder him fromjarring all your nerves" said Rosamondmoving to the otherside of the roomwhere Fred having opened the pianoat his father'sdesirethat Rosamond might give them some musicwas parentheticallyperforming "Cherry Ripe!" with one hand.  Able men whohave passed their examinations will do these things sometimesnotless than the plucked Fred.

"Fredpray defer your practising till to-morrow; you will make Mr. Lydgateill" said Rosamond.  "He has an ear."

Fredlaughedand went on with his tune to the end.

Rosamondturned to Lydgatesmiling gentlyand said"You perceivethebears will not always be taught."

"NowthenRosy!" said Fredspringing from the stool and twisting itupward for herwith a hearty expectation of enjoyment. "Somegood rousing tunes first."

Rosamondplayed admirably.  Her master at Mrs. Lemon's school (close to acounty town with a memorable history that had its relics in churchand castle) was one of those excellent musicians here and there to befound in our provincesworthy to compare with many a notedKapellmeister in a country which offers more plentiful conditions ofmusical celebrity.  Rosamondwith the executant's instincthadseized his manner of playingand gave forth his large rendering ofnoble music with the precision of an echo.  It was almoststartlingheard for the first time. A hidden soul seemed to beflowing forth from Rosamond's fingers; and so indeed it wassincesouls live on in perpetual echoesand to all fine expression theregoes somewhere an originating activityif it be only that of aninterpreter.  Lydgate was taken possession ofand began tobelieve in her as something exceptional.  After allhe thoughtone need not be surprised to find the rare conjunctions of natureunder circumstances apparently unfavorable:  come where theymaythey always depend on conditions that are not obvious. He satlooking at herand did not rise to pay her any complimentsleavingthat to othersnow that his admiration was deepened.

Hersinging was less remarkable? but also well trainedand sweet to hearas a chime perfectly in tune.  It is true she sang "Meet meby moonlight" and "I've been roaming;" for mortalsmust share the fashions of their timeand none but the ancients canbe always classical.  But Rosamond could also sing "Black-eyedSusan" with effector Haydn's canzonetsor "Voichesapete" or "Battibatti"--she only wanted to knowwhat her audience liked.

Her fatherlooked round at the companydelighting in their admiration. Hermother satlike a Niobe before her troubleswith her youngestlittle girl on her lapsoftly beating the child's hand up and downin time to the music.  And Frednotwithstanding his generalscepticism about Rosylistened to her music with perfect allegiancewishing he could do the same thing on his flute.  It was thepleasantest family party that Lydgate had seen since he came toMiddlemarch. The Vincys had the readiness to enjoythe rejection ofall anxietyand the belief in life as a merry lotwhich made ahouse exceptional in most county towns at that timewhenEvangelicalism had east a certain suspicion as of plague-infectionover the few amusements which survived in the provinces.  At theVincys' there was always whistand the card-tables stood ready nowmaking some of the company secretly impatient of the music. Before it ceased Mr. Farebrother came in-- a handsomebroad-chestedbut otherwise small manabout fortywhose black was verythreadbare:  the brilliancy was all in his quick gray eyes. He came like a pleasant change in the lightarresting little Louisawith fatherly nonsense as she was being led out of the room by MissMorgangreeting everybody with some special wordand seeming tocondense more talk into ten minutes than had been held all throughthe evening.  He claimed from Lydgate the fulfilment of apromise to come and see him.  "I can't let you offyouknowbecause I have some beetles to show you. We collectors feel aninterest in every new man till he has seen all we have to show him."

But soonhe swerved to the whist-tablerubbing his hands and saying"Comenowlet us be serious!  Mr. Lydgate? not play?  Ah! youare too young and light for this kind of thing."

Lydgatesaid to himself that the clergyman whose abilities were so painful toMr. Bulstrodeappeared to have found an agreeable resort in thiscertainly not erudite household.  He could half understand it:the good-humorthe good looks of elder and youngerand theprovision for passing the time without any labor of intelligencemight make the house beguiling to people who had no particular usefor their odd hours.

Everythinglooked blooming and joyous except Miss Morganwho was browndulland resignedand altogetheras Mrs. Vincy often saidjust the sortof person for a governess.  Lydgate did not mean to pay manysuch visits himself.  They were a wretched waste of theevenings; and nowwhen he had talked a little more to Rosamondhemeant to excuse himself and go.

"Youwill not like us at MiddlemarchI feel sure" she saidwhenthe whist-players were settled.  "We are very stupidandyou have been used to something quite different."

"Isuppose all country towns are pretty much alike" said Lydgate."But I have noticed that one always believes one's own town tobe more stupid than any other.  I have made up my mind to takeMiddlemarch as it comesand shall be much obliged if the town willtake me in the same way.  I have certainly found some charms init which are much greater than I had expected."

"Youmean the rides towards Tipton and Lowick; every one is pleased withthose" said Rosamondwith simplicity.

"NoI mean something much nearer to me."

Rosamondrose and reached her nettingand then said"Do you care aboutdancing at all?  I am not quite sure whether clever men everdance."

"Iwould dance with you if you would allow me."

"Oh!"said Rosamondwith a slight deprecatory laugh.  "I wasonly going to say that we sometimes have dancingand I wanted toknow whether you would feel insulted if you were asked to come."

"Noton the condition I mentioned."

After thischat Lydgate thought that he was goingbut on moving towards thewhist-tableshe got interested in watching Mr. Farebrother's playwhich was masterlyand also his facewhich was a striking mixtureof the shrewd and the mild.  At ten o'clock supper was broughtin (such were the customs of Middlemarch) and there waspunch-drinking; but Mr. Farebrother had only a glass of water. He was winningbut there seemed to be no reason why the renewal ofrubbers should endand Lydgate at last took his leave.

But as itwas not eleven o'clockhe chose to walk in the brisk air towards thetower of St. Botolph'sMr. Farebrother's churchwhich stood outdarksquareand massive against the starlight. It was the oldestchurch in Middlemarch; the livinghoweverwas but a vicarage worthbarely four hundred a-year. Lydgate had heard thatand he wonderednow whether Mr. Farebrother cared about the money he won at cards;thinking"He seems a very pleasant fellowbut Bulstrode mayhave his good reasons."  Many things would be easier toLydgate if it should turn out that Mr. Bulstrode was generallyjustifiable.  "What is his religious doctrine to meif hecarries some good notions along with it?  One must use suchbrains as are to be found."

These wereactually Lydgate's first meditations as he walked away from Mr.Vincy'sand on this ground I fear that many ladies will consider himhardly worthy of their attention.  He thought of Rosamond andher music only in the second place; and thoughwhen her turn camehe dwelt on the image of her for the rest of his walkhe felt noagitationand had no sense that any new current had set into hislife. He could not marry yet; he wished not to marry for severalyears; and therefore he was not ready to entertain the notion ofbeing in love with a girl whom he happened to admire.  He didadmire Rosamond exceedingly; but that madness which had once besethim about Laure was nothe thoughtlikely to recur in relation toany other woman Certainlyif falling in love had been at all inquestionit would have been quite safe with a creature like thisMiss Vincywho had just the kind of intelligence one would desire ina woman-- polishedrefineddocilelending itself to finish in allthe delicacies of lifeand enshrined in a body which expressed thiswith a force of demonstration that excluded the need for otherevidence. Lydgate felt sure that if ever he marriedhis wife wouldhave that feminine radiancethat distinctive womanhood which must beclassed with flowers and musicthat sort of beauty which by its verynature was virtuousbeing moulded only for pure and delicate joys.

But sincehe did not mean to marry for the next five years-- his more pressingbusiness was to look into Louis' new book on Feverwhich he wasspecially interested inbecause he had known Louis in Parisand hadfollowed many anatomical demonstrations in order to ascertain thespecific differences of typhus and typhoid. He went home and read farinto the smallest hourbringing a much more testing vision ofdetails and relations into this pathological study than he had everthought it necessary to apply to the complexities of love andmarriagethese being subjects on which he felt himself amplyinformed by literatureand that traditional wisdom which is handeddown in the genial conversation of men. Whereas Fever had obscureconditionsand gave him that delightful labor of the imaginationwhich is not mere arbitrarinessbut the exercise of disciplinedpower--combining and constructing with the clearest eye forprobabilities and the fullest obedience to knowledge; and theninyet more energetic alliance with impartial Naturestanding aloof toinvent tests by which to try its own work.

Many menhave been praised as vividly imaginative on the strength of theirprofuseness in indifferent drawing or cheap narration:-- reports ofvery poor talk going on in distant orbs; or portraits of Lucifercoming down on his bad errands as a large ugly man with bat's wingsand spurts of phosphorescence; or exaggerations of wantonness thatseem to reflect life in a diseased dream. But these kinds ofinspiration Lydgate regarded as rather vulgar and vinous comparedwith the imagination that reveals subtle actions inaccessible by anysort of lensbut tracked in that outer darkness through longpathways of necessary sequence by the inward light which is the lastrefinement of Energycapable of bathing even the ethereal atoms inits ideally illuminated space. He for his part had tossed away allcheap inventions where ignorance finds itself able and at ease: he was enamoured of that arduous invention which is the very eye ofresearchprovisionally framing its object and correcting it to moreand more exactness of relation; he wanted to pierce the obscurity ofthose minute processes which prepare human misery and joythoseinvisible thoroughfares which are the first lurking-places ofanguishmaniaand crimethat delicate poise and transition whichdetermine the growth of happy or unhappy consciousness.

As hethrew down his bookstretched his legs towards the embers in thegrateand clasped his hands at the back of his headin thatagreeable afterglow of excitement when thought lapses fromexamination of a specific object into a suffusive sense of itsconnections with all the rest of our existence--seemsas it weretothrow itself on its back after vigorous swimming and float with therepose of unexhausted strength--Lydgate felt a triumphant delight inhis studiesand something like pity for those less lucky men whowere not of his profession.

"If Ihad not taken that turn when I was a lad" he thought"Imight have got into some stupid draught-horse work or otherandlived always in blinkers.  I should never have been happy in anyprofession that did not call forth the highest intellectual strainand yet keep me in good warm contact with my neighbors.  Thereis nothing like the medical profession for that:  one can havethe exclusive scientific life that touches the distance and befriendthe old fogies in the parish too.  It is rather harder for aclergyman: Farebrother seems to be an anomaly."

This lastthought brought back the Vincys and all the pictures of the evening. They floated in his mind agreeably enoughand as he took up hisbed-candle his lips were curled with that incipient smile which isapt to accompany agreeable recollections. He was an ardent fellowbut at present his ardor was absorbed in love of his work and in theambition of making his life recognized as a factor in the better lifeof mankind--like other heroes of science who had nothing but anobscure country practice to begin with.

PoorLydgate! or shall I sayPoor Rosamond!  Each lived in a worldof which the other knew nothing.  It had not occurred to Lydgatethat he had been a subject of eager meditation to Rosamondwho hadneither any reason for throwing her marriage into distantperspectivenor any pathological studies to divert her mind fromthat ruminating habitthat inward repetition of lookswordsandphraseswhich makes a large part in the lives of most girls. He hadnot meant to look at her or speak to her with more than theinevitable amount of admiration and compliment which a man must giveto a beautiful girl; indeedit seemed to him that his enjoyment ofher music had remained almost silentfor he feared falling into therudeness of telling her his great surprise at her possession of suchaccomplishment.  But Rosamond had registered every look andwordand estimated them as the opening incidents of a preconceivedromance--incidents which gather value from the foreseen developmentand climax.  In Rosamond's romance it was not necessary toimagine much about the inward life of the heroor of his seriousbusiness in the world:  of coursehe had a profession and wascleveras well as sufficiently handsome; but the piquant fact aboutLydgate was his good birthwhich distinguished him from allMiddlemarch admirersand presented marriage as a prospect of risingin rank and getting a little nearer to that celestial condition onearth in which she would have nothing to do with vulgar peopleandperhaps at last associate with relatives quite equal to the countypeople who looked down on the Middlemarchers. It was part ofRosamond's cleverness to discern very subtly the faintest aroma ofrankand once when she had seen the Miss Brookes accompanying theiruncle at the county assizesand seated among the aristocracyshehad envied themnotwithstanding their plain dress.

If youthink it incredible that to imagine Lydgate as a man of family couldcause thrills of satisfaction which had anything to do with the sensethat she was in love with himI will ask you to use your power ofcomparison a little more effectivelyand consider whether red clothand epaulets have never had an influence of that sort. Our passionsdo not live apart in locked chambersbutdressed in their smallwardrobe of notionsbring their provisions to a common table andmess togetherfeeding out of the common store according to theirappetite.

Rosamondin factwas entirely occupied not exactly with Tertius Lydgate as hewas in himselfbut with his relation to her; and it was excusable ina girl who was accustomed to hear that all young men mightcouldwould beor actually were in love with herto believe at once thatLydgate could be no exception.  His looks and words meant moreto her than other men'sbecause she cared more for them:  shethought of them diligentlyand diligently attended to thatperfection of appearancebehaviorsentimentsand all otherelegancieswhich would find in Lydgate a more adequate admirer thanshe had yet been conscious of.

ForRosamondthough she would never do anything that was disagreeable toherwas industrious; and now more than ever she was active insketching her landscapes and market-carts and portraits of friendsin practising her musicand in being from morning till night her ownstandard of a perfect ladyhaving always an audience in her ownconsciousnesswith sometimes the not unwelcome addition of a morevariable external audience in the numerous visitors of the house. Shefound time also to read the best novelsand even the second bestand she knew much poetry by heart.  Her favorite poem was "LallaRookh."

"Thebest girl in the world!  He will be a happy fellow who getsher!" was the sentiment of the elderly gentlemen who visited theVincys; and the rejected young men thought of trying againas is thefashion in country towns where the horizon is not thick with comingrivals. But Mrs. Plymdale thought that Rosamond had been educated toa ridiculous pitchfor what was the use of accomplishments whichwould be all laid aside as soon as she was married?  While heraunt Bulstrodewho had a sisterly faithfulness towards her brother'sfamilyhad two sincere wishes for Rosamond--that she might show amore serious turn of mindand that she might meet with a husbandwhose wealth corresponded to her habits.

CHAPTERXVII

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

The Rev.Camden Farebrotherwhom Lydgate went to see the next eveninglivedin an old parsonagebuilt of stonevenerable enough to match thechurch which it looked out upon. All the furniture too in the housewas oldbut with another grade of age--that of Mr. Farebrother'sfather and grandfather. There were painted white chairswith gildingand wreaths on themand some lingering red silk damask with slits init.  There were engraved portraits of Lord Chancellors and othercelebrated lawyers of the last century; and there were oldpier-glasses to reflect themas well as the little satin-wood tablesand the sofas resembling a prolongation of uneasy chairsallstanding in relief against the dark wainscot This was the physiognomyof the drawing-room into which Lydgate was shown; and there werethree ladies to receive himwho were also old-fashionedand of afaded but genuine respectability: Mrs. Farebrotherthe Vicar'swhite-haired motherbefrilled and kerchiefed with daintycleanlinessup rightquick-eyedand still under seventy; MissNobleher sistera tiny old lady of meeker aspectwith frills andkerchief decidedly more worn and mended; and Miss WinifredFarebrotherthe Vicar's elder sisterwell-looking like himselfbutnipped and subdued as single women are apt to be who spend theirlives in uninterrupted subjection to their elders.  Lydgate hadnot expected to see so quaint a group: knowing simply that Mr.Farebrother was a bachelorhe had thought of being ushered into asnuggery where the chief furniture would probably be books andcollections of natural objects.  The Vicar himself seemed towear rather a changed aspectas most men do when acquaintances madeelsewhere see them for the first time in their own homes; some indeedshowing like an actor of genial parts disadvantageously cast for thecurmudgeon in a new piece. This was not the case with Mr.Farebrother:  he seemed a trifle milder and more silentthechief talker being his motherwhile he only put in a good-humoredmoderating remark here and there.  The old lady was evidentlyaccustomed to tell her company what they ought to thinkand toregard no subject as quite safe without her steering. She wasafforded leisure for this function by having all her little wantsattended to by Miss Winifred.  Meanwhile tiny Miss Noble carriedon her arm a small basketinto which she diverted a bit of sugarwhich she had first dropped in her saucer as if by mistake; lookinground furtively afterwardsand reverting to her teacup with a smallinnocent noise as of a tiny timid quadruped. Pray think no ill ofMiss Noble.  That basket held small savings from her moreportable fooddestined for the children of her poor friends amongwhom she trotted on fine mornings; fostering and petting all needycreatures being so spontaneous a delight to herthat she regarded itmuch as if it had been a pleasant vice that she was addicted to. Perhaps she was conscious of being tempted to steal from those whohad much that she might give to those who had nothingand carried inher conscience the guilt of that repressed desire. One must be poorto know the luxury of giving!

Mrs.Farebrother welcomed the guest with a lively formality andprecision.  She presently informed him that they were not oftenin want of medical aid in that house.  She had brought up herchildren to wear flannel and not to over-eat themselveswhich lasthabit she considered the chief reason why people needed doctors.Lydgate pleaded for those whose fathers and mothers had over-eatenthemselvesbut Mrs. Farebrother held that view of things dangerous:Nature was more just than that; it would be easy for any felon to saythat his ancestors ought to have been hanged instead of him. If thosehe had bad fathers and mothers were bad themselvesthey were hangedfor that.  There was no need to go back on what you couldn'tsee.

"Mymother is like old George the Third" said the Vicar"sheobjects to metaphysics."

"Iobject to what is wrongCamden.  I saykeep hold of a fewplain truthsand make everything square with them.  When I wasyoungMr. Lydgatethere never was any question about right andwrong. We knew our catechismand that was enough; we learned ourcreed and our duty.  Every respectable Church person had thesame opinions. But nowif you speak out of the Prayer-book itselfyou are liable to be contradicted."

"Thatmakes rather a pleasant time of it for those who like to maintaintheir own point" said Lydgate.

"Butmy mother always gives way" said the Vicarslyly.

"NonoCamdenyou must not lead Mr. Lydgate into a mistake about ME. Ishall never show that disrespect to my parentsto give up what theytaught me.  Any one may see what comes of turning. If you changeoncewhy not twenty times?"

"Aman might see good arguments for changing onceand not see them forchanging again" said Lydgateamused with the decisive oldlady.

"Excuseme there.  If you go upon argumentsthey are never wantingwhen a man has no constancy of mind.  My father never changedand he preached plain moral sermons without argumentsand was a goodman-- few better.  When you get me a good man made out ofargumentsI will get you a good dinner with reading you thecookery-book. That's my opinionand I think anybody's stomach willbear me out."

"Aboutthe dinner certainlymother" said Mr. Farebrother.

"Itis the same thingthe dinner or the man.  I am nearly seventyMr. Lydgateand I go upon experience.  I am not likely tofollow new lightsthough there are plenty of them here as elsewhere.I saythey came in with the mixed stuffs that will neither wash norwear.  It was not so in my youth:  a Churchman was aChurchmanand a clergymanyou might be pretty surewas agentlemanif nothing else.  But now he may be no better than aDissenterand want to push aside my son on pretence of doctrine. But whoever may wish to push him asideI am proud to sayMr.Lydgatethat he will compare with any preacher in this kingdomnotto speak of this townwhich is but a low standard to go by; atleastto my thinkingfor I was born and bred at Exeter."

"Amother is never partial" said Mr. Farebrothersmiling. "Whatdo you think Tyke's mother says about him?"

"Ahpoor creature! what indeed?" said Mrs. Farebrotherhersharpness blunted for the moment by her confidence in maternaljudgments. "She says the truth to herselfdepend upon it."

"Andwhat is the truth?" said-Lydgate. "I am curious to know."

"Ohnothing bad at all" said Mr. Farebrother.  "He is azealous fellow:  not very learnedand not very wiseI think--because I don't agree with him."

"WhyCamden!" said Miss Winifred"Griffin and his wife told meonly to-daythat Mr. Tyke said they should have no more coals ifthey came to hear you preach."

Mrs.Farebrother laid down her knittingwhich she had resumed after hersmall allowance of tea and toastand looked at her son as if to say"You hear that?"  Miss Noble said"Oh poorthings! poor things!" in referenceprobablyto the double lossof preaching and coal. But the Vicar answered quietly--

"Thatis because they are not my parishioners.  And I don't think mysermons are worth a load of coals to them."

"Mr.Lydgate" said Mrs. Farebrotherwho could not let this pass"you don't know my son:  he always undervalues himself. I tell him he is undervaluing the God who made himand made him amost excellent preacher."

"Thatmust be a hint for me to take Mr. Lydgate away to my studymother"said the Vicarlaughing.  "I promised to show you mycollection" he addedturning to Lydgate; "shall we go?"

All threeladies remonstrated.  Mr. Lydgate ought not to be hurried awaywithout being allowed to accept another cup of tea: Miss Winifred hadabundance of good tea in the pot.  Why was Camden in such hasteto take a visitor to his den?  There was nothing but pickledverminand drawers full of blue-bottles and mothswith no carpet onthe floor.  Mr. Lydgate must excuse it.  A game at cribbagewould be far better.  In shortit was plain that a vicar mightbe adored by his womankind as the king of men and preachersand yetbe held by them to stand in much need of their direction. Lydgatewith the usual shallowness of a young bachelor. wondered that Mr.Farebrother had not taught them better.

"Mymother is not used to my having visitors who can take any interest inmy hobbies" said the Vicaras he opened the door of his studywhich was indeed as bare of luxuries for the body as the ladies hadimpliedunless a short porcelain pipe and a tobacco-box were to beexcepted.

"Menof your profession don't generally smoke" he said. Lydgate smiled and shook his head.  "Nor of mine eitherproperlyI suppose. You will hear that pipe alleged against me byBulstrode and Company. They don't know how pleased the devil would beif I gave it up."

"Iunderstand.  You are of an excitable temper and want a sedative.I am heavierand should get idle with it.  I should rush intoidlenessand stagnate there with all my might."

"Andyou mean to give it all to your work.  I am some ten or twelveyears older than youand have come to a compromise. I feed aweakness or two lest they should get clamorous.  See"continued the Vicaropening several small drawers"I fancy Ihave made an exhaustive study of the entomology of this district. Iam going on both with the fauna and flora; but I have at least donemy insects well.  We are singularly rich in orthoptera: I don'tknow whether--Ah! you have got hold of that glass jar-- you arelooking into that instead of my drawers.  You don't really careabout these things?"

"Notby the side of this lovely anencephalous monster. I have never hadtime to give myself much to natural history. I was early bitten withan interest in structureand it is what lies most directly in myprofession.  I have no hobby besides. I have the sea to swim inthere."

"Ah!you are a happy fellow" said Mr. Farebrotherturning on hisheel and beginning to fill his pipe.  "You don't know whatit is to want spiritual tobacco--bad emendations of old textsorsmall items about a variety of Aphis Brassicaewith the well-knownsignature of Philomicronfor the `Twaddler's Magazine;' or a learnedtreatise on the entomology of the Pentateuchincluding all theinsects not mentionedbut probably met with by the Israelites intheir passage through the desert; with a monograph on the Antastreated by Solomonshowing the harmony of the Book of Proverbs withthe results of modern research.  You don't mind my fumigatingyou?"

Lydgatewas more surprised at the openness of this talk than at its impliedmeaning--that the Vicar felt himself not altogether in the rightvocation.  The neat fitting-up of drawers and shelvesand thebookcase filled with expensive illustrated books on Natural Historymade him think again of the winnings at cards and their destination.But he was beginning to wish that the very best construction ofeverything that Mr. Farebrother did should be the true one. TheVicar's frankness seemed not of the repulsive sort Chat comes from anuneasy consciousness seeking to forestall the judgment of othersbutsimply the relief of a desire to do with as little pretence aspossible.  Apparently he was not without a sense that hisfreedom of speech might seem prematurefor he presently said--

"Ihave not yet told you that I have the advantage of youMr. Lydgateand know you better than you know me.  You remember Trawley whoshared your apartment at Paris for some time? I was a correspondentof hisand he told me a good deal about you. I was not quite surewhen you first came that you were the same man. I was very glad whenI found that you were.  Only I don't forget that you have nothad the like prologue about me."

Lydgatedivined some delicacy of feeling herebut did not half understandit.  "By the way" he said"what has become ofTrawley? I have quite lost sight of him.  He was hot on theFrench social systemsand talked of going to the Backwoods to founda sort of Pythagorean community.  Is he gone?"

"Notat all.  He is practising at a German bathand has married arich patient."

Then mynotions wear the bestso far" said Lydgatewith a shortscornful laugh.  "He would have itthe medical professionwas an inevitable system of humbug.  I saidthe fault was inthe men-- men who truckle to lies and folly.  Instead ofpreaching against humbug outside the wallsit might be better to setup a disinfecting apparatus within.  In short--I am reporting myown conversation-- you may be sure I had all the good sense on myside."

"Yourscheme is a good deal more difficult to carry out than thePythagorean communitythough.  You have not only got the oldAdam in yourself against youbut you have got all those descendantsof the original Adam who form the society around you.  You seeI have paid twelve or thirteen years more than you for my knowledgeof difficulties.  But"--Mr. Farebrother broke off a momentand then added"you are eying that glass vase again.  Doyou want to make an exchange?  You shall not have it without afair barter."

"Ihave some sea-mice--fine specimens--in spirits.  And I willthrow in Robert Brown's new thing--`Microscopic Observations on thePollen of Plants'--if you don't happen to have it already."

"Whyseeing how you long for the monsterI might ask a higher price.Suppose I ask you to look through my drawers and agree with me aboutall my new species?"  The Vicarwhile he talked in thiswayalternately moved about with his pipe in his mouthand returnedto hang rather fondly over his drawers.  "That would begood disciplineyou knowfor a young doctor who has to please hispatients in Middlemarch. You must learn to be boredremember. Howeveryou shall have the monster on your own terms."

"Don'tyou think men overrate the necessity for humoring everybody'snonsensetill they get despised by the very fools they humor?"said Lydgatemoving to Mr. Farebrother's sideand looking ratherabsently at the insects ranged in fine gradationwith namessubscribed in exquisite writing.  "The shortest way is tomake your value feltso that people must put up with you whether youflatter them or not."

"Withall my heart.  But then you must be sure of having the valueand you must keep yourself independent.  Very few men can dothat. Either you slip out of service altogetherand become good fornothingor you wear the harness and draw a good deal where youryoke-fellows pull you.  But do look at these delicateorthoptera!"

Lydgatehad after all to give some scrutiny to each drawerthe Vicarlaughing at himselfand yet persisting in the exhibition.

"Aproposof what you said about wearing harness" Lydgate beganafterthey had sat down"I made up my mind some time ago to do withas little of it as-possible. That was why I determined not to tryanything in Londonfor a good many years at least.  I didn'tlike what I saw when I was studying there--so much empty bigwiggismand obstructive trickery.  In the countrypeople have lesspretension to knowledgeand are less of companionsbut for thatreason they affect one's amour-propre less:  one makes less badbloodand can follow one's own course more quietly."

"Yes--well--youhave got a good start; you are in the right professionthe work youfeel yourself most fit for.  Some people miss thatand repenttoo late.  But you must not be too sure of keeping yourindependence."

"Youmean of family ties?" said Lydgateconceiving that these mightpress rather tightly on Mr. Farebrother.

"Notaltogether.  Of course they make many things more difficult. Buta good wife--a good unworldly woman--may really help a manand keephim more independent.  There's a parishioner of mine-- a finefellowbut who would hardly have pulled through as he has donewithout his wife.  Do you know the Garths?  I think theywere not Peacock's patients."

"No;but there is a Miss Garth at old Featherstone'sat Lowick."

"Theirdaughter:  an excellent girl."

"Sheis very quiet--I have hardly noticed her."

"Shehas taken notice of youthoughdepend upon it."

"Idon't understand" said Lydgate; he could hardly say "Ofcourse."

"Ohshe gauges everybody.  I prepared her for confirmation-- she isa favorite of mine."

Mr.Farebrother puffed a few moments in silenceLydgate not caring toknow more about the Garths.  At last the Vicar laid down hispipestretched out his legsand turned his bright eyes with a smiletowards Lydgatesaying--

"Butwe Middlemarchers are not so tame as you take us to be. We have ourintrigues and our parties.  I am a party manfor exampleandBulstrode is another.  If you vote for me you will offendBulstrode."

"Whatis there against Bulstrode?" said Lydgateemphatically.

"Idid not say there was anything against him except that. If you voteagainst him you will make him your enemy."

"Idon't know that I need mind about that" said Lydgateratherproudly; "but he seems to have good ideas about hospitalsandhe spends large sums on useful public objects.  He might help mea good deal in carrying out my ideas.  As to his religiousnotions-- whyas Voltaire saidincantations will destroy a flock ofsheep if administered with a certain quantity of arsenic.  Ilook for the man who will bring the arsenicand don't mind about hisincantations."

"Verygood.  But then you must not offend your arsenic-man. You willnot offend meyou know" said Mr. Farebrotherquiteunaffectedly. "I don't translate my own convenience into otherpeople's duties. I am opposed to Bulstrode in many ways.  Idon't like the set he belongs to:  they are a narrow ignorantsetand do more to make their neighbors uncomfortable than to makethem better. Their system is a sort of worldly-spiritual cliqueism: they really look on the rest of mankind as a doomed carcass which isto nourish them for heaven.  But" he addedsmilingly"Idon't say that Bulstrode's new hospital is a bad thing; and as to hiswanting to oust me from the old one--whyif he thinks me amischievous fellowhe is only returning a compliment.  And I amnot a model clergyman-- only a decent makeshift."

Lydgatewas not at all sure that the Vicar maligned himself. A modelclergymanlike a model doctorought to think his own profession thefinest in the worldand take all knowledge as mere nourishment tohis moral pathology and therapeutics.  He only said"Whatreason does Bulstrode give for superseding you?"

"ThatI don't teach his opinions--which he calls spiritual religion; andthat I have no time to spare.  Both statements are true. Butthen I could make timeand I should be glad of the forty pounds.That is the plain fact of the case.  But let us dismiss it. Ionly wanted to tell you that if you vote for your arsenic-manyouare not to cut me in consequence.  I can't spare you. You are asort of circumnavigator come to settle among usand will keep up mybelief in the antipodes.  Now tell me all about them in Paris."

CHAPTERXVIII

  "Ohsirthe loftiest hopes on earth
   Draw lotswith meaner hopes:  heroic breasts
   Breathingbad airran risk of pestilence;
   Orlackinglime-juice when they cross the Line
   May languishwith the scurvy."

Some weekspassed after this conversation before the question of the chaplaincygathered any practical import for Lydgateand without tellinghimself the reasonhe deferred the predetermination on which side heshould give his vote.  It would really have been a matter oftotal indifference to him--that is to sayhe would have taken themore convenient sideand given his vote for the appointment of Tykewithout any hesitation--if he had not cared personally for Mr.Farebrother.

But hisliking for the Vicar of St. Botolph's grew with growingacquaintanceship.  Thatentering into Lydgate's position as anew-comer who had his own professional objects to secureMr.Farebrother should have taken pains rather to warn off than to obtainhis interestshowed an unusual delicacy and generositywhichLydgate's nature was keenly alive to.  It went along with otherpoints of conduct in Mr. Fare brother which were exceptionally fineand made his character resemble those southern landscapes which seemdivided between natural grandeur and social slovenliness.  Veryfew men could have been as filial and chivalrous as he was to themotherauntand sisterwhose dependence on him had in many waysshaped his life rather uneasily for himself; few men who feel thepressure of small needs are so nobly resolute not to dress up theirinevitably self-interested desires in a pretext of better motives. In these matters he was conscious that his life would bear theclosest scrutiny; and perhaps the consciousness encouraged a littledefiance towards the critical strictness of persons whose celestialintimacies seemed not to improve their domestic mannersand whoselofty aims were not needed to account for their actions.  Thenhis preaching was ingenious and pithylike the preaching of theEnglish Church in its robust ageand his sermons were deliveredwithout book. People outside his parish went to hear him; andsinceto fill the church was always the most difficult part of aclergyman's functionhere was another ground for a careless sense ofsuperiority. Besideshe was a likable man:  sweet-temperedready-wittedfrankwithout grins of suppressed bitterness or otherconversational flavors which make half of us an affliction to ourfriends. Lydgate liked him heartilyand wished for his friendship.

With thisfeeling uppermosthe continued to waive the question of thechaplaincyand to persuade himself that it was not only no properbusiness of hisbut likely enough never to vex him with a demand forhis vote.  Lydgateat Mr. Bulstrode's requestwas laying downplans for the internal arrangements of the new hospitaland the twowere often in consultation.  The banker was always presupposingthat he could count in general on Lydgate as a coadjutorbut made nospecial recurrence to the coming decision between Tyke andFarebrother.  When the General Board of the Infirmary had methoweverand Lydgate had notice that the question of the chaplaincywas thrown on a council of the directors and medical mento meet onthe following Fridayhe had a vexed sense that he must make up hismind on this trivial Middlemarch business.  He could not helphearing within him the distinct declaration that Bulstrode was primeministerand that the Tyke affair was a question of office or nooffice; and he could not help an equally pronounced dislike to givingup the prospect of office.  For his observation was constantlyconfirming Mr. Farebrother's assurance that the banker would notoverlook opposition.  "Confound their petty politics!"was one of his thoughts for three mornings in the meditative processof shavingwhen he had begun to feel that he must really hold acourt of conscience on this matter.  Certainly there were validthings to be said against the election of Mr. Farebrother: he had toomuch on his hands alreadyespecially considering how much time hespent on non-clerical occupations.  Then again it was acontinually repeated shockdisturbing Lydgate's esteemthat theVicar should obviously play for the sake of moneyliking the playindeedbut evidently liking some end which it served. Mr.Farebrother contended on theory for the desirability of all gamesand said that Englishmen's wit was stagnant for want of them; butLydgate felt certain that he would have played very much less but forthe money.  There was a billiard-room at the Green Dragonwhichsome anxious mothers and wives regarded as the chief temptation inMiddlemarch.  The Vicar was a first-rate billiard-playerandthough he did not frequent the Green Dragonthere were reports thathe had sometimes been there in the daytime and had won money. And asto the chaplaincyhe did not pretend that he cared for itexceptfor the sake of the forty pounds.  Lydgate was no Puritanbuthe did not care for playand winning money at it had always seemed ameanness to him; besideshe had an ideal of life which made thissubservience of conduct to the gaining of small sums thoroughlyhateful to him.  Hitherto in his own life his wants had beensupplied without any trouble to himselfand his first impulse wasalways to be liberal with half-crowns as matters of no importance toa gentleman; it had never occurred to him to devise a plan forgetting half-crowns. He had always known in a general way that he wasnot richbut he had never felt poorand he had no power ofimagining the part which the want of money plays in determining theactions of men. Money had never been a motive to him.  Hence hewas not ready to frame excuses for this deliberate pursuit of smallgains. It was altogether repulsive to himand he never entered intoany calculation of the ratio between the Vicar's income and his moreor less necessary expenditure.  It was possible that he wouldnot have made such a calculation in his own case.

And nowwhen the question of voting had comethis repulsive fact told morestrongly against Mr. Farebrother than it had done before. One wouldknow much better what to do if men's characters were more consistentand especially if one's friends were invariably fit for any functionthey desired to undertake!  Lydgate was convinced that if therehad been no valid objection to Mr. Farebrotherhe would have votedfor himwhatever Bulstrode might have felt on the subject: he didnot intend to be a vassal of Bulstrode's. On the other handtherewas Tykea man entirely given to his clerical officewho was simplycurate at a chapel of ease in St. Peter's parishand had time forextra duty.  Nobody had anything to say against Mr. Tykeexceptthat they could not bear himand suspected him of cant. Reallyfromhis point of viewBulstrode was thoroughly justified.

Butwhichever way Lydgate began to inclinethere was something to makehim wince; and being a proud manhe was a little exasperated atbeing obliged to wince.  He did not like frustrating his ownbest purposes by getting on bad terms with Bulstrode; he did not likevoting against Farebrotherand helping to deprive him of functionand salary; and the question occurred whether the additional fortypounds might not leave the Vicar free from that ignoble care aboutwinning at cards.  MoreoverLydgate did not like theconsciousness that in voting for Tyke he should be voting on the sideobviously convenient for himself.  But would the end really behis own convenience?  Other people would say soand wouldallege that he was currying favor with Bulstrode for the sake ofmaking himself important and getting on in the world. What then? He for his own part knew that if his personal prospects simply hadbeen concernedhe would not have cared a rotten nut for the banker'sfriendship or enmity.  What he really cared for was a medium forhis worka vehicle for his ideas; and after allwas he not bound toprefer the object of getting a good hospitalwhere he coulddemonstrate the specific distinctions of fever and test therapeuticresultsbefore anything else connected with this chaplaincy? For the first time Lydgate was feeling the hampering threadlikepressure of small social conditionsand their frustratingcomplexity.  At the end of his inward debatewhen he set outfor the hospitalhis hope was really in the chance that discussionmight somehow give a new aspect to the questionand make the scaledip so as to exclude the necessity for voting. I think he trusted alittle also to the energy which is begotten by circumstances--somefeeling rushing warmly and making resolve easywhile debate in coolblood had only made it more difficult. However it washe did notdistinctly say to himself on which side he would vote; and all thewhile he was inwardly resenting the subjection which had been forcedupon him.  It would have seemed beforehand like a ridiculouspiece of bad logic that hewith his unmixed resolutions ofindependence and his select purposeswould find himself at the veryoutset in the grasp of petty alternativeseach of which wasrepugnant to him.  In his student's chambershe had prearrangedhis social action quite differently.

Lydgatewas late in setting outbut Dr. Spraguethe two other surgeonsandseveral of the directors had arrived early; Mr. Bulstrodetreasurerand chairmanbeing among those who were still absent. Theconversation seemed to imply that the issue was problematicalandthat a majority for Tyke was not so certain as had been generallysupposed.  The two physiciansfor a wonderturned out to beunanimousor ratherthough of different mindsthey concurred inaction. Dr. Spraguethe rugged and weightywasas every one hadforeseenan adherent of Mr. Farebrother.  The Doctor was morethan suspected of having no religionbut somehow Middlemarchtolerated this deficiency in him as if he had been a Lord Chancellor;indeed it is probable that his professional weight was the morebelieved inthe world-old association of cleverness with the evilprinciple being still potent in the minds even of lady-patients whohad the strictest ideas of frilling and sentiment.  It wasperhaps this negation in the Doctor which made his neighbors call himhard-headed and dry-witted; conditions of texture which were alsoheld favorable to the storing of judgments connected with drugs. At all eventsit is certain that if any medical man had come toMiddlemarch with the reputation of having very definite religiousviewsof being given to prayerand of otherwise showing an activepietythere would have been a general presumption against hismedical skill.

On thisground it was (professionally speaking) fortunate for Dr. Minchinthat his religious sympathies were of a general kindand such asgave a distant medical sanction to all serious sentimentwhether ofChurch or Dissentrather than any adhesion to particular tenets. If Mr. Bulstrode insistedas he was apt to doon the Lutherandoctrine of justificationas that by which a Church must stand orfallDr. Minchin in return was quite sure that man was not a meremachine or a fortuitous conjunction of atoms; if Mrs. Wimple insistedon a particular providence in relation to her stomach complaintDr.Minchin for his part liked to keep the mental windows open andobjected to fixed limits; if the Unitarian brewer jested about theAthanasian CreedDr. Minchin quoted Pope's "Essay on Man." He objected to the rather free style of anecdote in which Dr. Spragueindulgedpreferring well-sanctioned quotationsand likingrefinement of all kinds:  it was generally known that he hadsome kinship to a bishopand sometimes spent his holidays at "thepalace."

Dr.Minchin was soft-handedpale-complexionedand of rounded outlinenot to be distinguished from a mild clergyman in appearance: whereasDr. Sprague was superfluously tall; his trousers got creased at thekneesand showed an excess of boot at a time when straps seemednecessary to any dignity of bearing; you heard him go in and outandup and downas if he had come to see after the roofing. In shorthehad weightand might be expected to grapple with a disease and throwit; while Dr. Minchin might be better able to detect it lurking andto circumvent it.  They enjoyed about equally the mysteriousprivilege of medical reputationand concealed with much etiquettetheir contempt for each other's skill.  Regarding themselves asMiddlemarch institutionsthey were ready to combine against allinnovatorsand against non-professionals given to interference. Onthis ground they were both in their hearts equally averse to Mr.Bulstrodethough Dr. Minchin had never been in open hostility withhimand never differed from him without elaborate explanation toMrs. Bulstrodewho had found that Dr. Minchin alone understood herconstitution.  A layman who pried into the professional conductof medical menand was always obtruding his reforms-- though he wasless directly embarrassing to the two physicians than to thesurgeon-apothecaries who attended paupers by contractwasnevertheless offensive to the professional nostril as such; and Dr.Minchin shared fully in the new pique against Bulstrodeexcited byhis apparent determination to patronize Lydgate. The long-establishedpractitionersMr. Wrench and Mr. Toller; were just now standingapart and having a friendly colloquyin which they agreed thatLydgate was a jackanapesjust made to serve Bulstrode's purpose. To non-medical friends they had already concurred in praising theother young practitionerwho had come into the town on Mr. Peacock'sretirement without further recommendation than his own merits andsuch argument for solid professional acquirement as might be gatheredfrom his having apparently wasted no time on other branches ofknowledge.  It was clear that Lydgateby not dispensing drugsintended to cast imputations on his equalsand also to obscure thelimit between his own rank as a general practitioner and that of thephysicianswhoin the interest of the professionfelt bound tomaintain its various grades-- especially against a man who had notbeen to either of the English universities and enjoyed the absence ofanatomical and bedside study therebut came with a libellouspretension to experience in Edinburgh and Pariswhere observationmight be abundant indeedbut hardly sound.

Thus ithappened that on this occasion Bulstrode became identified withLydgateand Lydgate with Tyke; and owing to this variety ofinterchangeable names for the chaplaincy questiondiverse minds wereenabled to form the same judgment concerning it.

Dr.Sprague said at once bluntly.  to the group assembled when heentered"I go for Farebrother.  A salarywith all myheart. But why take it from the Vicar?  He has none toomuch--has to insure his lifebesides keeping houseand doing avicar's charities. Put forty pounds in his pocket and you'll do noharm.  He's a good fellowis Farebrotherwith as little of theparson about him as will serve to carry orders."

"Hoho!  Doctor" said old Mr. Powderella retired iron-mongerof some standing--his interjection being something between a laughand a Parliamentary disapproval; "we must let you have your say.But what we have to consider is not anybody's income--it's the soulsof the poor sick people"--here Mr. Powderell's voice and facehad a sincere pathos in them.  "He is a real Gospelpreacheris Mr. Tyke. I should vote against my conscience if I votedagainst Mr. Tyke-- I should indeed."

"Mr.Tyke's opponents have not asked any one to vote against hisconscienceI believe" said Mr. Hackbutta rich tanner offluent speechwhose glittering spectacles and erect hair were turnedwith some severity towards innocent Mr. Powderell. "But in myjudgment it behoves usas Directorsto consider whether we willregard it as our whole business to carry out propositions emanatingfrom a single quarter.  Will any member of the committee averthat he would have entertained the idea of displacing the gentlemanwho has always discharged the function of chaplain hereif it hadnot been suggested to him by parties whose disposition it is toregard every institution of this town as a machinery for carrying outtheir own views?  I tax no man's motives: let them lie betweenhimself and a higher Power; but I do saythat there are influencesat work here which are incompatible with genuine independenceandthat a crawling servility is usually dictated by circumstances whichgentlemen so conducting themselves could not afford either morally orfinancially to avow. I myself am a laymanbut I have given noinconsiderable attention to the divisions in the Church and--"

"Ohdamn the divisions!" burst in Mr. Frank Hawleylawyer andtown-clerkwho rarely presented himself at the boardbut now lookedin hurriedlywhip in hand.  "We have nothing to do withthem here. Farebrother has been doing the work--what therewas--without payand if pay is to be givenit should be given tohim.  I call it a confounded job to take the thing away fromFarebrother."

"Ithink it would be as well for gentlemen not to give their remarks apersonal bearing" said Mr. Plymdale.  "I shall votefor the appointment of Mr. Tykebut I should not have knownif Mr.Hackbutt hadn't hinted itthat I was a Servile Crawler."

"Idisclaim any personalities.  I expressly saidif I may beallowed to repeator even to conclude what I was about to say--"

"Ahhere's Minchin!" said Mr. Frank Hawley; at which everybodyturned away from Mr. Hackbuttleaving him to feel the uselessness ofsuperior gifts in Middlemarch.  "ComeDoctorI must haveyou on the right sideeh?"

"Ihope so" said Dr. Minchinnodding and shaking hands here andthere; "at whatever cost to my feelings."

"Ifthere's any feeling hereit should be feeling for the man who isturned outI think" said Mr. Frank Hawley.

"Iconfess I have feelings on the other side also.  I have adivided esteem" said Dr. Minchinrubbing his hands.  "Iconsider Mr. Tyke an exemplary man--none more so--and I believe himto be proposed from unimpeachable motives.  Ifor my partwishthat I could give him my vote.  But I am constrained to take aview of the case which gives the preponderance to Mr. Farebrother'sclaims. He is an amiable manan able preacherand has been longeramong us."

Old Mr.Powderell looked onsad and silent.  Mr. Plymdale settled hiscravatuneasily.

"Youdon't set up Farebrother as a pattern of what a clergyman ought tobeI hope" said Mr. Larcherthe eminent carrierwho had justcome in.  "I have no ill-will towards himbut I think weowe something to the publicnot to speak of anything higherinthese appointments.  In my opinion Farebrother is too lax for aclergyman.  I don't wish to bring up particulars against him;but he will make a little attendance here go as far as he can."

"Anda devilish deal better than too much" said Mr. Hawleywhosebad language was notorious in that part of the county. "Sickpeople can't bear so much praying and preaching. And thatmethodistical sort of religion is bad for the spirits-- bad for theinsideeh?" he addedturning quickly round to the four medicalmen who were assembled.

But anyanswer was dispensed with by the entrance of three gentlemenwithwhom there were greetings more or less cordial.  These were theReverend Edward ThesigerRector of St. Peter'sMr. Bulstrodeandour friend Mr. Brooke of Tiptonwho had lately allowed himself to beput on the board of directors in his turnbut had never beforeattendedhis attendance now being due to Mr. Bulstrode's exertions.Lydgate was the only person still expected.

Every onenow sat downMr. Bulstrode presidingpale and self-restrained asusual.  Mr. Thesigera moderate evangelicalwished for theappointment of his friend Mr. Tykea zealous able manwhoofficiating at a chapel of easehad not a cure of souls tooextensive to leave him ample time for the new duty. It was desirablethat chaplaincies of this kind should be entered on with a ferventintention:  they were peculiar opportunities for spiritualinfluence; and while it was good that a salary should be allottedthere was the more need for scrupulous watching lest the officeshould be perverted into a mere question of salary. Mr. Thesiger'smanner had so much quiet propriety that objectors could only simmerin silence.

Mr. Brookebelieved that everybody meant well in the matter. He had not himselfattended to the affairs of the Infirmarythough he had a stronginterest in whatever was for the benefit of Middlemarchand was mosthappy to meet the gentlemen present on any public question-- "anypublic questionyou know" Mr. Brooke repeatedwith his nod ofperfect understanding.  "I am a good deal occupied as amagistrateand in the collection of documentary evidencebut Iregard my time as being at the disposal of the public--andin shortmy friends have convinced me that a chaplain with a salary--a salaryyou know-- is a very good thingand I am happy to be able to comehere and vote for the appointment of Mr. TykewhoI understandisan unexceptionable manapostolic and eloquent and everything of thatkind-- and I am the last man to withhold my vote--under thecircumstancesyou know."

"Itseems to me that you have been crammed with one side of the questionMr. Brooke" said Mr. Frank Hawleywho was afraid of nobodyand was a Tory suspicious of electioneering intentions. "Youdon't seem to know that one of the worthiest men we have has beendoing duty as chaplain here for years without payand that Mr. Tykeis proposed to supersede him."

"ExcusemeMr. Hawley" said Mr. Bulstrode.  "Mr. Brooke hasbeen fully informed of Mr. Farebrother's character and position."

"Byhis enemies" flashed out Mr. Hawley.

"Itrust there is no personal hostility concerned here" said Mr.Thesiger.

"I'llswear there isthough" retorted Mr. Hawley.

"Gentlemen"said Mr. Bulstrodein a subdued tone"the merits of thequestion may be very briefly statedand if any one present doubtsthat every gentleman who is about to give his vote has not been fullyinformedI can now recapitulate the considerations that should weighon either side."

"Idon't see the good of that" said Mr. Hawley.  "Isuppose we all know whom we mean to vote for.  Any man who wantsto do justice does not wait till the last minute to hear both sidesof the question. I have no time to loseand I propose that thematter be put to the vote at once."

A briefbut still hot discussion followed before each person wrote "Tyke"or "Farebrother" on a piece of paper and slipped it into aglass tumbler; and in the mean time Mr. Bulstrode saw Lydgate enter.

"Iperceive that the votes are equally divided at present" saidMr. Bulstrodein a clear biting voice.  Thenlooking up atLydgate--

"Thereis a casting-vote still to be given.  It is yoursMr. Lydgate:will you be good enough to write?"

"Thething is settled now" said Mr. Wrenchrising.  "Weall know how Mr. Lydgate will vote."

"Youseem to speak with some peculiar meaningsir" said Lydgaterather defiantlyand keeping his pencil suspended.

"Imerely mean that you are expected to vote with Mr. Bulstrode. Do youregard that meaning as offensive?"

"Itmay be offensive to others.  But I shall not desist from votingwith him on that account."  Lydgate immediately wrote down"Tyke."

So theRev. Walter Tyke became chaplain to the Infirmaryand Lydgatecontinued to work with Mr. Bulstrode.  He was really uncertainwhether Tyke were not the more suitable candidateand yet hisconsciousness told him that if he had been quite free from indirectbias he should have voted for Mr. Farebrother. The affair of thechaplaincy remained a sore point in his memory as a case in whichthis petty medium of Middlemarch had been too strong for him. How could a man be satisfied with a decision between suchalternatives and under such circumstances?  No more than he canbe satisfied with his hatwhich he has chosen from among such shapesas the resources of the age offer himwearing it at best with aresignation which is chiefly supported by comparison.

But Mr.Farebrother met him with the same friendliness as before. Thecharacter of the publican and sinner is not always practicallyincompatible with that of the modern Phariseefor the majority of usscarcely see more distinctly the faultiness of our own conduct thanthe faultiness of our own argumentsor the dulness of our own jokes.But the Vicar of St. Botolph's had certainly escaped the slightesttincture of the Phariseeand by dint of admitting to himself that hewas too much as other men werehe had become remarkably unlike themin this--that he could excuse other; for thinking slightly of himand could judge impartially of their conduct even when it toldagainst him.

"Theworld has been to strong for MEI know" he said one day toLydgate.  "But then I am not a mighty man--I shall never bea man of renown.  The choice of Hercules is a pretty fable; butProdicus makes it easy work for the heroas if the first resolveswere enough.  Another story says that he came to hold thedistaffand at last wore the Nessus shirt.  I suppose one goodresolve might keep a man right if everybody else's resolve helpedhim."

TheVicar's talk was not always inspiriting:  he had escaped being aPhariseebut he had not escaped that low estimate of possibilitieswhich we rather hastily arrive at as an inference from our ownfailure.  Lydgate thought that there was a pitiable infirmity ofwill in Mr. Farebrother.

CHAPTERXIX

  "L' altra vedete ch'ha fatto alla guancia
  Della sua palmasospirandoletto."
  --Purgatoriovii.

WhenGeorge the Fourth was still reigning over the privacies of Windsorwhen the Duke of Wellington was Prime Ministerand Mr. Vincy wasmayor of the old corporation in MiddlemarchMrs. CasaubonbornDorothea Brookehad taken her wedding journey to Rome. In those daysthe world in general was more ignorant of good and evil by fortyyears than it is at present.  Travellers did not often carryfull information on Christian art either in their heads or theirpockets; and even the most brilliant English critic of the daymistook the flower-flushed tomb of the ascended Virgin for anornamental vase due to the painter's fancy.  Romanticismwhichhas helped to fill some dull blanks with love and knowledgehad notyet penetrated the times with its leaven and entered into everybody'sfood; it was fermenting still as a distinguishable vigorousenthusiasm in certain long-haired German artists at Romeand theyouth of other nations who worked or idled near them were sometimescaught in the spreading movement.

One finemorning a young man whose hair was not immoderately longbutabundant and curlyand who was otherwise English in his equipmenthad just turned his back on the Belvedere Torso in the Vatican andwas looking out on the magnificent view of the mountains from theadjoining round vestibule.  He was sufficiently absorbed not tonotice the approach of a dark-eyedanimated German who came up tohim and placing a hand on his shouldersaid with a strong accent"Come herequick! else she will have changed her pose."

Quicknesswas ready at the calland the two figures passed lightly along bythe Meleagertowards the hall where the reclining Ariadnethencalled the Cleopatralies in the marble voluptuousness of herbeautythe drapery folding around her with a petal-like ease andtenderness.  They were just in time to see another figurestanding against a pedestal near the reclining marble: a breathingblooming girlwhose formnot shamed by the Ariadnewas clad inQuakerish gray drapery; her long cloakfastened at the neckwasthrown backward from her armsand one beautiful ungloved handpillowed her cheekpushing somewhat backward the white beaver bonnetwhich made a sort of halo to her face around the simply braideddark-brown hair.  She was not looking at the sculptureprobablynot thinking of it:  her large eyes were fixed dreamily on astreak of sunlight which fell across the floor. But she becameconscious of the two strangers who suddenly paused as if tocontemplate the Cleopatraandwithout looking at themimmediatelyturned away to join a maid-servant and courier who were loiteringalong the hall at a little distance off.

"Whatdo you think of that for a fine bit of antithesis?" said theGermansearching in his friend's face for responding admirationbutgoing on volubly without waiting for any other answer. "Therelies antique beautynot corpse-like even in deathbut arrested inthe complete contentment of its sensuous perfection: and here standsbeauty in its breathing lifewith the consciousness of Christiancenturies in its bosom.  But she should be dressed as a nun; Ithink she looks almost what you call a Quaker; I would dress her as anun in my picture.  Howevershe is married; I saw herwedding-ring on that wonderful left handotherwise I should havethought the sallow Geistlicher was her father. I saw him parting fromher a good while agoand just now I found her in that magnificentpose.  Only think! he is perhaps richand would like to haveher portrait taken.  Ah! it is no use looking after her-- thereshe goes!  Let us follow her home!"

"Nono" said his companionwith a little frown.

"Youare singularLadislaw.  You look struck together.  Do youknow her?"

"Iknow that she is married to my cousin" said Will Ladislawsauntering down the hall with a preoccupied airwhile his Germanfriend kept at his side and watched him eagerly.

"What!the Geistlicher? He looks more like an uncle--a more useful sort ofrelation."

"Heis not my uncle.  I tell you he is my second cousin" saidLadislawwith some irritation.

"Schonschon.  Don't be snappish.  You are not angry with me forthinking Mrs. Second-Cousin the most perfect young Madonna I eversaw?"

"Angry?nonsense.  I have only seen her once beforefor a couple ofminuteswhen my cousin introduced her to mejust before I leftEngland.  They were not married then.  I didn't know theywere coming to Rome."

"Butyou will go to see them now--you will find out what they have for anaddress--since you know the name.  Shall we go to the post? Andyou could speak about the portrait."

"ConfoundyouNaumann!  I don't know what I shall do.  I am not sobrazen as you."

"Bah!that is because you are dilettantish and amateurish.  If youwere an artistyou would think of Mistress Second-Cousin as antiqueform animated by Christian sentiment--a sort of Christian Antigone--sensuous force controlled by spiritual passion."

"Yesand that your painting her was the chief outcome of herexistence--the divinity passing into higher completeness and all butexhausted in the act of covering your bit of canvas. I am amateurishif you like:  I do NOT think that all the universe is strainingtowards the obscure significance of your pictures."

"Butit ismy dear!--so far as it is straining through meAdolfNaumann:  that stands firm" said the good-natured painterputting a hand on Ladislaw's shoulderand not in the least disturbedby the unaccountable touch of ill-humor in his tone.  "Seenow! My existence presupposes the existence of the whole universe--does it NOT? and my function is to paint--and as a painter I have aconception which is altogether genialischof your great-aunt orsecond grandmother as a subject for a picture; thereforetheuniverse is straining towards that picture through that particularhook or claw which it puts forth in the shape of me-- not true?"

"Buthow if another claw in the shape of me is straining to thwart it?--the case is a little less simple then."

"Notat all:  the result of the struggle is the same thing-- pictureor no picture--logically."

Will couldnot resist this imperturbable temperand the cloud in his face brokeinto sunshiny laughter.

"Comenowmy friend--you will help?" said Naumannin a hopeful tone.

"No;nonsenseNaumann!  English ladies are not at everybody'sservice as models.  And you want to express too much with yourpainting. You would only have made a better or worse portrait with abackground which every connoisseur would give a different reason foror against. And what is a portrait of a woman?  Your paintingand Plastik are poor stuff after all.  They perturb and dullconceptions instead of raising them.  Language is a finermedium."

"Yesfor those who can't paint" said Naumann.  "There youhave perfect right.  I did not recommend you to paintmyfriend."

Theamiable artist carried his stingbut Ladislaw did not choose toappear stung.  He went on as if he had not heard.

"Languagegives a fuller imagewhich is all the better for beings vague. Afterallthe true seeing is within; and painting stares at you with aninsistent imperfection.  I feel that especially aboutrepresentations of women.  As if a woman were a mere coloredsuperficies! You must wait for movement and tone.  There is adifference in their very breathing:  they change from moment tomoment.--This woman whom you have just seenfor example:  howwould you paint her voicepray?  But her voice is much divinerthan anything you have seen of her."

"IseeI see.  You are jealous.  No man must presume to thinkthat he can paint your ideal.  This is seriousmy friend! Yourgreat-aunt! `Der Neffe als Onkel' in a tragic sense--ungeheuer!"

"Youand I shall quarrelNaumannif you call that lady my aunt again."

"Howis she to be called then?"

"Mrs.Casaubon."

"Good. Suppose I get acquainted with her in spite of youand find that shevery much wishes to be painted?"

"Yessuppose!" said Will Ladislawin a contemptuous undertoneintended to dismiss the subject.  He was conscious of beingirritated by ridiculously small causeswhich were half of his owncreation. Why was he making any fuss about Mrs. Casaubon?  Andyet he felt as if something had happened to him with regard to her. There are characters which are continually creating collisions andnodes for themselves in dramas which nobody is prepared to act withthem. Their susceptibilities will clash against objects that remaininnocently quiet.

CHAPTERXX

  "A child forsakenwaking suddenly
   Whose gazeafeard on all things round doth rove
   And seeth onlythat it cannot see
   The meeting eyes of love."

Two hourslaterDorothea was seated in an inner room or boudoir of a handsomeapartment in the Via Sistina.

I am sorryto add that she was sobbing bitterlywith such abandonment to thisrelief of an oppressed heart as a woman habitually controlled bypride on her own account and thoughtfulness for others will sometimesallow herself when she feels securely alone. And Mr. Casaubon wascertain to remain away for some time at the Vatican.

YetDorothea had no distinctly shapen grievance that she could state evento herself; and in the midst of her confused thought and passionthemental act that was struggling forth into clearness was aself-accusing cry that her feeling of desolation was the fault of herown spiritual poverty.  She had married the man of her choiceand with the advantage over most girls that she had contemplated hermarriage chiefly as the beginning of new duties:  from the veryfirst she had thought of Mr. Casaubon as having a mind so much aboveher ownthat he must often be claimed by studies which she could notentirely share; moreoverafter the brief narrow experience of hergirlhood she was beholding Romethe city of visible historywherethe past of a whole hemisphere seems moving in funeral processionwith strange ancestral images and trophies gathered from afar.

But thisstupendous fragmentariness heightened the dreamlike strangeness ofher bridal life.  Dorothea had now been five weeks in Romeandin the kindly mornings when autumn and winter seemed to go hand inhand like a happy aged couple one of whom would presently survive inchiller lonelinessshe had driven about at first with Mr. Casaubonbut of late chiefly with Tantripp and their experienced courier. Shehad been led through the best gallerieshad been taken to the chiefpoints of viewhad been shown the grandest ruins and the mostglorious churchesand she had ended by oftenest choosing to driveout to the Campagna where she could feel alone with the earth andskyaway-from the oppressive masquerade of agesin which her ownlife too seemed to become a masque with enigmatical costumes.

To thosewho have looked at Rome with the quickening power of a knowledgewhich breathes a growing soul into all historic shapesand tracesout the suppressed transitions which unite all contrastsRome maystill be the spiritual centre and interpreter of the world. But letthem conceive one more historical contrast:  the gigantic brokenrevelations of that Imperial and Papal city thrust abruptly on thenotions of a girl who had been brought up in English and SwissPuritanismfed on meagre Protestant histories and on art chiefly ofthe hand-screen sort; a girl whose ardent nature turned all her smallallowance of knowledge into principlesfusing her actions into theirmouldand whose quick emotions gave the most abstract things thequality of a pleasure or a pain; a girl who had lately become a wifeand from the enthusiastic acceptance of untried duty found herselfplunged in tumultuous preoccupation with her personal lot.  Theweight of unintelligible Rome might lie easily on bright nymphs towhom it formed a background for the brilliant picnic of Anglo-foreignsociety; but Dorothea had no such defence against deep impressions. Ruins and basilicaspalaces and colossiset in the midst of asordid presentwhere all that was living and warm-blooded seemedsunk in the deep degeneracy of a superstition divorced fromreverence; the dimmer but yet eager Titanic life gazing andstruggling on walls and ceilings; the long vistas of white formswhose marble eyes seemed to hold the monotonous light of an alienworld:  all this vast wreck of ambitious idealssensuous andspiritualmixed confusedly with the signs of breathing forgetfulnessand degradationat first jarred her as with an electric shockandthen urged themselves on her with that ache belonging to a glut ofconfused ideas which check the flow of emotion. Forms both pale andglowing took possession of her young senseand fixed themselves inher memory even when she was not thinking of thempreparing strangeassociations which remained through her after-years. Our moods areapt to bring with them images which succeed each other like themagic-lantern pictures of a doze; and in certain states of dullforlornness Dorothea all her life continued to see the vastness ofSt. Peter'sthe huge bronze canopythe excited intention in theattitudes and garments of the prophets and evangelists in the mosaicsaboveand the red drapery which was being hung for Christmasspreading itself everywhere like a disease of the retina.

Not thatthis inward amazement of Dorothea's was anything very exceptional: many souls in their young nudity are tumbled out among incongruitiesand left to "find their feet" among themwhile theirelders go about their business.  Nor can I suppose that whenMrs. Casaubon is discovered in a fit of weeping six weeks after herweddingthe situation will be regarded as tragic. Somediscouragementsome faintness of heart at the new real future whichreplaces the imaginaryis not unusualand we do not expect peopleto be deeply moved by what is not unusual. That element of tragedywhich lies in the very fact of frequencyhas not yet wrought itselfinto the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames couldhardly bear much of it.  If we had a keen vision and feeling ofall ordinary human lifeit would be like hearing the grass grow andthe squirrel's heart beatand we should die of that roar which lieson the other side of silence. As it isthe quickest of us walk aboutwell wadded with stupidity.

HoweverDorothea was cryingand if she had been required to state the causeshe could only have done so in some such general words as I havealready used:  to have been driven to be more particular wouldhave been like trying to give a history of the lights and shadowsfor that new real future which was replacing the imaginary drew itsmaterial from the endless minutiae by which her view of Mr. Casaubonand her wifely relationnow that she was married to himwasgradually changing with the secret motion of a watch-hand from whatit had been in her maiden dream.  It was too early yet for herfully to recognize or at least admit the changestill more for herto have readjusted that devotedness which was so necessary a part ofher mental life that she was almost sure sooner or later to recoverit.  Permanent rebellionthe disorder of a life without someloving reverent resolvewas not possible to her; but she was now inan interval when the very force of her nature heightened itsconfusion.  In this waythe early months of marriage often aretimes of critical tumult--whether that of a shrimp-pool or of deeperwaters--which afterwards subsides into cheerful peace.

But wasnot Mr. Casaubon just as learned as before?  Had his forms ofexpression changedor his sentiments become less laudable? Ohwaywardness of womanhood! did his chronology fail himor his abilityto state not only a theory but the names of those who held it; or hisprovision for giving the heads of any subject on demand? And was notRome the place in all the world to give free play to suchaccomplishments?  Besideshad not Dorothea's enthusiasmespecially dwelt on the prospect of relieving the weight and perhapsthe sadness with which great tasks lie on him who has to achievethem?-- And that such weight pressed on Mr. Casaubon was only plainerthan before.

All theseare crushing questions; but whatever else remained the samethelight had changedand you cannot find the pearly dawn at noonday.The fact is unalterablethat a fellow-mortal with whose nature youare acquainted solely through the brief entrances and exits of a fewimaginative weeks called courtshipmaywhen seen in the continuityof married companionshipbe disclosed as something better or worsethan what you have preconceivedbut will certainly not appearaltogether the same.  And it would be astonishing to find howsoon the change is felt if we had no kindred changes to compare withit. To share lodgings with a brilliant dinner-companionor to seeyour favorite politician in the Ministrymay bring about changesquite as rapid:  in these cases too we begin by knowing littleand believing muchand we sometimes end by inverting the quantities.

Stillsuch comparisons might misleadfor no man was more incapable offlashy make-believe than Mr. Casaubon:  he was as genuine acharacter as any ruminant animaland he had not actively assisted increating any illusions about himself.  How was it that in theweeks since her marriageDorothea had not distinctly observed butfelt with a stifling depressionthat the large vistas and wide freshair which she had dreamed of finding in her husband's mind werereplaced by anterooms and winding passages which seemed to leadnowhither? I suppose it was that in courtship everything is regardedas provisional and preliminaryand the smallest sample of virtue oraccomplishment is taken to guarantee delightful stores which thebroad leisure of marriage will reveal.  But the door-sill ofmarriage once crossedexpectation is concentrated on the present. Having once embarked on your marital voyageit is impossible not tobe aware that you make no way and that the sea is not withinsight--thatin factyou are exploring an enclosed basin.

In theirconversation before marriageMr. Casaubon had often dwelt on someexplanation or questionable detail of which Dorothea did not see thebearing; but such imperfect coherence seemed due to the brokenness oftheir intercourseandsupported by her faith in their futureshehad listened with fervid patience to a recitation of possiblearguments to be brought against Mr. Casaubon's entirely new view ofthe Philistine god Dagon and other fish-deitiesthinking thathereafter she should see this subject which touched him so nearlyfrom the same high ground whence doubtless it had become so importantto him.  Againthe matter-of-course statement and tone ofdismissal with which he treated what to her were the most stirringthoughtswas easily accounted for as belonging to the sense of hasteand preoccupation in which she herself shared during theirengagement. But nowsince they had been in Romewith all the depthsof her emotion roused to tumultuous activityand with life made anew problem by new elementsshe had been becoming more and moreawarewith a certain terrorthat her mind was continually slidinginto inward fits of anger and repulsionor else into forlornweariness. How far the judicious Hooker or any other hero oferudition would have been the same at Mr. Casaubon's time of lifeshe had no means of knowingso that he could not have the advantageof comparison; but her husband's way of commenting on the strangelyimpressive objects around them had begun to affect her with a sort ofmental shiver: he had perhaps the best intention of acquittinghimself worthilybut only of acquitting himself.  What wasfresh to her mind was worn out to his; and such capacity of thoughtand feeling as had ever been stimulated in him by the general life ofmankind had long shrunk to a sort of dried preparationa lifelessembalmment of knowledge.

When hesaid"Does this interest youDorothea?  Shall we stay alittle longer?  I am ready to stay if you wish it"--itseemed to her as if going or staying were alike dreary.  Or"Should you like to go to the FarnesinaDorothea?  Itcontains celebrated frescos designed or painted by Raphaelwhichmost persons think it worth while to visit."

"Butdo you care about them?" was always Dorothea's question.

"TheyareI believehighly esteemed.  Some of them represent thefable of Cupid and Psychewhich is probably the romantic inventionof a literary periodand cannotI thinkbe reckoned as a genuinemythical product.  But if you like these wall-paintings we caneasily drive thither; and you ill thenI thinkhave seen the chiefworks of Raphaelany of which it were a pity to omit in a visit toRome.  He is the painter who has been held to combine the mostcomplete grace of form with sublimity of expression. Such at least Ihave gathered to be the opinion of conoscenti."

This kindof answer given in a measured official toneas of a clergymanreading according to the rubricdid not help to justify the gloriesof the Eternal Cityor to give her the hope that if she knew moreabout them the world would be joyously illuminated for her. There ishardly any contact more depressing to a young ardent creature thanthat of a mind in which years full of knowledge seem to have issuedin a blank absence of interest or sympathy.

On othersubjects indeed Mr. Casaubon showed a tenacity of occupation and aneagerness which are usually regarded as the effect of enthusiasmandDorothea was anxious to follow this spontaneous direction of histhoughtsinstead of being made to feel that she dragged him awayfrom it.  But she was gradually ceasing to expect with herformer delightful confidence that she should see any wide openingwhere she followed him.  Poor Mr. Casaubon himself was lostamong small closets and winding stairsand in an agitated dimnessabout the Cabeirior in an exposure of other mythologists'ill-considered parallelseasily lost sight of any purpose which hadprompted him to these labors. With his taper stuck before him heforgot the absence of windowsand in bitter manuscript remarks onother men's notions about the solar deitieshe had becomeindifferent to the sunlight.

Thesecharacteristicsfixed and unchangeable as bone in Mr. Casaubonmight have remained longer unfelt by Dorothea if she had beenencouraged to pour forth her girlish and womanly feeling--if he wouldhave held her hands between his and listened with the delight oftenderness and understanding to all the little histories which madeup her experienceand would have given her the same sort of intimacyin returnso that the past life of each could be included in theirmutual knowledge and affection--or if she could have fed heraffection with those childlike caresses which are the bent of everysweet womanwho has begun by showering kisses on the hard pate ofher bald dollcreating a happy soul within that woodenness from thewealth of her own love.  That was Dorothea's bent.  Withall her yearning to know what was afar from her and to be widelybenignantshe had ardor enough for what was nearto have kissed Mr.Casaubon's coat-sleeveor to have caressed his shoe-latchetif hewould have made any other sign of acceptance than pronouncing herwith his unfailing proprietyto be of a most affectionate and trulyfeminine natureindicating at the same time by politely reaching achair for her that he regarded these manifestations as rather crudeand startling.  Having made his clerical toilet with due care inthe morninghe was prepared only for those amenities of life whichwere suited to the well-adjusted stiff cravat of the periodand to amind weighted with unpublished matter.

And by asad contradiction Dorothea's ideas and resolves seemed like meltingice floating and lost in the warm flood of which they had been butanother form.  She was humiliated to find herself a mere victimof feelingas if she could know nothing except through that medium: all her strength was scattered in fits of agitationof struggleofdespondencyand then again in visions of more complete renunciationtransforming all hard conditions into duty. Poor Dorothea! she wascertainly troublesome--to herself chiefly; but this morning for thefirst time she had been troublesome to Mr. Casaubon.

She hadbegunwhile they were taking coffeewith a determination to shakeoff what she inwardly called her selfishnessand turned a face allcheerful attention to her husband when he said"My dearDorotheawe must now think of all that is yet left undoneas apreliminary to our departure.  I would fain have returned homeearlier that we might have been at Lowick for the Christmas; but myinquiries here have been protracted beyond their anticipated period.I trusthoweverthat the time here has not been passed unpleasantlyto you.  Among the sights of Europethat of Rome has ever beenheld one of the most striking and in some respects edifying. I wellremember that I considered it an epoch in my life when I visited itfor the first time; after the fall of Napoleonan event which openedthe Continent to travellers.  Indeed I think it is one amongseveral cities to which an extreme hyperbole has been applied-- `SeeRome and die:'  but in your case I would propose an emendationand saySee Rome as a brideand live henceforth as a happy wife."

Mr.Casaubon pronounced this little speech with the most conscientiousintentionblinking a little and swaying his head up and downandconcluding with a smile.  He had not found marriage a rapturousstatebut he had no idea of being anything else than anirreproachable husbandwho would make a charming young woman ashappy as she deserved to be.

"Ihope you are thoroughly satisfied with our stay--I meanwith theresult so far as your studies are concerned" said Dorotheatrying to keep her mind fixed on what most affected her husband.

"Yes"said Mr. Casaubonwith that peculiar pitch of voice which makes theword half a negative.  "I have been led farther than I hadforeseenand various subjects for annotation have presentedthemselves whichthough I have no direct need of themI could notpretermit. The tasknotwithstanding the assistance of my amanuensishas been a somewhat laborious onebut your society has happilyprevented me from that too continuous prosecution of thought beyondthe hours of study which has been the snare of my solitary life."

"I amvery glad that my presence has made any difference to you" saidDorotheawho had a vivid memory of evenings in which she hadsupposed that Mr. Casaubon's mind had gone too deep during the day tobe able to get to the surface again.  I fear there was a littletemper in her reply.  "I hope when we get to LowickIshall be more useful to youand be able to enter a little more intowhat interests you."

"Doubtlessmy dear" said Mr. Casaubonwith a slight bow. "The notesI have here made will want siftingand you canif you pleaseextract them under my direction."

"Andall your notes" said Dorotheawhose heart had already burnedwithin her on this subjectso that now she could not help speakingwith her tongue.  "All those rows of volumes--will you notnow do what you used to speak of?--will you not make up your mindwhat part of them you will useand begin to write the book whichwill make your vast knowledge useful to the world?  I will writeto your dictationor I will copy and extract what you tell me: I canbe of no other use."  Dorotheain a most unaccountabledarkly feminine mannerended with a slight sob and eyes full oftears.

Theexcessive feeling manifested would alone have been highly disturbingto Mr. Casaubonbut there were other reasons why Dorothea's wordswere among the most cutting and irritating to him that she could havebeen impelled to use.  She was as blind to his inward troublesas he to hers:  she had not yet learned those hidden conflictsin her husband which claim our pity.  She had not yet listenedpatiently to his heartbeatsbut only felt that her own was beatingviolently. In Mr. Casaubon's earDorothea's voice gave loud emphaticiteration to those muffled suggestions of consciousness which it waspossible to explain as mere fancythe illusion of exaggeratedsensitiveness: always when such suggestions are unmistakably repeatedfrom withoutthey are resisted as cruel and unjust.  We areangered even by the full acceptance of our humiliatingconfessions--how much more by hearing in hard distinct syllables fromthe lips of a near observerthose confused murmurs which we try tocall morbidand strive against as if they were the oncoming ofnumbness!  And this cruel outward accuser was there in the shapeof a wife--nayof a young bridewhoinstead of observing hisabundant pen-scratches and amplitude of paper with the uncritical aweof an elegant-minded canary-birdseemed to present herself as a spywatching everything with a malign power of inference.  Heretowards this particular point of the compassMr. Casaubon had asensitiveness to match Dorothea'sand an equal quickness to imaginemore than the fact. He had formerly observed with approbation hercapacity for worshipping the right object; he now foresaw with suddenterror that this capacity might be replaced by presumptionthisworship by the most exasperating of all criticism--that which seesvaguely a great many fine endsand has not the least notion what itcosts to reach them.

For thefirst time since Dorothea had known himMr. Casaubon's face had aquick angry flush upon it.

"Mylove" he saidwith irritation reined in by propriety"youmay rely upon me for knowing the times and the seasonsadapted tothe different stages of a work which is not to be measured by thefacile conjectures of ignorant onlookers.  It had been easy forme to gain a temporary effect by a mirage of baseless opinion; but itis ever the trial of the scrupulous explorer to be saluted with theimpatient scorn of chatterers who attempt only the smallestachievementsbeing indeed equipped for no other. And it were well ifall such could be admonished to discriminate judgments of which thetrue subject-matter lies entirely beyond their reachfrom those ofwhich the elements may be compassed by a narrow and superficialsurvey."

Thisspeech was delivered with an energy and readiness quite unusual withMr. Casaubon.  It was not indeed entirely an improvisationbuthad taken shape in inward colloquyand rushed out like the roundgrains from a fruit when sudden heat cracks it.  Dorothea wasnot only his wife:  she was a personification of that shallowworld which surrounds the appreciated or desponding author.

Dorotheawas indignant in her turn.  Had she not been repressingeverything in herself except the desire to enter into some fellowshipwith her husband's chief interests?

"Myjudgment WAS a very superficial one--such as I am capable offorming" she answeredwith a prompt resentmentthat needed norehearsal.  "You showed me the rows of notebooks--you haveoften spoken of them--you have often said that they wanted digesting.But I never heard you speak of the writing that is to be published.Those were very simple factsand my judgment went no farther. I onlybegged you to let me be of some good to you."

Dorothearose to leave the table and Mr. Casaubon made no replytaking up aletter which lay beside him as if to reperuse it. Both were shockedat their mutual situation--that each should have betrayed angertowards the other.  If they had been at homesettled at Lowickin ordinary life among their neighborsthe clash would have beenless embarrassing:  but on a wedding journeythe express objectof which is to isolate two people on the ground that they are all theworld to each otherthe sense of disagreement isto say the leastconfounding and stultifying.  To have changed your longitudeextensively and placed yourselves in a moral solitude in order tohave small explosionsto find conversation difficult and to hand aglass of water without lookingcan hardly be regarded assatisfactory fulfilment even to the toughest minds. To Dorothea'sinexperienced sensitivenessit seemed like a catastrophechangingall prospects; and to Mr. Casaubon it was a new painhe never havingbeen on a wedding journey beforeor found himself in that closeunion which was more of a subjection than he had been able toimaginesince this charming young bride not only obliged him to muchconsideration on her behalf (which he had sedulously given)butturned out to be capable of agitating him cruelly just where he mostneeded soothing.  Instead of getting a soft fence against thecoldshadowyunapplausive audience of his lifehad he only givenit a more substantial presence?

Neither ofthem felt it possible to speak again at present. To have reversed aprevious arrangement and declined to go out would have been a show ofpersistent anger which Dorothea's conscience shrank fromseeing thatshe already began to feel herself guilty. However just herindignation might beher ideal was not to claim justicebut to givetenderness.  So when the carriage came to the doorshe drovewith Mr. Casaubon to the Vaticanwalked with him through the stonyavenue of inscriptionsand when she parted with him at the entranceto the Librarywent on through the Museum out of mere listlessnessas to what was around her. She had not spirit to turn round and saythat she would drive anywhere. It was when Mr. Casaubon was quittingher that Naumann had first seen herand he had entered the longgallery of sculpture at the same time with her; but here Naumann hadto await Ladislaw with whom he was to settle a bet of champagne aboutan enigmatical mediaeval-looking figure there.  After they hadexamined the figureand had walked on finishing their disputetheyhad partedLadislaw lingering behind while Naumann had gone into theHall of Statues where he again saw Dorotheaand saw her in thatbrooding abstraction which made her pose remarkable.  She didnot really see the streak of sunlight on the floor more than she sawthe statues: she was inwardly seeing the light of years to come inher own home and over the English fields and elms and hedge-borderedhighroads; and feeling that the way in which they might be filledwith joyful devotedness was not so clear to her as it had been. But in Dorothea's mind there was a current into which all thought andfeeling were apt sooner or later to flow--the reaching forward of thewhole consciousness towards the fullest truththe least partialgood. There was clearly something better than anger and despondency.

CHAPTERXXI

  "Hire facounde eke full womanly and plain
   Nocontrefeted termes had she
     To semenwise."
   --CHAUCER.

It was inthat way Dorothea came to be sobbing as soon as she was securelyalone.  But she was presently roused by a knock at the doorwhich made her hastily dry her eyes before saying"Come in."Tantripp had brought a cardand said that there was a gentlemanwaiting in the lobby.  The courier had told him that only Mrs.Casaubon was at homebut he said he was a relation of Mr.Casaubon's: would she see him?

"Yes"said Dorotheawithout pause; "show him into the salon."Her chief impressions about young Ladislaw were that when she hadseen him at Lowick she had been made aware of Mr. Casaubon'sgenerosity towards himand also that she had been interested in hisown hesitation about his career.  She was alive to anything thatgave her an opportunity for active sympathyand at this moment itseemed as if the visit had come to shake her out of her self-absorbeddiscontent--to remind her of her husband's goodnessand make herfeel that she had now the right to be his helpmate in all kinddeeds.  She waited a minute or twobut when she passed into thenext room there were just signs enough that she had been crying tomake her open face look more youthful and appealing than usual. She met Ladislaw with that exquisite smile of good-will which isunmixed with vanityand held out her hand to him. He was the elderby several yearsbut at that moment he looked much the youngerforhis transparent complexion flushed suddenlyand he spoke with ashyness extremely unlike the ready indifference of his manner withhis male companionwhile Dorothea became all the calmer with awondering desire to put him at ease.

"Iwas not aware that you and Mr. Casaubon were in Romeuntil thismorningwhen I saw you in the Vatican Museum" he said. "Iknew you at once--but--I meanthat I concluded Mr. Casaubon'saddress would be found at the Poste Restanteand I was anxious topay my respects to him and you as early as possible."

"Praysit down.  He is not here nowbut he will be glad to hear ofyouI am sure" said Dorotheaseating herself unthinkinglybetween the fire and the light of the tall windowand pointing to achair oppositewith the quietude of a benignant matron. The signs ofgirlish sorrow in her face were only the more striking. "Mr.Casaubon is much engaged; but you will leave your address-- will younot?--and he will write to you."

"Youare very good" said Ladislawbeginning to lose his diffidencein the interest with which he was observing the signs of weepingwhich had altered her face.  "My address is on my card. Butif you will allow me I will call again to-morrow at an hour when Mr.Casaubon is likely to be at home."

"Hegoes to read in the Library of the Vatican every dayand you canhardly see him except by an appointment.  Especially now. We areabout to leave Romeand he is very busy.  He is usually awayalmost from breakfast till dinner.  But I am sure he will wishyou to dine with us."

WillLadislaw was struck mute for a few moments.  He had never beenfond of Mr. Casaubonand if it had not been for the sense ofobligationwould have laughed at him as a Bat of erudition. But the idea of this dried-up pedantthis elaborator of smallexplanations about as important as the surplus stock of falseantiquities kept in a vendor's back chamberhaving first got thisadorable young creature to marry himand then passing his honeymoonaway from hergroping after his mouldy futilities (Will was given tohyperbole)-- this sudden picture stirred him with a sort of comicdisgust: he was divided between the impulse to laugh aloud and theequally unseasonable impulse to burst into scornful invective.

For aninstant he felt that the strugglewas causing a queer contortion ofhis mobile featuresbut with a good effort he resolved it intonothing more offensive than a merry smile.

Dorotheawondered; but the smile was irresistibleand shone back from herface too.  Will Ladislaw's smile was delightfulunless you wereangry with him beforehand:  it was a gush of inward lightilluminating the transparent skin as well as the eyesand playingabout every curve and line as if some Ariel were touching them with anew charmand banishing forever the traces of moodiness. Thereflection of that smile could not but have a little merriment in ittooeven under dark eyelashes still moistas Dorothea saidinquiringly"Something amuses you?"

"Yes"said Willquick in finding resources.  "I am thinking ofthe sort of figure I cut the first time I saw youwhen youannihilated my poor sketch with your criticism."

"Mycriticism?" said Dorotheawondering still more.  "Surelynot. I always feel particularly ignorant about painting."

"Isuspected you of knowing so muchthat you knew how to say just whatwas most cutting.  You said--I dare say you don't remember it asI do-- that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden fromyou. At leastyou implied that."  Will could laugh now aswell as smile.

"Thatwas really my ignorance" said Dorotheaadmiring

Will'sgood-humor. "I must have said so only because I never could seeany beauty in the pictures which my uncle told me all judges thoughtvery fine.  And I have gone about with just the same ignorancein Rome. There are comparatively few paintings that I can reallyenjoy. At first when I enter a room where the walls are covered withfrescosor with rare picturesI feel a kind of awe--like a childpresent at great ceremonies where there are grand robes andprocessions; I feel myself in the presence of some higher life thanmy own. But when I begin to examine the pictures one by on the lifegoes out of themor else is something violent and strange to me. Itmust be my own dulness.  I am seeing so much all at onceandnot understanding half of it.  That always makes one feelstupid. It is painful to be told that anything is very fine and notbe able to feel that it is fine--something like being blindwhilepeople talk of the sky."

"Ohthere is a great deal in the feeling for art which must be acquired"said Will.  (It was impossible now to doubt the directness ofDorothea's confession.) "Art is an old language with a greatmany artificial affected stylesand sometimes the chief pleasure onegets out of knowing them is the mere sense of knowing.  I enjoythe art of all sorts here immensely; but I suppose if I could pick myenjoyment to pieces I should find it made up of many differentthreads.  There is something in daubing a little one's selfandhaving an idea of the process."

"Youmean perhaps to be a painter?" said Dorotheawith a newdirection of interest.  "You mean to make painting yourprofession? Mr. Casaubon will like to hear that you have chosen aprofession."

"Nooh no" said Willwith some coldness.  "I have quitemade up my mind against it.  It is too one-sided a life.  Ihave been seeing a great deal of the German artists here:  Itravelled from Frankfort with one of them.  Some are fineevenbrilliant fellows-- but I should not like to get into their way oflooking at the world entirely from the studio point of view."

"ThatI can understand" said Dorotheacordially.  "And inRome it seems as if there were so many things which are more wantedin the world than pictures.  But if you have a genius forpaintingwould it not be right to take that as a guide? Perhaps you might do better things than these--or differentso thatthere might not be so many pictures almost all alike in the sameplace."

There wasno mistaking this simplicityand Will was won by it into frankness. "A man must have a very rare genius to make changes of thatsort.  I am afraid mine would not carry me even to the pitch ofdoing well what has been done alreadyat least not so well as tomake it worth while.  And I should never succeed in anything bydint of drudgery.  If things don't come easily to me I never getthem."

"Ihave heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets your want of patience"said Dorotheagently.  She was rather shocked at this mode oftaking all life as a holiday.

"YesI know Mr. Casaubon's opinion.  He and I differ."

The slightstreak of contempt in this hasty reply offended Dorothea. She was allthe more susceptible about Mr. Casaubon because of her morning'strouble.

"Certainlyyou differ" she saidrather proudly.  "I did notthink of comparing you:  such power of persevering devoted laboras Mr. Casaubon's is not common."

Will sawthat she was offendedbut this only gave an additional impulse tothe new irritation of his latent dislike towards Mr. Casaubon. It wastoo intolerable that Dorothea should be worshipping this husband:such weakness in a woman is pleasant to no man but the husband inquestion.  Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out oftheir neighbor's buzzing gloryand think that such killing is nomurder.

"Noindeed" he answeredpromptly.  "And therefore it isa pity that it should be thrown awayas so much English scholarshipisfor want of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world.If Mr. Casaubon read German he would save himself a great deal oftrouble."

"I donot understand you" said Dorotheastartled and anxious.

"Imerely mean" said Willin an offhand way"that theGermans have taken the lead in historical inquiriesand they laughat results which are got by groping about in woods with apocket-compass while they have made good roads.  When I was withMr. Casaubon I saw that he deafened himself in that direction: it was almost against his will that he read a Latin treatise writtenby a German. I was very sorry."

Will onlythought of giving a good pinch that would annihilate that vauntedlaboriousnessand was unable to imagine the mode in which Dorotheawould be wounded.  Young Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deephimself in German writers; but very little achievement is required inorder to pity another man's shortcomings.

PoorDorothea felt a pang at the thought that the labor of her husband'slife might be voidwhich left her no energy to spare for thequestion whether this young relative who was so much obliged to himought not to have repressed his observation. She did not even speakbut sat looking at her handsabsorbed in the piteousness of thatthought.

Willhoweverhaving given that annihilating pinchwas rather ashamedimagining from Dorothea's silence that he had offended her stillmore; and having also a conscience about plucking the tail-feathersfrom a benefactor.

"Iregretted it especially" he resumedtaking the usual coursefrom detraction to insincere eulogy"because of my gratitudeand respect towards my cousin.  It would not signify so much ina man whose talents and character were less distinguished."

Dorothearaised her eyesbrighter than usual with excited feelingand saidin her saddest recitative"How I wish I had learned German whenI was at Lausanne!  There were plenty of German teachers. Butnow I can be of no use."

There wasa new lightbut still a mysterious lightfor Will in Dorothea'slast words.  The question how she had come to accept Mr.Casaubon--which he had dismissed when he first saw her by saying thatshe must be disagreeable in spite of appearances--was not now to beanswered on any such short and easy method.  Whatever else shemight beshe was not disagreeable.  She was not coldly cleverand indirectly satiricalbut adorably simple and full of feeling.She was an angel beguiled.  It would be a unique delight to waitand watch for the melodious fragments in which her heart and soulcame forth so directly and ingenuously.  The AEolian harp againcame into his mind.

She musthave made some original romance for herself in this marriage. And ifMr. Casaubon had been a dragon who had carried her off to his lairwith his talons simply and without legal formsit would have been anunavoidable feat of heroism to release her and fall at her feet. But he was something more unmanageable than a dragon: he was abenefactor with collective society at his backand he was at thatmoment entering the room in all the unimpeachable correctness of hisdemeanorwhile Dorothea was looking animated with a newly rousedalarm and regretand Will was looking animated with his admiringspeculation about her feelings.

Mr.Casaubon felt a surprise which was quite unmixed with pleasurebuthe did not swerve from his usual politeness of greetingwhen Willrose and explained his presence.  Mr. Casaubon was less happythan usualand this perhaps made him look all the dimmer and morefaded; elsethe effect might easily have been produced by thecontrast of his young cousin's appearance.  The first impressionon seeing Will was one of sunny brightnesswhich added to theuncertainty of his changing expression.  Surelyhis veryfeatures changed their formhis jaw looked sometimes large andsometimes small; and the little ripple in his nose was a preparationfor metamorphosis. When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed toshake out lightand some persons thought they saw decided genius inthis coruscation. Mr. Casaubonon the contrarystood rayless.

AsDorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her husband she was perhapsnot insensible to the contrastbut it was only mingled with othercauses in making her more conscious of that new alarm on his behalfwhich was the first stirring of a pitying tenderness fed by therealities of his lot and not by her own dreams. Yet it was a sourceof greater freedom to her that Will was there; his young equality wasagreeableand also perhaps his openness to conviction.  Shefelt an immense need of some one to speak toand she had neverbefore seen any one who seemed so quick and pliableso likely tounderstand everything.

Mr.Casaubon gravely hoped that Will was passing his time profitably aswell as pleasantly in Rome--had thought his intention was to remainin South Germany--but begged him to come and dine to-morrowwhen hecould converse more at large:  at present he was somewhat weary.Ladislaw understoodand accepting the invitation immediately tookhis leave.

Dorothea'seyes followed her husband anxiouslywhile he sank down wearily atthe end of a sofaand resting his elbow supported his head andlooked on the floor.  A little flushedand with bright eyesshe seated herself beside himand said--

"Forgiveme for speaking so hastily to you this morning.  I was wrong. Ifear I hurt you and made the day more burdensome."

"I amglad that you feel thatmy dear" said Mr. Casaubon. He spokequietly and bowed.  his head a littlebut there was still anuneasy feeling in his eyes as he looked at her.

"Butyou do forgive me?" said Dorotheawith a quick sob.  Inher need for some manifestation of feeling she was ready toexaggerate her own fault.  Would not love see returningpenitence afar offand fall on its neck and kiss it?

"Mydear Dorothea--`who with repentance is not satisfiedis not ofheaven nor earth:'--you do not think me worthy to be banished by thatsevere sentence" said Mr. Casaubonexerting himself to make astrong statementand also to smile faintly.

Dorotheawas silentbut a tear which had come up with the sob would insist onfalling.

"Youare excitedmy dear.. And I also am feeling some unpleasantconsequences of too much mental disturbance" said Mr. Casaubon.In facthe had it in his thought to tell her that she ought not tohave received young Ladislaw in his absence:  but he abstainedpartly from the sense that it would be ungracious to bring a newcomplaint in the moment of her penitent acknowledgmentpartlybecause he wanted to avoid further agitation of himself by speechand partly because he was too proud to betray that jealousy ofdisposition which was not so exhausted on his scholarly compeers thatthere was none to spare in other directions.  There is a sort ofjealousy which needs very little fire:  it is hardly a passionbut a blight bred in the cloudydamp despondency of uneasy egoism.

"Ithink it is time for us to dress" he addedlooking at hiswatch. They both roseand there was never any further allusionbetween them to what had passed on this day.

ButDorothea remembered it to the last with the vividness with which weall remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectationdiesor some new motive is born.  Today she had begun to seethat she had been under a wild illusion in expecting a response toher feeling from Mr. Casaubonand she had felt the waking of apresentiment that there might be a sad consciousness in his lifewhich made as great a need on his side as on her own.

We are allof us born in moral stupiditytaking the world as an udder to feedour supreme selves:  Dorothea had early begun to emerge fromthat stupiditybut yet it had been easier to her to imagine how shewould devote herself to Mr. Casaubonand become wise and strong inhis strength and wisdomthan to conceive with that distinctnesswhich is no longer reflection but feeling-- an idea wrought back tothe directness of senselike the solidity of objects--that he had anequivalent centre of selfwhence the lights and shadows must alwaysfall with a certain difference.

CHAPTERXXII

  "Nous causames longtemps; elle etait simple et bonne.
  Ne sachant pas le malelle faisait le bien;
   Desrichesses du coeur elle me fit l'aumone
   Et tout enecoutant comme le coeur se donne
   Sans oser y penserje lui donnai le mien;
   Elle emporta ma vieet n'ensut jamais rien."
   --ALFRED DE MUSSET.

WillLadislaw was delightfully agreeable at dinner the next dayand gaveno opportunity for Mr. Casaubon to show disapprobation. On thecontrary it seemed to Dorothea that Will had a happier way of drawingher husband into conversation and of deferentially listening to himthan she had ever observed in any one before. To be surethelisteners about Tipton were not highly gifted! Will talked a gooddeal himselfbut what he said was thrown in with such rapidityandwith such an unimportant air of saying something by the waythat itseemed a gay little chime after the great bell. If Will was notalways perfectthis was certainly one of his good days. He describedtouches of incident among the poor people in Romeonly to be seen byone who could move about freely; he found himself in agreement withMr. Casaubon as to the unsound opinions of Middleton concerning therelations of Judaism and Catholicism; and passed easily to ahalf-enthusiastic half-playful picture of the enjoyment he got out ofthe very miscellaneousness of Romewhich made the mind flexible withconstant comparisonand saved you from seeing the world's ages as aset of box-like partitions without vital connection.  Mr.Casaubon's studiesWill observedhad always been of too broad akind for thatand he had perhaps never felt any such sudden effectbut for himself he confessed that Rome had given him quite a newsense of history as a whole: the fragments stimulated his imaginationand made him constructive. Then occasionallybut not too oftenheappealed to Dorotheaand discussed what she saidas if hersentiment were an item to be considered in the final judgment even ofthe Madonna di Foligno or the Laocoon.  A sense of contributingto form the world's opinion makes conversation particularly cheerful;and Mr. Casaubon too was not without his pride in his young wifewhospoke better than most womenas indeed he had perceived in choosingher.

Sincethings were going on so pleasantlyMr. Casaubon's statement that hislabors in the Library would be suspended for a couple of daysandthat after a brief renewal he should have no further reason forstaying in Romeencouraged Will to urge that Mrs. Casaubon shouldnot go away without seeing a studio or two.  Would not Mr.Casaubon take her?  That sort of thing ought not to be missed:it was quite special:  it was a form of life that grew like asmall fresh vegetation with its population of insects on hugefossils. Will would be happy to conduct them--not to anythingwearisomeonly to a few examples.

Mr.Casaubonseeing Dorothea look earnestly towards himcould not butask her if she would be interested in such visits: he was now at herservice during the whole day; and it was agreed that Will should comeon the morrow and drive with them.

Will couldnot omit Thorwaldsena living celebrity about whom even Mr. Casauboninquiredbut before the day was far advanced he led the way to thestudio of his friend Adolf Naumannwhom he mentioned as one of thechief renovators of Christian artone of those who had not onlyrevived but expanded that grand conception of supreme events asmysteries at which the successive ages were spectatorsand inrelation to which the great souls of all periods became as it werecontemporaries.  Will added that he had made himself Naumann'spupil for the nonce.

"Ihave been making some oil-sketches under him" said Will. "Ihate copying.  I must put something of my own in.  Naumannhas been painting the Saints drawing the Car of the Churchand Ihave been making a sketch of Marlowe's Tamburlaine Driving theConquered Kings in his Chariot.  I am not so ecclesiastical asNaumannand I sometimes twit him with his excess of meaning. But this time I mean to outdo him in breadth of intention.  Itake Tamburlaine in his chariot for the tremendous course of theworld's physical history lashing on the harnessed dynasties.  Inmy opinionthat is a good mythical interpretation."  Willhere looked at Mr. Casaubonwho received this offhand treatment ofsymbolism very uneasilyand bowed with a neutral air.

"Thesketch must be very grandif it conveys so much" saidDorothea. "I should need some explanation even of the meaningyou give. Do you intend Tamburlaine to represent earthquakes andvolcanoes?"

"Ohyes" said Willlaughing"and migrations of races andclearings of forests--and America and the steam-engine. Everythingyou can imagine!"

"Whata difficult kind of shorthand!" said Dorotheasmiling towardsher husband.  "It would require all your knowledge to beable to read it."

Mr.Casaubon blinked furtively at Will.  He had a suspicion that hewas being laughed at.  But it was not possible to includeDorothea in the suspicion.

They foundNaumann painting industriouslybut no model was present; hispictures were advantageously arrangedand his own plain vivaciousperson set off by a dove-colored blouse and a maroon velvet capsothat everything was as fortunate as if he had expected the beautifulyoung English lady exactly at that time.

Thepainter in his confident English gave little dissertations on hisfinished and unfinished subjectsseeming to observe Mr. Casaubon asmuch as he did Dorothea.  Will burst in here and there withardent words of praisemarking out particular merits in his friend'swork; and Dorothea felt that she was getting quite new notions as tothe significance of Madonnas seated under inexplicable canopiedthrones with the simple country as a backgroundand of saints witharchitectural models in their handsor knives accidentally wedged intheir skulls.  Some things which had seemed monstrous to herwere gathering intelligibility and even a natural meaning: but allthis was apparently a branch of knowledge in which Mr. Casaubon hadnot interested himself.

"Ithink I would rather feel that painting is beautiful than have toread it as an enigma; but I should learn to understand these picturessooner than yours with the very wide meaning" said Dorotheaspeaking to Will.

"Don'tspeak of my painting before Naumann" said Will.  "Hewill tell youit is all pfuschereiwhich is his most opprobriousword!"

"Isthat true?" said Dorotheaturning her sincere eyes on Naumannwho made a slight grimace and said--

"Ohhe does not mean it seriously with painting.  His walk must bebelles-lettres. That is wi-ide."

Naumann'spronunciation of the vowel seemed to stretch the word satirically. Will did not half like itbut managed to laugh: and Mr. Casaubonwhile he felt some disgust at the artist's German accentbegan toentertain a little respect for his judicious severity.

Therespect was not diminished when Naumannafter drawing Will aside fora moment and lookingfirst at a large canvasthen at Mr. Casauboncame forward again and said--

"Myfriend Ladislaw thinks you will pardon mesirif I say that asketch of your head would be invaluable to me for the St. ThomasAquinas in my picture there.  It is too much to ask; but I soseldom see just what I want--the idealistic in the real."

"Youastonish me greatlysir" said Mr. Casaubonhis looks improvedwith a glow of delight; "but if my poor physiognomywhich Ihave been accustomed to regard as of the commonest ordercan be ofany use to you in furnishing some traits for the angelical doctorIshall feel honored.  That is to sayif the operation will notbe a lengthy one; and if Mrs. Casaubon will not object to the delay."

As forDorotheanothing could have pleased her moreunless it had been amiraculous voice pronouncing Mr. Casaubon the wisest and worthiestamong the sons of men.  In that case her tottering faith wouldhave become firm again.

Naumann'sapparatus was at hand in wonderful completenessand the sketch wenton at once as well as the conversation.  Dorothea sat down andsubsided into calm silencefeeling happier than she had done for along while before.  Every one about her seemed goodand shesaid to herself that Romeif she had only been less ignorantwouldhave been full of beauty its sadness would have been winged withhope.  No nature could be less suspicious than hers: when shewas a child she believed in the gratitude of wasps and the honorablesusceptibility of sparrowsand was proportionately indignant whentheir baseness was made manifest.

The adroitartist was asking Mr. Casaubon questions about English politieswhich brought long answersandWill meanwhile had perched himselfon some steps in the background overlooking all.

PresentlyNaumann said--"Now if I could lay this by for half an hour andtake it up again--come and lookLadislaw--I think it is perfect sofar."

Willvented those adjuring interjections which imply that admiration istoo strong for syntax; and Naumann said in a tone of piteous regret--

"Ah--now--ifI could but have had more--but you have other engagements-- I couldnot ask it--or even to come again to-morrow."

"Ohlet us stay!" said Dorothea.  "We have nothing to doto-day except go abouthave we?" she addedlookingentreatingly at Mr. Casaubon. "It would be a pity not to makethe head as good as possible."

"I amat your servicesirin the matter" said Mr. Casaubonwithpolite condescension.  "Having given up the interior of myhead to idlenessit is as well that the exterior should work in thisway."

"Youare unspeakably good--now I am happy!" said Naumannand thenwent on in German to Willpointing here and there to the sketch asif he were considering that.  Putting it aside for a momenthelooked round vaguelyas if seeking some occupation for his visitorsand afterwards turning to Mr. Casaubonsaid--

"Perhapsthe beautiful bridethe gracious ladywould not be unwilling to letme fill up the time by trying to make a slight sketch of her--notofcourseas you seefor that picture-- only as a single study."

Mr.Casaubonbowingdoubted not that Mrs. Casaubon would oblige himand Dorothea saidat once"Where shall I put myself?"

Naumannwas all apologies in asking her to standand allow him to adjust herattitudeto which she submitted without any of the affected airs andlaughs frequently thought necessary on such occasionswhen thepainter said"It is as Santa Clara that I want you to stand--leaning sowith your cheek against your hand--so--looking at thatstoolpleaseso!"

Will wasdivided between the inclination to fall at the Saint's feet and kissher robeand the temptation to knock Naumann down while he wasadjusting her arm.  All this was impudence and desecrationandhe repented that he had brought her.

The artistwas diligentand Will recovering himself moved about and occupiedMr. Casaubon as ingeniously as he could; but he did not in the endprevent the time from seeming long to that gentlemanas was clearfrom his expressing a fear that Mrs. Casaubon would be tired. Naumann took the hint and said--

"Nowsirif you can oblige me again; I will release the lady-wife."

So Mr.Casaubon's patience held out furtherand when after all it turnedout that the head of Saint Thomas Aquinas would be more perfect ifanother sitting could be hadit was granted for the morrow. On themorrow Santa Clara too was retouched more than once. The result ofall was so far from displeasing to Mr. Casaubonthat he arranged forthe purchase of the picture in which Saint Thomas Aquinas sat amongthe doctors of the Church in a disputation too abstract to berepresentedbut listened to with more or less attention by anaudience above.  The Santa Clarawhich was spoken of in thesecond placeNaumann declared himself to be dissatisfied with-- hecould notin conscienceengage to make a worthy picture of it; soabout the Santa Clara the arrangement was conditional.

I will notdwell on Naumann's jokes at the expense of Mr. Casaubon that eveningor on his dithyrambs about Dorothea's charmin all which Willjoinedbut with a difference.  No sooner did Naumann mentionany detail of Dorothea's beautythan Will got exasperated at hispresumption:  there was grossness in his choice of the mostordinary wordsand what business had he to talk of her lips? She wasnot a woman to be spoken of as other women were.  Will could notsay just what he thoughtbut he became irritable.  And yetwhen after some resistance he had consented to take the Casaubons tohis friend's studiohe had been allured by the gratification of hispride in being the person who could grant Naumann such an opportunityof studying her loveliness--or rather her divinenessfor theordinary phrases which might apply to mere bodily prettiness were notapplicable to her.  (Certainly all Tipton and its neighborhoodas well as Dorothea herselfwould have been surprised at her beautybeing made so much of.  In that part of the world Miss Brookehad been only a "fine young woman.")

"Obligeme by letting the subject dropNaumann.  Mrs. Casaubon is notto be talked of as if she were a model" said Will. Naumannstared at him.

"Schon! I will talk of my Aquinas.  The head is not a bad typeafterall.  I dare say the great scholastic himself would have beenflattered to have his portrait asked for.  Nothing like thesestarchy doctors for vanity!  It was as I thought:  he caredmuch less for her portrait than his own."

"He'sa cursed white-blooded pedantic coxcomb" said Willwithgnashing impetuosity.  His obligations to Mr. Casaubon were notknown to his hearerbut Will himself was thinking of themandwishing that he could discharge them all by a check.

Naumanngave a shrug and said"It is good they go away soonmy dear.They are spoiling your fine temper."

All Will'shope and contrivance were now concentrated on seeing Dorothea whenshe was alone.  He only wanted her to take more emphatic noticeof him; he only wanted to be something more special in herremembrance than he could yet believe himself likely to be. He wasrather impatient under that open ardent good-willreach he saw washer usual state of feeling.  The remote worship of a womanthroned out of their reach plays a great part in men's livesbut inmost cases the worshipper longs for some queenly recognitionsomeapproving sign by which his soul's sovereign may cheer him withoutdescending from her high place.  That was precisely what Willwanted. But there were plenty of contradictions in his imaginativedemands. It was beautiful to see how Dorothea's eyes turned withwifely anxiety and beseeching to Mr. Casaubon:  she would havelost some of her halo if she had been without that duteouspreoccupation; and yet at the next moment the husband's sandyabsorption of such nectar was too intolerable; and Will's longing tosay damaging things about him was perhaps not the less tormentingbecause he felt the strongest reasons for restraining it.

Will hadnot been invited to dine the next day.  Hence he persuadedhimself that he was bound to calland that the only eligible timewas the middle of the daywhen Mr. Casaubon would not be at home.

Dorotheawho had not been made aware that her former reception of Will haddispleased her husbandhad no hesitation about seeing himespecially as he might be come to pay a farewell visit.  When heentered she was looking at some cameos which she had been buying forCelia. She greeted Will as if his visit were quite a matter ofcourseand said at oncehaving a cameo bracelet in her hand--

"I amso glad you are come.  Perhaps you understand all about cameosand can tell me if these are really good.  I wished to have youwith us in choosing thembut Mr. Casaubon objected:  he thoughtthere was not time.  He will finish his work to-morrowand weshall go away in three days.  I have been uneasy about thesecameos. Pray sit down and look at them."

"I amnot particularly knowingbut there can be no great mistake aboutthese little Homeric bits:  they are exquisitely neat. And thecolor is fine:  it will just suit you."

"Ohthey are for my sisterwho has quite a different complexion. You sawher with me at Lowick:  she is light-haired and very pretty-- atleast I think so.  We were never so long away from each other inour lives before.  She is a great pet and never was naughty inher life. I found out before I came away that she wanted me to buyher some cameosand I should be sorry for them not to be good--aftertheir kind." Dorothea added the last words with a smile.

"Youseem not to care about cameos" said Willseating himself atsome distance from herand observing her while she closed the oases.

"NofranklyI don't think them a great object in life" saidDorothea

"Ifear you are a heretic about art generally.  How is that? I should have expected you to be very sensitive to the beautifuleverywhere."

"Isuppose I am dull about many things" said Dorotheasimply. "Ishould like to make life beautiful--I mean everybody's life. And thenall this immense expense of artthat seems somehow to lie outsidelife and make it no better for the worldpains one. It spoils myenjoyment of anything when I am made to think that most people areshut out from it."

"Icall that the fanaticism of sympathy" said Willimpetuously."You might say the same of landscapeof poetryof allrefinement. If you carried it out you ought to be miserable in yourown goodnessand turn evil that you might have no advantage overothers. The best piety is to enjoy--when you can.  You are doingthe most then to save the earth's character as an agreeable planet.And enjoyment radiates.  It is of no use to try and take care ofall the world; that is being taken care of when you feel delight-- inart or in anything else.  Would you turn all the youth of theworld into a tragic choruswailing and moralizing over misery? Isuspect that you have some false belief in the virtues of miseryandwant to make your life a martyrdom."  Will had gone furtherthan he intendedand checked himself.  But Dorothea's thoughtwas not taking just the same direction as his ownand she answeredwithout any special emotion--

"Indeedyou mistake me.  I am not a sadmelancholy creature.  I amnever unhappy long together.  I am angry and naughty--not likeCelia: I have a great outburstand then all seems glorious again. Icannot help believing in glorious things in a blind sort of way. Ishould be quite willing to enjoy the art herebut there is so muchthat I don't know the reason of--so much that seems to me aconsecration of ugliness rather than beauty.  The painting andsculpture may be wonderfulbut the feeling is often low and brutaland sometimes even ridiculous.  Here and there I see what takesme at once as noble--something that I might compare with the AlbanMountains or the sunset from the Pincian Hill; but that makes it thegreater pity that there is so little of the best kind among all thatmass of things over which men have toiled so."

"Ofcourse there is always a great deal of poor work:  the rarerthings want that soil to grow in."

"Ohdear" said Dorotheataking up that thought into the chiefcurrent of her anxiety; "I see it must be very difficult to doanything good. I have often felt since I have been in Rome that mostof our lives would look much uglier and more bungling than thepicturesif they could be put on the wall."

Dorotheaparted her lips again as if she were going to say morebut changedher mind and paused.

"Youare too young--it is an anachronism for you to have such thoughts"said Willenergeticallywith a quick shake of the head habitual tohim. "You talk as if you had never known any youth.  It ismonstrous-- as if you had had a vision of Hades in your childhoodlike the boy in the legend.  You have been brought up in some ofthose horrible notions that choose the sweetest women to devour--likeMinotaurs And now you will go and be shut up in that stone prison atLowick: you will be buried alive.  It makes me savage to thinkof it! I would rather never have seen you than think of you with sucha prospect."

Will againfeared that he had gone too far; but the meaning we attach to wordsdepends on our feelingand his tone of angry regret had so muchkindness in it for Dorothea's heartwhich had always been giving outardor and had never been fed with much from the living beings aroundherthat she felt a new sense of gratitude and answered with agentle smile--

"Itis very good of you to be anxious about me.  It is because youdid not like Lowick yourself:  you had set your heart on anotherkind of life.  But Lowick is my chosen home."

The lastsentence was spoken with an almost solemn cadenceand Will did notknow what to saysince it would not be useful for him to embrace herslippersand tell her that he would die for her: it was clear thatshe required nothing of the sort; and they were both silent for amoment or twowhen Dorothea began again with an air of saying atlast what had been in her mind beforehand.

"Iwanted to ask you again about something you said the other day.Perhaps it was half of it your lively way of speaking:  I noticethat you like to put things strongly; I myself often exaggerate whenI speak hastily."

"Whatwas it?" said Willobserving that she spoke with a timidityquite new in her.  "I have a hyperbolical tongue:  itcatches fire as it goes.  I dare say I shall have to retract."

"Imean what you said about the necessity of knowing German--I meanforthe subjects that Mr. Casaubon is engaged in.  I have beenthinking about it; and it seems to me that with Mr. Casaubon'slearning he must have before him the same materials as Germanscholars--has he not?" Dorothea's timidity was due to anindistinct consciousness that she was in the strange situation ofconsulting a third person about the adequacy of Mr. Casaubon'slearning.

"Notexactly the same materials" said Willthinking that he wouldbe duly reserved.  "He is not an Orientalistyou know. Hedoes not profess to have more than second-hand knowledge there."

"Butthere are very valuable books about antiquities which were written along while ago by scholars who knew nothing about these modernthings; and they are still used.  Why should Mr. Casaubon's notbe valuablelike theirs?" said Dorotheawith more remonstrantenergy. She was impelled to have the argument aloudwhich she hadbeen having in her own mind.

"Thatdepends on the line of study taken" said Willalso getting atone of rejoinder.  "The subject Mr. Casaubon has chosen isas changing as chemistry:  new discoveries are constantly makingnew points of view.  Who wants a system on the basis of the fourelementsor a book to refute Paracelsus?  Do you not see thatit is no use now to be crawling a little way after men of the lastcentury-- men like Bryant--and correcting their mistakes?--living ina lumber-room and furbishing up broken-legged theories about Chus andMizraim?"

"Howcan you bear to speak so lightly?" said Dorotheawith a lookbetween sorrow and anger.  "If it were as you saywhatcould be sadder than so much ardent labor all in vain?  I wonderit does not affect you more painfullyif you really think that a manlike Mr. Casaubonof so much goodnesspowerand learningshouldin any way fail in what has been the labor of his best years."She was beginning to be shocked that she had got to such a point ofsuppositionand indignant with Will for having led her to it.

"Youquestioned me about the matter of factnot of feeling" saidWill.  "But if you wish to punish me for the factIsubmit. I am not in a position to express my feeling toward Mr.Casaubon: it would be at best a pensioner's eulogy."

"Prayexcuse me" said Dorotheacoloring deeply.  "I amawareas you saythat I am in fault in having introduced thesubject. IndeedI am wrong altogether.  Failure after longperseverance is much grander than never to have a striving goodenough to be called a failure."

"Iquite agree with you" said Willdetermined to change thesituation-- "so much so that I have made up my mind not to runthat risk of never attaining a failure.  Mr. Casaubon'sgenerosity has perhaps been dangerous to meand I mean to renouncethe liberty it has given me.  I mean to go back to Englandshortly and work my own way-- depend on nobody else than myself."

"Thatis fine--I respect that feeling" said Dorotheawith returningkindness.  "But Mr. CasaubonI am surehas never thoughtof anything in the matter except what was most for your welfare."

"Shehas obstinacy and pride enough to serve instead of lovenow she hasmarried him" said Will to himself.  Aloud he saidrising--

"Ishall not see you again."

"Ohstay till Mr. Casaubon comes" said Dorotheaearnestly. "I am so glad we met in Rome.  I wanted to know you."?

"AndI have made you angry" said Will.  "I have made youthink ill of me."

"Ohno.  My sister tells me I am always angry with people who do notsay just what I like.  But I hope I am not given to think ill ofthem.  In the end I am usually obliged to think ill of myself.for being so impatient."

"Stillyou don't like me; I have made myself an unpleasant thought to you."

"Notat all" said Dorotheawith the most open kindness. "Ilike you very much."

Will wasnot quite contentedthinking that he would apparently have been ofmore importance if he had been disliked.  He said nothingbutlooked lullnot to say sulky.

"AndI am quite interested to see what you will do" Dorothea went oncheerfully.  "I believe devoutly in a natural difference ofvocation. If it were not for that beliefI suppose I should be verynarrow-- there are so many thingsbesides paintingthat I am quiteignorant of.  You would hardly believe how little I have takenin of music and literaturewhich you know so much of.  I wonderwhat your vocation will turn out to be:  perhaps you will be apoet?"

"Thatdepends.  To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discernthat no shade of quality escapes itand so quick to feelthatdiscernment is but a hand playing with finely ordered variety on thechords of emotion--a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneouslyinto feelingand feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge.One may have that condition by fits only."

"Butyou leave out the poems" said Dorothea.  "I thinkthey are wanted to complete the poet.  I understand what youmean about knowledge passing into feelingfor that seems to be justwhat I experience. But I am sure I could never produce a poem."

"YouARE a poem--and that is to be the best part of a poet-- what makes upthe poet's consciousness in his best moods" said Willshowingsuch originality as we all share with the morning and the spring-timeand other endless renewals.

"I amvery glad to hear it" said Dorothealaughing out her words ina bird-like modulationand looking at Will with playful gratitude inher eyes.  "What very kind things you say to me!"

"Iwish I could ever do anything that would be what you call kind-- thatI could ever be of the slightest service to you I fear I shall neverhave the opportunity."  Will spoke with fervor.

"Ohyes" said Dorotheacordially.  "It will come; and Ishall remember how well you wish me.  I quite hoped that weshould be friends when I first saw you--because of your relationshipto Mr. Casaubon." There was a certain liquid brightness in hereyesand Will was conscious that his own were obeying a law ofnature and filling too. The allusion to Mr. Casaubon would havespoiled all if anything at that moment could have spoiled thesubduing powerthe sweet dignityof her noble unsuspiciousinexperience.

"Andthere is one thing even now that you can do" said Dorothearising and walking a little way under the strength of a recurringimpulse. "Promise me that you will not againto any onespeakof that subject-- I mean about Mr. Casaubon's writings--I mean inthat kind of way. It was I who led to it.  It was my fault. But promise me."

She hadreturned from her brief pacing and stood opposite Willlookinggravely at him.

"CertainlyI will promise you" said Willreddening however. If he neversaid a cutting word about Mr. Casaubon again and left off receivingfavors from himit would clearly be permissible to hate him themore.  The poet must know how to hatesays Goethe; and Will wasat least ready with that accomplishment.  He said that he mustgo now without waiting for Mr. Casaubonwhom he would come to takeleave of at the last moment.  Dorothea gave him her handandthey exchanged a simple "Good-by."

But goingout of the porte cochere he met Mr. Casaubonand that gentlemanexpressing the best wishes for his cousinpolitely waived thepleasure of any further leave-taking on the morrowwhich would besufficiently crowded with the preparations for departure.

"Ihave something to tell you about our cousin Mr. Ladislawwhich Ithink will heighten your opinion of him" said Dorothea to herhusband in the coarse of the evening.  She had mentionedimmediately on his entering that Will had just gone awayand wouldcome againbut Mr. Casaubon had said"I met him outsideandwe made our final adieuxI believe" saying this with the airand tone by which we imply that any subjectwhether private orpublicdoes not interest us enough to wish for a further remark uponit. So Dorothea had waited.

"Whatis thatmy love?" said Mr Casaubon (he always said "mylove" when his manner was the coldest).

"Hehas made up his mind to leave off wandering at onceand to give uphis dependence on your generosity.  He means soon to go back toEnglandand work his own way.  I thought you would considerthat a good sign" said Dorotheawith an appealing look intoher husband's neutral face.

"Didhe mention the precise order of occupation to which he would addicthimself?"

"No.But he said that he felt the danger which lay for him in yourgenerosity.  Of course he will write to you about it. Do you notthink better of him for his resolve?"

"Ishall await his communication on the subject" said Mr.Casaubon.

"Itold him I was sure that the thing you considered in all you did forhim was his own welfare.  I remembered your goodness in what yousaid about him when I first saw him at Lowick" said Dorotheaputting her hand on her husband's

"Ihad a duty towards him" said Mr. Casaubonlaying his otherhand on Dorothea's in conscientious acceptance of her caressbutwith a glance which he could not hinder from being uneasy. "Theyoung manI confessis not otherwise an object of interest to menor need weI thinkdiscuss his future coursewhich it is not oursto determine beyond the limits which I have sufficiently indicated."Dorothea did not mention Will again.

BOOKIII

WAITINGFOR DEATH

CHAPTERXXIII

  "Your horses of the Sun" he said
   "Andfirst-rate whip Apollo!
   Whate'er they beI'll eat myhead
   But I will beat them hollow."

FredVincywe have seen.  had a debt on his mindand though no suchimmaterial burthen could depress that buoyant-hearted young gentlemanfor many hours togetherthere were circumstances connected with thisdebt which made the thought of it unusually importunate. The creditorwas Mr. Bambridge a horse-dealer of the neighborhoodwhose companywas much sought in Middlemarch by young men understood to be"addicted to pleasure."  During the vacations Fred hadnaturally required more amusements than he had ready money forandMr. Bambridge had been accommodating enough not only to trust him forthe hire of horses and the accidental expense of ruining a finehunterbut also to make a small advance by which he might be able tomeet some losses at billiards.  The total debt was a hundred andsixty pounds. Bambridge was in no alarm about his moneybeing surethat young Vincy had backers; but he had required something to showfor itand Fred had at first given a bill with his own signature.Three months later he had renewed this bill with the signature ofCaleb Garth.  On both occasions Fred had felt confident that heshould meet the bill himselfhaving ample funds at disposal in hisown hopefulness.  You will hardly demand that his confidenceshould have a basis in external facts; such confidencewe knowissomething less coarse and materialistic:  it is a comfortabledisposition leading us to expect that the wisdom of providence or thefolly of our friendsthe mysteries of luck or the still greatermystery of our high individual value in the universewill bringabout agreeable issuessuch as are consistent with our good taste incostumeand our general preference for the best style of thing. Fredfelt sure that he should have a present from his unclethat heshould have a run of luckthat by dint of "swapping" heshould gradually metamorphose a horse worth forty pounds into a horsethat would fetch a hundred at any moment--"judgment" beingalways equivalent to an unspecified sum in hard cash.  And inany caseeven supposing negations which only a morbid distrust couldimagineFred had always (at that time) his father's pocket as a lastresourceso that his assets of hopefulness had a sort of gorgeoussuperfluity about them.  Of what might be the capacity of hisfather's pocketFred had only a vague notion:  was not tradeelastic? And would not the deficiencies of one year be made up for bythe surplus of another?  The Vincys lived in an easy profusewaynot with any new ostentationbut according to the family habitsand traditionsso that the children had no standard of economyandthe elder ones retained some of their infantine notion that theirfather might pay for anything if he would.  Mr. Vincy himselfhad expensive Middlemarch habits--spent money on coursingon hiscellarand on dinner-givingwhile mamma had those running accountswith tradespeoplewhich give a cheerful sense of getting everythingone wants without any question of payment.  But it was in thenature of fathersFred knewto bully one about expenses: there wasalways a little storm over his extravagance if he had to disclose adebtand Fred disliked bad weather within doors. He was too filialto be disrespectful to his fatherand he bore the thunder with thecertainty that it was transient; but in the mean time it wasdisagreeable to see his mother cryand also to be obliged to looksulky instead of having fun; for Fred was so good-tempered that if helooked glum under scoldingit was chiefly for propriety's sake. The easier course plainlywas to renew the bill with a friend'ssignature.  Why not?  With the superfluous securities ofhope at his commandthere was no reason why he should not haveincreased other people's liabilities to any extentbut for the factthat men whose names were good for anything were usually pessimistsindisposed to believe that the universal order of things wouldnecessarily be agreeable to an agreeable young gentleman.

With afavor to ask we review our list of friendsdo justice to their moreamiable qualitiesforgive their little offensesand concerning eachin turntry to arrive at the conclusion that he will be eager tooblige usour own eagerness to be obliged being as communicable asother warmth.  Still there is always a certain number who aredismissed as but moderately eager until the others have refused; andit happened that Fred checked off all his friends but oneon theground that applying to them would be disagreeable; being implicitlyconvinced that he at least (whatever might be maintained aboutmankind generally) had a right to be free from anythingdisagreeable.  That he should ever fall into a thoroughlyunpleasant position--wear trousers shrunk with washingeat coldmuttonhave to walk for want of a horseor to "duck under"in any sort of way--was an absurdity irreconcilable with thosecheerful intuitions implanted in him by nature.  And Fred wincedunder the idea of being looked down upon as wanting funds for smalldebts. Thus it came to pass that the friend whom he chose to apply towas at once the poorest and the kindest--namelyCaleb Garth.

The Garthswere very fond of Fredas he was of them; for when he and Rosamondwere little onesand the Garths were better offthe slightconnection between the two families through Mr. Featherstone's doublemarriage (the first to Mr. Garth's sisterand the second to Mrs.Vincy's) had led to an acquaintance which was carried on between thechildren rather than the parents: the children drank tea together outof their toy teacupsand spent whole days together in play. Mary was a little hoydenand Fred at six years old thought her thenicest girl in the world making her his wife with a brass ring whichhe had cut from an umbrella. Through all the stages of his educationhe had kept his affection for the Garthsand his habit of going totheir house as a second homethough any intercourse between them andthe elders of his family had long ceased.  Even when Caleb Garthwas prosperousthe Vincys were on condescending terms with him andhis wifefor there were nice distinctions of rank in Middlemarch;and though old manufacturers could not any more than dukes beconnected with none but equalsthey were conscious of an inherentsocial superiority which was defined with great nicety in practicethough hardly expressible theoretically.  Since then Mr. Garthhad failed in the building businesswhich he had unfortunately addedto his other avocations of surveyorvaluerand agenthad conductedthat business for a time entirely for the benefit of his assigneesand had been living narrowlyexerting himself to the utmost that hemight after all pay twenty shillings in the pound. He had nowachieved thisand from all who did not think it a bad precedenthishonorable exertions had won him due esteem; but in no part of theworld is genteel visiting founded on esteemin the absence ofsuitable furniture and complete dinner-service. Mrs. Vincy had neverbeen at her ease with Mrs. Garthand frequently spoke of her as awoman who had had to work for her bread-- meaning that Mrs. Garth hadbeen a teacher before her marriage; in which case an intimacy withLindley Murray and Mangnall's Questions was something like a draper'sdiscrimination of calico trademarksor a courier's acquaintance withforeign countries:  no woman who was better off needed that sortof thing.  And since Mary had been keeping Mr. Featherstone'shouseMrs. Vincy's want of liking for the Garths had been convertedinto something more positiveby alarm lest Fred should engagehimself to this plain girlwhose parents "lived in such a smallway."  Fredbeing aware of thisnever spoke at home ofhis visits to Mrs. Garthwhich had of late become more frequenttheincreasing ardor of his affection for Mary inclining him the moretowards those who belonged to her.

Mr. Garthhad a small office in the townand to this Fred went with hisrequest.  He obtained it without much difficultyfor a largeamount of painful experience had not sufficed to make Caleb Garthcautious about his own affairsor distrustful of his fellow-men whenthey had not proved themselves untrustworthy; and he had the highestopinion of Fredwas "sure the lad would turn out well--an openaffectionate fellowwith a good bottom to his character--you mighttrust him for anything." Such was Caleb's psychologicalargument.  He was one of those rare men who are rigid tothemselves and indulgent to others. He had a certain shame about hisneighbors' errorsand never spoke of them willingly; hence he wasnot likely to divert his mind from the best mode of hardening timberand other ingenious devices in order to preconceive those errors. If he had to blame any oneit was necessary for him to move all thepapers within his reachor describe various diagrams with his stickor make calculations with the odd money in his pocketbefore hecould begin; and he would rather do other men's work than find faultwith their doing. I fear he was a bad disciplinarian.

When Fredstated the circumstances of his debthis wish to meet it withouttroubling his fatherand the certainty that the money would beforthcoming so as to cause no one any inconvenienceCaleb pushed hisspectacles upwardlistenedlooked into his favorite's clear youngeyesand believed himnot distinguishing confidence about thefuture from veracity about the past; but he felt that it was anoccasion for a friendly hint as to conductand that before givinghis signature he must give a rather strong admonition. Accordinglyhe took the paper and lowered his spectaclesmeasuredthe space at his commandreached his pen and examined itdipped itin the ink and examined it againthen pushed the paper a little wayfrom himlifted up his spectacles againshowed a deepeneddepression in the outer angle of his bushy eyebrowswhich gave hisface a peculiar mildness (pardon these details for once--you wouldhave learned to love them if you had known Caleb Garth)and said ina comfortable tone--

"Itwas a misfortuneehthat breaking the horse's knees? And thenthese exchangesthey don't answer when you have 'cute jockeys todeal with.  You'll be wiser another timemy boy."

WhereuponCaleb drew down his spectaclesand proceeded to write his signaturewith the care which he always gave to that performance; for whateverhe did in the way of business he did well. He contemplated the largewell-proportioned letters and final flourishwith his head a trifleon one side for an instantthen handed it to Fredsaid "Good-by"and returned forthwith to his absorption in a plan for Sir JamesChettam's new farm-buildings.

Eitherbecause his interest in this work thrust the incident of thesignature from his memoryor for some reason of which Caleb was moreconsciousMrs. Garth remained ignorant of the affair.

Since itoccurreda change had come over Fred's skywhich altered his viewof the distanceand was the reason why his uncle Featherstone'spresent of money was of importance enough to make his color come andgofirst with a too definite expectationand afterwards with aproportionate disappointment.  His failure in passing hisexaminationhad made his accumulation of college debts the moreunpardonable by his fatherand there had been an unprecedented stormat home. Mr. Vincy had sworn that if he had anything more of thatsort to put up withFred should turn out and get his living how hecould; and he had never yet quite recovered his good-humored tone tohis sonwho had especially enraged him by saying at this stage ofthings that he did not want to be a clergymanand would rather not"go on with that."  Fred was conscious that he wouldhave been yet more severely dealt with if his family as well ashimself had not secretly regarded him as Mr. Featherstone's heir;that old gentleman's pride in himand apparent fondness for himserving in the stead of more exemplary conduct--just as when ayouthful nobleman steals jewellery we call the act kleptomaniaspeakof it with a philosophical smileand never think of his being sentto the house of correction as if he were a ragged boy who had stolenturnips.  In facttacit expectations of what would be done forhim by uncle Featherstone determined the angle at which most peopleviewed Fred Vincy in Middlemarch; and in his own consciousnesswhatuncle Featherstone would do for him in an emergencyor what he woulddo simply as an incorporated luckformed always an immeasurabledepth of aerial perspective.  But that present of bank-notesonce madewas measurableand being applied to the amount of thedebtshowed a deficit which had still to be filled up either byFred's "judgment" or by luck in some other shape. For thatlittle episode of the alleged borrowingin which he had made hisfather the agent in getting the Bulstrode certificatewas a newreason against going to his father for money towards meeting hisactual debt.  Fred was keen enough to foresee that anger wouldconfuse distinctionsand that his denial of having borrowedexpressly on the strength of his uncle's will would be taken as afalsehood. He had gone to his father and told him one vexatiousaffairand he had left another untold:  in such cases thecomplete revelation always produces the impression of a previousduplicity. Now Fred piqued himself on keeping clear of liesand evenfibs; he often shrugged his shoulders and made a significant grimaceat what he called Rosamond's fibs (it is only brothers who canassociate such ideas with a lovely girl); and rather than incur theaccusation of falsehood he would even incur some trouble andself-restraint. It was under strong inward pressure of this kind thatFred had taken the wise step of depositing the eighty pounds with hismother. 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 sixtyandwith a view to thishe had kept twenty pounds in his own pocket as asort of seed-cornwhichplanted by judgmentand watered by luckmight yield more than threefold--a very poor rate of multiplicationwhen the field is a young gentleman's infinite soulwith all thenumerals at command.

Fred wasnot a gambler:  he had not that specific disease in which thesuspension of the whole nervous energy on a chance or risk becomes asnecessary as the dram to the drunkard; he had only the tendency tothat diffusive form of gambling which has no alcoholic intensitybutis carried on with the healthiest chyle-fed bloodkeeping up ajoyous imaginative activity which fashions events according todesireand having no fears about its own weatheronly sees theadvantage there must be to others in going aboard with it.Hopefulness has a pleasure in making a throw of any kindbecause theprospect of success is certain; and only a more generous pleasure inoffering as many as possible a share in the stake. Fred liked playespecially billiardsas he liked hunting or riding a steeple-chase;and he only liked it the better because he wanted money and hoped towin.  But the twenty pounds' worth of seed-corn had been plantedin vain in the seductive green plot--all of it at least which had notbeen dispersed by the roadside--and Fred found himself close upon theterm of payment with no money at command beyond the eighty poundswhich he had deposited with his mother. The broken-winded horse whichhe rode represented a present which had been made to him a long whileago by his uncle Featherstone: his father always allowed him to keepa horseMr. Vincy's own habits making him regard this as areasonable demand even for a son who was rather exasperating. This horsethenwas Fred's propertyand in his anxiety to meet theimminent bill he determined to sacrifice a possession without whichlife would certainly be worth little. He made the resolution with asense of heroism--heroism forced on him by the dread of breaking hisword to Mr. Garthby his love for Mary and awe of her opinion. He would start for Houndsley horse-fair which was to be held the nextmorningand--simply sell his horsebringing back the money bycoach?--Wellthe horse would hardly fetch more than thirty poundsand there was no knowing what might happen; it would be folly to balkhimself of luck beforehand. It was a hundred to one that some goodchance would fall in his way; the longer he thought of itthe lesspossible it seemed that he should not have a good chanceand theless reasonable that he should not equip himself with the powder andshot for bringing it down. He would ride to Houndsley with Bambridgeand with Horrock "the vet" and without asking themanything expresslyhe should virtually get the benefit of theiropinion.  Before he set outFred got the eighty pounds from hismother.

Most ofthose who saw Fred riding out of Middlemarch in company withBambridge and Horrockon his way of course to Houndsley horse-fairthought that young Vincy was pleasure-seeking as usual; and but foran unwonted consciousness of grave matters on handhe himself wouldhave had a sense of dissipationand of doing what might be expectedof a gay young fellow.  Considering that Fred was not at allcoarsethat he rather looked down on the manners and speech of youngmen who had not been to the universityand that he had writtenstanzas as pastoral and unvoluptuous as his flute-playinghisattraction towards Bambridge and Horrock was an interesting factwhich even the love of horse-flesh would not wholly account forwithout that mysterious influence of Naming which determinates somuch of mortal choice.  Under any other name than "pleasure"the society of Messieurs Bambridge and Horrock must certainly havebeen regarded as monotonous; and to arrive with them at Houndsley ona drizzling afternoonto get down at the Red Lion in a street shadedwith coal-dustand dine in a room furnished with a dirt-enamelledmap of the countya bad portrait of an anonymous horse in a stableHis Majesty George the Fourth with legs and cravatand variousleaden spittoonsmight have seemed a hard businessbut for thesustaining power of nomenclature which determined that the pursuit ofthese things was "gay."

In Mr.Horrock there was certainly an apparent unfathomableness whichoffered play to the imagination.  Costumeat a glancegave hima thrilling association with horses (enough to specify the hat-brimwhich took the slightest upward angle just to escape the suspicion ofbending downwards)and nature had given him a face which by dint ofMongolian eyesand a nosemouthand chin seeming to follow hishat-brim in a moderate inclination upwardsgave the effect of asubdued unchangeable sceptical smileof all expressions the mosttyrannous over a susceptible mindandwhen accompanied by adequatesilencelikely to create the reputation of an invincibleunderstandingan infinite fund of humor-- too dry to flowandprobably in a state of immovable crust-- and a critical judgmentwhichif you could ever be fortunate enough to know itwould be THEthing and no other.  It is a physiognomy seen in all vocationsbut perhaps it has never been more powerful over the youth of Englandthan in a judge of horses.

Mr.Horrockat a question from Fred about his horse's fetlockturnedsideways in his saddleand watched the horse's action for the spaceof three minutesthen turned forwardtwitched his own bridleandremained silent with a profile neither more nor less sceptical thanit had been.

The partthus played in dialogue by Mr. Horrock was terribly effective. Amixture of passions was excited in Fred--a mad desire to thrashHorrock's opinion into utterancerestrained by anxiety to retain theadvantage of his friendship.  There was always the chance thatHorrock might say something quite invaluable at the right moment.

Mr.Bambridge had more open mannersand appeared to give forth his ideaswithout economy.  He was loudrobustand was sometimes spokenof as being "given to indulgence"--chiefly in swearingdrinkingand beating his wife.  Some people who had lost by himcalled him a vicious man; but he regarded horse-dealing as the finestof the artsand might have argued plausibly that it had nothing todo with morality.  He was undeniably a prosperous manbore hisdrinking better than others bore their moderationandon the wholeflourished like the green bay-tree. But his range of conversation waslimitedand like the fine old tune"Drops of brandy"gave you after a while a sense of returning upon itself in a way thatmight make weak heads dizzy.  But a slight infusion of Mr.Bambridge was felt to give tone and character to several circles inMiddlemarch; and he was a distinguished figure in the bar andbilliard-room at the Green Dragon.  He knew some anecdotes aboutthe heroes of the turfand various clever tricks of Marquesses andViscounts which seemed to prove that blood asserted its pre-eminenceeven among black-legs; but the minute retentiveness of his memory waschiefly shown about the horses he had himself bought and sold; thenumber of miles they would trot you in no time without turning a hairbeingafter the lapse of yearsstill a subject of passionateasseverationin which he would assist the imagination of his hearersby solemnly swearing that they never saw anything like it. In shortMr. Bambridge was a man of pleasure and a gay companion.

Fred wassubtleand did not tell his friends that he was going to Houndsleybent on selling his horse:  he wished to get indirectly at theirgenuine opinion of its valuenot being aware that a genuine opinionwas 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 thisunfortunate bay was a roarer to a degree which required the roundestword for perdition to give you any idea of it.

"Youmade a bad hand at swapping when you went to anybody but meVincy! Whyyou never threw your leg across a finer horse than thatchestnutand you gave him for this brute. If you set him canteringhe goes on like twenty sawyers. I never heard but one worse roarer inmy lifeand that was a roan: it belonged to Pegwellthecorn-factor; he used to drive him in his gig seven years agoand hewanted me to take himbut I said`Thank youPegI don't deal inwind-instruments.' That was what I said.  It went the round ofthe countrythat joke did.  Butwhat the hell! the horse was apenny trumpet to that roarer of yours."

"Whyyou said just now his was worse than mine" said Fredmoreirritable than usual.

"Isaid a liethen" said Mr. Bambridgeemphatically. "There wasn't a penny to choose between 'em."

Fredspurred his horseand they trotted on a little way. When theyslackened againMr. Bambridge said--

"Notbut what the roan was a better trotter than yours."

"I'mquite satisfied with his pacesI know" said Fredwho requiredall the consciousness of being in gay company to support him; "Isay his trot is an uncommonly clean oneehHorrock?"

Mr.Horrock looked before him with as complete a neutrality as if he hadbeen a portrait by a great master.

Fred gaveup the fallacious hope of getting a genuine opinion; but onreflection he saw that Bambridge's depreciation and Horrock's silencewere both virtually encouragingand indicated that they thoughtbetter of the horse than they chose to say.

That veryeveningindeedbefore the fair had set inFred thought he saw afavorable opening for disposing advantageously of his horsebut anopening which made him congratulate himself on his foresight inbringing with him his eighty pounds.  A young farmeracquaintedwith Mr. Bambridgecame into the Red Lionand entered intoconversation about parting with a hunterwhich he introduced at onceas Diamondimplying that it was a public character. For himself heonly wanted a useful hackwhich would draw upon occasion; beingabout to marry and to give up hunting.  The hunter was in afriend's stable at some little distance; there was still time forgentlemen to see it before dark.  The friend's stable had to bereached through a back street where you might as easily have beenpoisoned without expense of drugs as in any grim street of thatunsanitary period.  Fred was not fortified against disgust bybrandyas his companions werebut the hope of having at last seenthe horse that would enable him to make money was exhilarating enoughto lead him over the same ground again the first thing in themorning. He felt sure that if he did not come to a bargain with thefarmerBambridge would; for the stress of circumstancesFred feltwas sharpening his acuteness and endowing him with all theconstructive power of suspicion.  Bambridge had run down Diamondin 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 theanimal--even Horrock--was evidently impressed with its merit. To getall the advantage of being with men of this sortyou must know howto draw your inferencesand not be a spoon who takes thingsliterally.  The color of the horse was a dappled grayand Fredhappened to know that Lord Medlicote's man was on the look-out forjust such a horse.  After all his running downBambridge let itout in the course of the eveningwhen the farmer was absentthat hehad seen worse horses go for eighty pounds.  Of course hecontradicted himself twenty times overbut when you know what islikely to be true you can test a man's admissions.  And Fredcould not but reckon his own judgment of a horse as worth something.The farmer had paused over Fred's respectable though broken-windedsteed long enough to show that he thought it worth considerationandit seemed probable that he would take itwith five-and-twenty poundsin additionas the equivalent of Diamond.  In that case Fredwhen he had parted with his new horse for at least eighty poundswould be fifty-five pounds in pocket by the transactionand wouldhave a hundred and thirty-five pounds towards meeting the bill; sothat the deficit temporarily thrown on Mr. Garth would at the utmostbe twenty-five pounds.  By the time he was hurrying on hisclothes in the morninghe saw so clearly the importance of notlosing this rare chancethat if Bambridge and Horrock had bothdissuaded himhe would not have been deluded into a directinterpretation of their purpose:  he would have been aware thatthose deep hands held something else than a young fellow's interest.With regard to horsesdistrust was your only clew.  Butscepticismas we knowcan never be thoroughly appliedelse lifewould come to a standstill:  something we must believe in anddoand whatever that something may be calledit is virtually ourown judgmenteven when it seems like the most slavish reliance onanother. Fred believed in the excellence of his bargainand evenbefore the fair had well set inhad got possession of the dappledgrayat the price of his old horse and thirty pounds inaddition--only five pounds more than he had expected to give.

But hefelt a little worried and weariedperhaps with mental debateandwithout waiting for the further gayeties of the horse-fairhe setout alone on his fourteen miles' journeymeaning to take it veryquietly and keep his horse fresh.

CHAPTERXXIV

  "The offender's sorrow brings but small relief
  To him who wears the strong offence's cross."
  --SHAKESPEARE:  Sonnets.

I am sorryto say that only the third day after the propitious events atHoundsley Fred Vincy had fallen into worse spirits than he had knownin his life before.  Not that he had been disappointed as to thepossible market for his horsebut that before the bargain could beconcluded with Lord Medlicote's manthis Diamondin which hope tothe amount of eighty pounds had been investedhad without theslightest warning exhibited in the stable a most vicious energy inkickinghad just missed killing the groomand had ended in laminghimself severely by catching his leg in a rope that overhung thestable-board. There was no more redress for this than for thediscovery of bad temper after marriage-- which of course oldcompanions were aware of before the ceremony. For some reason orotherFred had none of his usual elasticity under this stroke ofill-fortune:  he was simply aware that he had only fifty poundsthat there was no chance of his getting any more at presentand thatthe 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. Garthshould be saved from lossFred felt smartingly that his father wouldangrily refuse to rescue Mr. Garth from the consequence of what hewould call encouraging extravagance and deceit.  He was soutterly downcast that he could frame no other project than to gostraight to Mr. Garth and tell him the sad truthcarrying with himthe fifty poundsand getting that sum at least safely out of his ownhands.  His fatherbeing at the warehousedid not yet know ofthe accident:  when he didhe would storm about the viciousbrute being brought into his stable; and before meeting that lesserannoyance Fred wanted to get away with all his courage to face thegreater.  He took his father's nagfor he had made up his mindthat when he had told Mr. Garthhe would ride to Stone Court andconfess all to Mary.  In factit is probable that but forMary's existence and Fred's love for herhis conscience would harebeen much less active both in previously urging the debt on histhought and impelling him not to spare himself after his usualfashion by deferring an unpleasant taskbut to act as directly andsimply as he could.  Even much stronger mortals than Fred Vincyhold half their rectitude in the mind of the being they love best. "The theatre of all my actions is fallen" said an antiquepersonage when his chief friend was dead; and they are fortunate whoget a theatre where the audience demands their best. Certainly itwould have made a considerable difference to Fred at that time ifMary Garth had had no decided notions as to what was admirable incharacter.

Mr. Garthwas not at the officeand Fred rode on to his housewhich was alittle way outside the town--a homely place with an orchard in frontof ita ramblingold-fashionedhalf-timbered buildingwhichbefore the town had spread had been a farm-housebut was nowsurrounded with the private gardens of the townsmen.  We get thefonder of our houses if they have a physiognomy of their ownas ourfriends have.  The Garth familywhich was rather a large onefor Mary had four brothers and one sisterwere very fond of theirold housefrom which all the best furniture had long been sold. Fredliked it tooknowing it by heart even to the attic which smeltdeliciously of apples and quincesand until to-day he had never cometo it without pleasant expectations; but his heart beat uneasily nowwith the sense that he should probably have to make his confessionbefore Mrs. Garthof whom he was rather more in awe than of herhusband. Not that she was inclined to sarcasm and to impulsivesalliesas Mary was.  In her present matronly age at leastMrs. Garth never committed herself by over-hasty speech; havingasshe saidborne the yoke in her youthand learned self-control. Shehad that rare sense which discerns what is unalterableand submitsto it without murmuring.  Adoring her husband's virtuesshe hadvery early made up her mind to his incapacity of minding his owninterestsand had met the consequences cheerfully.  She hadbeen magnanimous enough to renounce all pride in teapots orchildren's frillingand had never poured any pathetic confidencesinto the ears of her feminine neighbors concerning Mr. Garth's wantof prudence and the sums he might have had if he had been like othermen. Hence these fair neighbors thought her either proud oreccentricand sometimes spoke of her to their husbands as "yourfine Mrs. Garth." She was not without her criticism of them inreturnbeing more accurately instructed than most matrons inMiddlemarchand--where is the blameless woman?--apt to be a littlesevere towards her own sexwhich in her opinion was framed to beentirely subordinate. On the other handshe was disproportionatelyindulgent towards the failings of menand was often heard to saythat these were natural.  Alsoit must be admitted that Mrs.Garth was a trifle too emphatic in her resistance to what she held tobe follies: the passage from governess into housewife had wroughtitself a little too strongly into her consciousnessand she rarelyforgot that while her grammar and accent were above the townstandardshe wore a plain capcooked the family dinnerand darnedall the stockings.  She had sometimes taken pupils in aperipatetic fashionmaking them follow her about in the kitchen withtheir book or slate. She thought it good for them to see that shecould make an excellent lather while she corrected their blunders"without looking"-- that a woman with her sleeves tuckedup above her elbows might know all about the Subjunctive Mood or theTorrid Zone--thatin shortshe might possess "education"and other good things ending in "tion" and worthy to bepronounced emphaticallywithout being a useless doll.  When shemade remarks to this edifying effectshe had a firm little frown onher browwhich yet did not hinder her face from looking benevolentand her words which came forth like a procession were uttered in afervid agreeable contralto. Certainlythe exemplary Mrs. Garth hadher droll aspectsbut her character sustained her odditiesas avery fine wine sustains a flavor of skin.

TowardsFred Vincy she had a motherly feelingand had always been disposedto excuse his errorsthough she would probably not have excused Maryfor engaging herself to himher daughter being included in that morerigorous judgment which she applied to her own sex. But this veryfact of her exceptional indulgence towards him made it the harder toFred that he must now inevitably sink in her opinion. And thecircumstances of his visit turned out to be still more unpleasantthan he had expected; for Caleb Garth had gone out early to look atsome repairs not far off.  Mrs. Garth at certain hours wasalways in the kitchenand this morning she was carrying on severaloccupations at once there--making her pies at the well-scoured dealtable on one side of that airy roomobserving Sally's movements atthe oven and dough-tub through an open doorand giving lessons toher youngest boy and girlwho were standing opposite to her at thetable with their books and slates before them. A tub and aclothes-horse at the other end of the kitchen indicated anintermittent wash of small things also going on.

Mrs.Garthwith her sleeves turned above her elbowsdeftly handling herpastry--applying her rolling-pin and giving ornamental pincheswhileshe expounded with grammatical fervor what were the right views aboutthe concord of verbs and pronouns with "nouns of multitude orsignifying many" was a sight agreeably amusing. She was of thesame curly-hairedsquare-faced type as Marybut handsomerwithmore delicacy of featurea pale skina solid matronly figureand aremarkable firmness of glance. In her snowy-frilled cap she remindedone of that delightful Frenchwoman whom we have all seen marketingbasket on arm. Looking at the motheryou might hope that thedaughter would become like herwhich is a prospective advantageequal to a dowry--the mother too often standing behind the daughterlike a malignant prophecy-- "Such as I amshe will shortly be."

"Nowlet us go through that once more" said Mrs. Garthpinching anapple-puff which seemed to distract Benan energetic young male witha heavy browfrom due attention to the lesson. "`Not withoutregard to the import of the word as conveying unity or plurality ofidea'--tell me again what that meansBen."

(Mrs.Garthlike more celebrated educatorshad her favorite ancientpathsand in a general wreck of society would have tried to hold her"Lindley Murray" above the waves.)

"Oh--itmeans--you must think what you mean" said Benratherpeevishly. "I hate grammar.  What's the use of it?"

"Toteach you to speak and write correctlyso that you can beunderstood" said Mrs. Garthwith severe precision. "Shouldyou like to speak as old Job does?"

"Yes"said Benstoutly; "it's funnier.  He says`Yo goo'--that's just as good as `You go.'"

"Buthe says`A ship's in the garden' instead of `a sheep'" saidLettywith an air of superiority.  "You might think hemeant a ship off the sea."

"Noyou mightn'tif you weren't silly" said Ben.  "Howcould a ship off the sea come there?"

"Thesethings belong only to pronunciationwhich is the least part ofgrammar" said Mrs. Garth.  "That apple-peel is to beeaten by the pigsBen; if you eat itI must give them your piece ofpasty. Job has only to speak about very plain things.  How doyou think you would write or speak about anything more difficultifyou knew no more of grammar than he does?  You would use wrongwordsand put words in the wrong placesand instead of makingpeople understand youthey would turn away from you as a tiresomeperson. What would you do then?"

"Ishouldn't careI should leave off" said Benwith a sense thatthis was an agreeable issue where grammar was concerned.

"Isee you are getting tired and stupidBen" said Mrs. Garthaccustomed to these obstructive arguments from her male offspring.Having finished her piesshe moved towards the clothes-horseandsaid"Come here and tell me the story I told you on Wednesdayabout Cincinnatus."

"Iknow! he was a farmer" said Ben.

"NowBenhe was a Roman--let ME tell" said Lettyusing her elbowcontentiously.

"Yousilly thinghe was a Roman farmerand he was ploughing."

"Yesbut before that--that didn't come first--people wanted him"said Letty.

"Wellbut you must say what sort of a man he was first" insistedBen.  "He was a wise manlike my fatherand that made thepeople want his advice.  And he was a brave manand couldfight. And so could my father--couldn't hemother?"

"NowBenlet me tell the story straight onas mother told it us"said Lettyfrowning.  "Pleasemothertell Ben not tospeak."

"LettyI am ashamed of you" said her motherwringing out the capsfrom the tub.  "When your brother beganyou ought to havewaited to see if he could not tell the story.  How rude youlookpushing and frowningas if you wanted to conquer with yourelbows! CincinnatusI am surewould have been sorry to see hisdaughter behave so."  (Mrs. Garth delivered this awfulsentence with much majesty of enunciationand Letty felt thatbetween repressed volubility and general disesteemthat of theRomans inclusivelife was already a painful affair.) "NowBen."

"Well--oh--well--whythere was a great deal of fightingand they were all blockheadsand--I can't tell it just how you told it-- but they wanted a man tobe captain and king and everything--"

"Dictatornow" said Lettywith injured looksand not without a wish tomake her mother repent.

"Verywelldictator!" said Bencontemptuously.  "But thatisn't a good word:  he didn't tell them to write on slates."

"ComecomeBenyou are not so ignorant as that" said Mrs. Garthcarefully serious.  "Harkthere is a knock at the door! RunLettyand open it."

The knockwas Fred's; and when Letty said that her father was not in yetbutthat her mother was in the kitchenFred had no alternative. He couldnot depart from his usual practice of going to see Mrs. Garth in thekitchen if she happened to be at work there. He put his arm roundLetty's neck silentlyand led her into the kitchen without his usualjokes and caresses.

Mrs. Garthwas surprised to see Fred at this hourbut surprise was not afeeling that she was given to expressand she only saidquietlycontinuing her work--

"YouFredso early in the day?  You look quite pale. Has anythinghappened?"

"Iwant to speak to Mr. Garth" said Frednot yet ready to saymore-- "and to you also" he addedafter a little pausefor he had no doubt that Mrs. Garth knew everything about the billand he must in the end speak of it before herif not to her solely.

"Calebwill be in again in a few minutes" said Mrs. Garthwhoimagined some trouble between Fred and his father.  "He issure not to be longbecause he has some work at his desk that mustbe done this morning. Do you mind staying with mewhile I finish mymatters here?"

"Butwe needn't go on about Cincinnatusneed we?" said Benwho hadtaken Fred's whip out of his handand was trying its efficiency onthe eat.

"Nogo out now.  But put that whip down.  How very mean of youto whip poor old Tortoise!  Pray take the whip from himFred."

"Comeold boygive it me" said Fredputting out his hand.

"Willyou let me ride on your horse to-day?" said Benrendering upthe whipwith an air of not being obliged to do it.

"Notto-day--another time.  I am not riding my own horse."

"Shallyou see Mary to-day?"

"YesI think so" said Fredwith an unpleasant twinge.

"Tellher to come home soonand play at forfeitsand make fun."

"EnoughenoughBen! run away" said Mrs. Garthseeing that Fred wasteased. . .

"AreLetty and Ben your only pupils nowMrs. Garth?" said Fredwhenthe children were gone and it was needful to say something that wouldpass the time.  He was not yet sure whether he should wait forMr. Garthor use any good opportunity in conversation to confess toMrs. Garth herselfgive her the money and ride away.

"One--onlyone.  Fanny Hackbutt comes at half past eleven. I am not gettinga great income now" said Mrs. Garthsmiling. "I am at alow ebb with pupils.  But I have saved my little purse forAlfred's premium:  I have ninety-two pounds. He can go to Mr.Hanmer's now; he is just at the right age."

This didnot lead well towards the news that Mr. Garth was on the brink oflosing ninety-two pounds and more.  Fred was silent. "Younggentlemen who go to college are rather more costly than that"Mrs. Garth innocently continuedpulling out the edging on acap-border. "And Caleb thinks that Alfred will turn out adistinguished engineer: he wants to give the boy a good chance. There he is!  I hear him coming in.  We will go to him inthe parlorshall we?"

When theyentered the parlor Caleb had thrown down his hat and was seated athis desk.

"What! Fredmy boy!" he saidin a tone of mild surpriseholding hispen still undipped; "you are here betimes."  Butmissing the usual expression of cheerful greeting in Fred's faceheimmediately added"Is there anything up at home?--anything thematter?"

"YesMr. GarthI am come to tell something that I am afraid will give youa bad opinion of me.  I am come to tell you and Mrs. Garth thatI can't keep my word.  I can't find the money to meet the billafter all.  I have been unfortunate; I have only got these fiftypounds towards the hundred and sixty."

While Fredwas speakinghe had taken out the notes and laid them on the deskbefore Mr. Garth.  He had burst forth at once with the plainfactfeeling boyishly miserable and without verbal resources. Mrs.Garth was mutely astonishedand looked at her husband for anexplanation.  Caleb blushedand after a little pause said--

"OhI didn't tell youSusan:  I put my name to a bill for Fred; itwas for a hundred and sixty pounds.  He made sure he could meetit himself."

There wasan evident change in Mrs. Garth's facebut it was like a changebelow the surface of water which remains smooth. She fixed her eyeson Fredsaying--

"Isuppose you have asked your father for the rest of the money and hehas refused you."

"No"said Fredbiting his lipand speaking with more difficulty; "butI know it will be of no use to ask him; and unless it were of useIshould not like to mention Mr. Garth's name in the matter."

"Ithas come at an unfortunate time" said Calebin his hesitatingwaylooking down at the notes and nervously fingering the paper"Christmas upon us--I'm rather hard up just now.  You seeI have to cut out everything like a tailor with short measure. What can we doSusan?  I shall want every farthing we have inthe bank. It's a hundred and ten poundsthe deuce take it!"

"Imust give you the ninety-two pounds that I have put by for Alfred'spremium" said Mrs. Garthgravely and decisivelythough a niceear might have discerned a slight tremor in some of the words. "And I have no doubt that Mary has twenty pounds saved from hersalary by this time.  She will advance it."

Mrs. Garthhad not again looked at Fredand was not in the least calculatingwhat words she should use to cut him the most effectively. Like theeccentric woman she wasshe was at present absorbed in consideringwhat was to be doneand did not fancy that the end could be betterachieved by bitter remarks or explosions.  But she had made Fredfeel for the first time something like the tooth of remorse.Curiously enoughhis pain in the affair beforehand had consistedalmost entirely in the sense that he must seem dishonorableand sinkin the opinion of the Garths:  he had not occupied himself withthe inconvenience and possible injury that his breach might occasionthemfor this exercise of the imagination on other people's needs isnot common with hopeful young gentlemen. Indeed we are most of usbrought up in the notion that the highest motive for not doing awrong is something irrespective of the beings who would suffer thewrong.  But at this moment he suddenly saw himself as a pitifulrascal who was robbing two women of their savings.

"Ishall certainly pay it allMrs. Garth--ultimately" hestammered out.

"Yesultimately" said Mrs. Garthwho having a special dislike tofine words on ugly occasionscould not now repress an epigram. "Butboys cannot well be apprenticed ultimately:  they should beapprenticed at fifteen."  She had never been so littleinclined to make excuses for Fred.

"Iwas the most in the wrongSusan" said Caleb.  "Fredmade sure of finding the money.  But I'd no business to befingering bills. I suppose you have looked all round and tried allhonest means?" he addedfixing his merciful gray eyes on Fred. Caleb was too delicateto specify Mr. Featherstone.

"YesI have tried everything--I really have.  I should have had ahundred and thirty pounds ready but for a misfortune with a horsewhich I was about to sell.  My uncle had given me eighty poundsand I paid away thirty with my old horse in order to get anotherwhich I was going to sell for eighty or more--I meant to go without ahorse-- but now it has turned out vicious and lamed itself.  Iwish I and the horses too had been at the devilbefore I had broughtthis on you. There's no one else I care so much for:  you andMrs. Garth have always been so kind to me.  Howeverit's no usesaying that. You will always think me a rascal now."

Fredturned round and hurried out of the roomconscious that he wasgetting rather womanishand feeling confusedly that his being sorrywas not of much use to the Garths.  They could see him mountand quickly pass through the gate.

"I amdisappointed in Fred Vincy" said Mrs. Garth.  "Iwould not have believed beforehand that he would have drawn you intohis debts. I knew he was extravagantbut I did not think that hewould be so mean as to hang his risks on his oldest friendwho couldthe least afford to lose."

"Iwas a foolSusan:"

"Thatyou were" said the wifenodding and smiling.  "But Ishould not have gone to publish it in the market-place. Why shouldyou keep such things from me?  It is just so with your buttons:you let them burst off without telling meand go out with yourwristband hanging.  If I had only known I might have been readywith some better plan."

"Youare sadly cut upI knowSusan" said Caleblooking feelinglyat her.  "I can't abide your losing the money you'vescraped together for Alfred."

"Itis very well that I HAD scraped it together; and it is you who willhave to sufferfor you must teach the boy yourself. You must give upyour bad habits.  Some men take to drinkingand you have takento working without pay.  You must indulge yourself a little lessin that.  And you must ride over to Maryand ask the child whatmoney she has."

Caleb hadpushed his chair backand was leaning forwardshaking his headslowlyand fitting his finger-tips together with much nicety.

"PoorMary!" he said.  "Susan" he went on in a loweredtone"I'm afraid she may be fond of Fred."

"Ohno!  She always laughs at him; and he is not likely to think ofher in any other than a brotherly way."

Caleb madeno rejoinderbut presently lowered his spectaclesdrew up his chairto the deskand said"Deuce take the bill-- I wish it was atHanover!  These things are a sad interruption to business!"

The firstpart of this speech comprised his whole store of maledictoryexpressionand was uttered with a slight snarl easy to imagine. Butit would be difficult to convey to those who never heard him utterthe word "business" the peculiar tone of fervidvenerationof religious regardin which he wrapped itas aconsecrated symbol is wrapped in its gold-fringed linen.

CalebGarth often shook his head in meditation on the valuetheindispensable might of that myriad-headedmyriad-handed labor bywhich the social body is fedclothedand housed.  It had laidhold of his imagination in boyhood.  The echoes of the greathammer where roof or keel were a-makingthe signal-shouts of theworkmenthe roar of the furnacethe thunder and plash of theenginewere a sublime music to him; the felling and lading oftimberand the huge trunk vibrating star-like in the distance alongthe highwaythe crane at work on the wharfthe piled-up produce inwarehousesthe precision and variety of muscular effort whereverexact work had to be turned out--all these sights of his youth hadacted on him as poetry without the aid of the poets. had made aphilosophy for him without the aid of philosophersa religionwithout the aid of theology.  His early ambition had been tohave as effective a share as possible in this sublime laborwhichwas peculiarly dignified by him with the name of "business;"and though he had only been a short time under a surveyorand hadbeen chiefly his own teacherhe knew more of landbuildingandmining than most of the special men in the county.

Hisclassification of human employments was rather crudeandlike thecategories of more celebrated menwould not be acceptable in theseadvanced times.  He divided them into "businesspoliticspreachinglearningand amusement."  He had nothing to sayagainst the last four; but he regarded them as a reverential paganregarded other gods than his own.  In the same wayhe thoughtvery well of all ranksbut he would not himself have liked to be ofany rank in which he had not such close contact with "business"as to get often honorably decorated with marks of dust and mortarthe damp of the engineor the sweet soil of the woods and fields. Though he had never regarded himself as other than an orthodoxChristianand would argue on prevenient grace if the subject wereproposed to himI think his virtual divinities were good practicalschemesaccurate workand the faithful completion of undertakings: his prince of darkness was a slack workman.  But there was nospirit of denial in Caleband the world seemed so wondrous to himthat he was ready to accept any number of systemslike any number offirmamentsif they did not obviously interfere with the bestland-drainagesolid buildingcorrect measuringand judiciousboring (for coal). In facthe had a reverential soul with a strongpractical intelligence.  But he could not manage finance: he knew values wellbut he had no keenness of imagination formonetary results in the shape of profit and loss: and havingascertained this to his costhe determined to give up all forms ofhis beloved "business" which required that talent. He gavehimself up entirely to the many kinds of work which he could dowithout handling capitaland was one of those precious men withinhis own district whom everybody would choose to work for thembecause he did his work wellcharged very littleand often declinedto charge at all.  It is no wonderthenthat the Garths werepoorand "lived in a small way."  Howeverthey didnot mind it.

CHAPTERXXV

  "Love seeketh not itself to please
   Nor foritself hath any care
   But for another gives itsease
   And builds a heaven in hell's despair.
  .   .   .   .   .  .   .
   Love seeketh only self to please
  To bind another to its delight
   Joys in another'sloss of ease

 

  Andbuilds a hell in heaven's despite."
   --W. BLAKE: Songs of Experience

Fred Vincywanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary could not expect himandwhen his uncle was not down-stairs in that case she might be sittingalone in the wainscoted parlor.  He left his horse in the yardto avoid making a noise on the gravel in frontand entered theparlor without other notice than the noise of the door-handle. Marywas in her usual cornerlaughing over Mrs. Piozzi's recollections ofJohnsonand looked up with the fun still in her face. It graduallyfaded as she saw Fred approach her without speakingand stand beforeher with his elbow on the mantel-piecelooking ill. She too wassilentonly raising her eyes to him inquiringly.

"Mary"he began"I am a good-for-nothing blackguard."

"Ishould think one of those epithets would do at a time" saidMarytrying to smilebut feeling alarmed.

"Iknow you will never think well of me any more.  You will thinkme a liar.  You will think me dishonest.  You will think Ididn't care for youor your father and mother.  You always domake the worst of meI know."

"Icannot deny that I shall think all that of youFredif you give megood reasons.  But please to tell me at once what you have done.I would rather know the painful truth than imagine it."

"Iowed money--a hundred and sixty pounds.  I asked your father toput his name to a bill.  I thought it would not signify to him. I made sure of paying the money myselfand I have tried as hard as Icould. And nowI have been so unlucky--a horse has turned outbadly-- I can only pay fifty pounds.  And I can't ask my fatherfor the money: he would not give me a farthing.  And my unclegave me a hundred a little while ago.  So what can I do? And now your father has no ready money to spareand your mother willhave to pay away her ninety-two pounds that she has savedand shesays your savings must go too. You see what a--"

"Ohpoor motherpoor father!" said Maryher eyes filling withtearsand a little sob rising which she tried to repress. She lookedstraight before her and took no notice of Fredall the consequencesat home becoming present to her.  He too remained silent forsome momentsfeeling more miserable than ever. "I wouldn't havehurt you for the worldMary" he said at last. "You cannever forgive me."

"Whatdoes it matter whether I forgive you?" said Marypassionately."Would that make it any better for my mother to lose the moneyshe has been earning by lessons for four yearsthat she might sendAlfred to Mr. Hanmer's? Should you think all that pleasant enough ifI forgave you?"

"Saywhat you likeMary.  I deserve it all."

"Idon't want to say anything" said Marymore quietly"andmy anger is of no use."  She dried her eyesthrew asideher bookrose and fetched her sewing.

Fredfollowed her with his eyeshoping that they would meet hersand inthat way find access for his imploring penitence.  But no! Marycould easily avoid looking upward.

"I docare about your mother's money going" he saidwhen she wasseated again and sewing quickly.  "I wanted to ask youMary-- don't you think that Mr. Featherstone--if you were to tellhim-- tell himI meanabout apprenticing Alfred--would advance themoney?"

"Myfamily is not fond of beggingFred.  We would rather work forour money.  Besidesyou say that Mr. Featherstone has latelygiven you a hundred pounds.  He rarely makes presents; he hasnever made presents to us.  I am sure my father will not ask himfor anything; and even if I chose to beg of himit would be of nouse."

"I amso miserableMary--if you knew how miserable I amyou would besorry for me."

"Thereare other things to be more sorry for than that.  But selfishpeople always think their own discomfort of more importance thananything else in the world.  I see enough of that every day."

"Itis hardly fair to call me selfish.  If you knew what thingsother young men doyou would think me a good way off the worst."

"Iknow that people who spend a great deal of money on themselveswithout knowing how they shall paymust be selfish. They are alwaysthinking of what they can get for themselvesand not of what otherpeople may lose."

"Anyman may be unfortunateMaryand find himself unable to pay when hemeant it.  There is not a better man in the world than yourfatherand yet he got into trouble."

"Howdare you make any comparison between my father and youFred?"said Maryin a deep tone of indignation.  "He never gotinto trouble by thinking of his own idle pleasuresbut because hewas always thinking of the work he was doing for other people. And hehas fared hardand worked hard to make good everybody's loss."

"Andyou think that I shall never try to make good anythingMary. It isnot generous to believe the worst of a man.  When you have gotany power over himI think you might try and use it to make himbetter i but that is what you never do.  HoweverI'm going"Fred endedlanguidly.  "I shall never speak to you aboutanything again. I'm very sorry for all the trouble I'vecaused--that's all."

Mary haddropped her work out of her hand and looked up. There is oftensomething maternal even in a girlish loveand Mary's hard experiencehad wrought her nature to an impressibility very different from thathard slight thing which we call girlishness. At Fred's last words shefelt an instantaneous pangsomething like what a mother feels at theimagined sobs or cries of her naughty truant childwhich may loseitself and get harm.  And whenlooking upher eyes met hisdull despairing glanceher pity for him surmounted her anger and allher other anxieties.

"OhFredhow ill you look!  Sit down a moment.  Don't go yet.Let me tell uncle that you are here.  He has been wondering thathe has not seen you for a whole week."  Mary spokehurriedlysaying the words that came first without knowing very wellwhat they werebut saying them in a half-soothing half-beseechingtoneand rising as if to go away to Mr. Featherstone.  Ofcourse Fred felt as if the clouds had parted and a gleam had come: he moved and stood in her way.

"Sayone wordMaryand I will do anything.  Say you will not thinkthe worst of me--will not give me up altogether."

"Asif it were any pleasure to me to think ill of you" said Maryin a mournful tone.  "As if it were not very painful to meto see you an idle frivolous creature.  How can you bear to beso contemptiblewhen others are working and strivingand there areso many things to be done--how can you bear to be fit for nothing inthe world that is useful?  And with so much good in yourdispositionFred-- you might be worth a great deal."

"Iwill try to be anything you likeMaryif you will say that you loveme."

"Ishould be ashamed to say that I loved a man who must always behanging on othersand reckoning on what they would do for him. Whatwill you be when you are forty?  Like Mr. BowyerI suppose--just as idleliving in Mrs. Beck's front parlor--fat and shabbyhoping somebody will invite you to dinner--spending your morning inlearning a comic song--oh no! learning a tune on the flute."

Mary'slips had begun to curl with a smile as soon as she had asked thatquestion about Fred's future (young souls are mobile)and before sheendedher face had its full illumination of fun. To him it was likethe cessation of an ache that Mary could laugh at himand with apassive sort of smile he tried to reach her hand; but she slippedaway quickly towards the door and said"I shall tell uncle. You MUST see him for a moment or two."

Fredsecretly felt that his future was guaranteed against the fulfilmentof Mary's sarcastic propheciesapart from that "anything"which he was ready to do if she would define it He never dared inMary's presence to approach the subject of his expectations from Mr.Featherstoneand she always ignored themas if everything dependedon himself.  But if ever he actually came into the propertyshemust recognize the change in his position.  All this passedthrough his mind somewhat languidlybefore he went up to see hisuncle. He stayed but a little whileexcusing himself on the groundthat he had a cold; and Mary did not reappear before he left thehouse. But as he rode homehe began to be more conscious of beingillthan of being melancholy.

When CalebGarth arrived at Stone Court soon after duskMary was not surprisedalthough he seldom had leisure for paying her a visitand was not atall fond of having to talk with Mr. Featherstone. The old manon theother handfelt himself ill at ease with a brother-in-law whom hecould not annoywho did not mind about being considered poorhadnothing to ask of himand understood all kinds of farming and miningbusiness better than he did. But Mary had felt sure that her parentswould want to see herand if her father had not comeshe would haveobtained leave to go home for an hour or two the next day. After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Featherstone Caleb roseto bid him good-byand said"I want to speak to youMary."

She took acandle into another large parlorwhere there was no fireandsetting down the feeble light on the dark mahogany tableturnedround to her fatherand putting her arms round his neck kissed himwith childish kisses which he delighted in--the expression of hislarge brows softening as the expression of a great beautiful dogsoftens when it is caressed.  Mary was his favorite childandwhatever Susan might sayand right as she was on all other subjectsCaleb thought it natural that Fred or any one else should think Marymore lovable than other girls.

"I'vegot something to tell youmy dear" said Caleb in hishesitating way.  "No very good news; but then it might beworse."

"Aboutmoneyfather?  I think I know what it is."

"Ay?how can that be?  You seeI've been a bit of a fool againandput my name to a billand now it comes to paying; and your motherhas got to part with her savingsthat's the worst of itand eventhey won't quite make things even.  We wanted a hundred and tenpounds: your mother has ninety-twoand I have none to spare in thebank; and she thinks that you have some savings."

"Ohyes; I have more than four-and-twenty pounds.  I thought youwould comefatherso I put it in my bag.  See! beautiful whitenotes and gold."

Mary tookout the folded money from her reticule and put it into her father'shand.

"Wellbut how--we only want eighteen--hereput the rest backchild--buthow did you know about it?" said Calebwhoin hisunconquerable indifference to moneywas beginning to be chieflyconcerned about the relation the affair might have to Mary'saffections.

"Fredtold me this morning."

"Ah! Did he come on purpose?"

"YesI think so.  He was a good deal distressed."

"I'mafraid Fred is not to be trustedMary" said the fatherwithhesitating tenderness.  "He means better than he actsperhaps. But I should think it a pity for any body's happiness to bewrapped up in himand so would your mother."

"Andso should Ifather" said Marynot looking upbut putting theback of her father's hand against her cheek.

"Idon't want to prymy dear.  But I was afraid there might besomething between you and Fredand I wanted to caution you. You seeMary"--here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had beenpushing his hat about on the table and looking at itbut finally heturned his eyes on his daughter--"a womanlet her be as good asshe mayhas 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."

Maryturned the back of her father's hand to her lips and smiled at him.

"Wellwellnobody's perfectbut"--here Mr. Garth shook his head tohelp out the inadequacy of words--"what I am thinking of is--what it must be for a wife when she's never sure of her husbandwhenhe hasn't got a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing thewrong thing by others than of getting his own toes pinched. That'sthe long and the short of itMary.  Young folks may get fond ofeach other before they know what life isand they may think it allholiday if they can only get together; but it soon turns into workingdaymy dear.  Howeveryou have more sense than mostand youhaven't been kept in cotton-wool: there may be no occasion for me tosay thisbut a father trembles for his daughterand you are all byyourself here."

"Don'tfear for mefather" said Marygravely meeting her father'seyes; "Fred has always been very good to me; he is kind-heartedand affectionateand not falseI thinkwith all hisself-indulgence. But I will never engage myself to one who has nomanly independenceand who goes on loitering away his time on thechance that others will provide for him. You and my mother havetaught me too much pride for that."

"That'sright--that's right.  Then I am easy" said Mr. Garthtaking up his {hat or bet. ????}  But it's hard to run away withyour earningseh child."

"Father!"said Maryin her deepest tone of remonstrance. "Take pocketfulsof love besides to them all at home" was her last word beforehe closed the outer door on himself.

"Isuppose your father wanted your earnings" said old Mr.Featherstonewith his usual power of unpleasant surmisewhen Maryreturned to him.  "He makes but a tight fitI reckon. You're of age now; you ought to be saving for yourself."

"Iconsider my father and mother the best part of myselfsir"said Marycoldly.

Mr.Featherstone grunted:  he could not deny that an ordinary sortof girl like her might be expected to be usefulso he thought ofanother rejoinderdisagreeable enough to be always apropos. "IfFred Vincy comes to-morrownowdon't you keep him chattering: lethim come up to me."

CHAPTERXXVI

"Hebeats me and I rail at him:  O worthy satisfaction! would itwere otherwise--that I could beat him while he railed at me.--"
  --Troilus and Cressida.

But Freddid not go to Stone Court the next dayfor reasons that were quiteperemptory.  From those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streetsin search of Diamondhe had brought back not only a bad bargain inhorse-fleshbut the further misfortune of some ailment which for aday or two had deemed mere depression and headachebut which got somuch worse when he returned from his visit to Stone Court thatgoinginto the dining-roomhe threw himself on the sofaand in answer tohis mother's anxious questionsaid"I feel very ill: I thinkyou must send for Wrench."

Wrenchcamebut did not apprehend anything seriousspoke of a "slightderangement" and did not speak of coming again on the morrow.He had a due value for the Vincys' housebut the wariest men are aptto be dulled by routineand on worried mornings will sometimes gothrough their business with the zest of the daily bell-ringer. Mr.Wrench was a smallneatbilious manwith a well-dressed wig: hehad a laborious practicean irascible tempera lymphatic wife andseven children; and he was already rather late before setting out ona four-miles drive to meet Dr. Minchin on the other side of Tiptonthe decease of Hicksa rural practitionerhaving increasedMiddlemarch practice in that direction.  Great statesmen errand why not small medical men?  Mr. Wrench did not neglectsending the usual white parcelswhich this time had black anddrastic contents.  Their effect was not alleviating to poorFredwhohoweverunwilling as he said to believe that he was "infor an illness" rose at his usual easy hour the next morningand went down-stairs meaning to breakfastbut succeeded in nothingbut in sitting and shivering by the fire. Mr. Wrench was again sentforbut was gone on his roundsand Mrs. Vincy seeing her darling'schanged looks and general miserybegan to cry and said she wouldsend for Dr. Sprague.

"Ohnonsensemother!  It's nothing" said Fredputting outhis hot dry hand to her"I shall soon be all right.  Imust have taken cold in that nasty damp ride."

"Mamma!"said Rosamondwho was seated near the window (the dining-roomwindows looked on that highly respectable street called Lowick Gate)"there is Mr. Lydgatestopping to speak to some one. If I wereyou I would call him in.  He has cured Ellen Bulstrode. They sayhe cures every one."

Mrs. Vincysprang to the window and opened it in an instantthinking only ofFred and not of medical etiquette.  Lydgate was only two yardsoff on the other side of some iron palisadingand turned round atthe sudden sound of the sashbefore she called to him.  In twominutes he was in the roomand Rosamond went outafter waiting justlong enough to show a pretty anxiety conflicting with her sense ofwhat was becoming.

Lydgatehad to hear a narrative in which Mrs. Vincy's mind insisted withremarkable instinct on every point of minor importanceespecially onwhat Mr. Wrench had said and had not said about coming again. That there might be an awkward affair with WrenchLydgate saw atonce; but the ease was serious enough to make him dismiss thatconsideration:  he was convinced that Fred was in thepink-skinned stage of typhoid feverand that he had taken just thewrong medicines.  He must go to bed immediatelymust have aregular nurseand various appliances and precautions must be usedabout which Lydgate was particular.  Poor Mrs. Vincy's terror atthese indications of danger found vent in such words as came mosteasily. She thought it "very ill usage on the part of Mr.Wrenchwho had attended their house so many years in preference toMr. Peacockthough Mr. Peacock was equally a friend.  Why Mr.Wrench should neglect her children more than othersshe could notfor the life of her understand.  He had not neglected Mrs.Larcher's when they had the measlesnor indeed would Mrs. Vincy havewished that he should. And if anything should happen--"

Here poorMrs. Vincy's spirit quite broke downand her Niobe throat andgood-humored face were sadly convulsed.  This was in the hallout of Fred's hearingbut Rosamond had opened the drawing-room doorand now came forward anxiously.  Lydgate apologized for Mr.Wrenchsaid that the symptoms yesterday might have been disguisingand that this form of fever was very equivocal in its beginnings: hewould go immediately to the druggist's and have a prescription madeup in order to lose no timebut he would write to Mr. Wrench andtell him what had been done.

"Butyou must come again--you must go on attending Fred.  I can'thave my boy left to anybody who may come or not.  I bear nobodyill-willthank Godand Mr. Wrench saved me in the pleurisybuthe'd better have let me die--if--if--"

"Iwill meet Mr. Wrench herethenshall I?" said Lydgatereallybelieving that Wrench was not well prepared to deal wisely with acase of this kind.

"Praymake that arrangementMr. Lydgate" said Rosamondcoming toher mother's aidand supporting her arm to lead her away.

When Mr.Vincy came home he was very angry with Wrenchand did not care if henever came into his house again.  Lydgate should go on nowwhether Wrench liked it or not.  It was no joke to have fever inthe house.  Everybody must be sent to nownot to come to dinneron Thursday.  And Pritchard needn't get up any wine: brandy wasthe best thing against infection.  "I shall drink brandy"added Mr. Vincyemphatically--as much as to saythis was not anoccasion for firing with blank-cartridges. "He's an uncommonlyunfortunate ladis Fred.  He'd need have--some luck by-and-byto make up for all this--else I don't know who'd have an eldest son."

"Don'tsay soVincy" said the motherwith a quivering lip"ifyou don't want him to be taken from me."

"Itwill worret you to deathLucy; THAT I can see" said Mr. Vincymore mildly.  "HoweverWrench shall know what I think ofthe matter." (What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly wasthat thefever might somehow have been hindered if Wrench had shown the propersolicitude about his-- the Mayor's--family.) "I'm the last manto give in to the cry about new doctorsor new parsonseither--whether they're Bulstrode's men or not.  But Wrenchshall know what I thinktake it as he will."

Wrench didnot take it at all well.  Lydgate was as polite as he could bein his offhand waybut politeness in a man who has placed you at adisadvantage is only an additional exasperationespecially if hehappens to have been an object of dislike beforehand. Countrypractitioners used to be an irritable speciessusceptible on thepoint of honor; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most irritable amongthem.  He did not refuse to meet Lydgate in the eveningbut histemper was somewhat tried on the occasion.  He had to hear Mrs.Vincy say--

"OhMr. Wrenchwhat have I ever done that you should use me so?-- To goawayand never to come again!  And my boy might have beenstretched a corpse!"

Mr. Vincywho had been keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infectionand wasa good deal heated in consequencestarted up when he heard Wrenchcome inand went into the hall to let him know what he thought.

"I'lltell you whatWrenchthis is beyond a joke" said the Mayorwho of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official airand howbroadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes.-- "Tolet fever get unawares into a house like this.  There are somethings that ought to be actionableand are not so-- that's myopinion."

Butirrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of beinginstructedor rather the sense that a younger manlike Lydgateinwardly considered him in need of instructionfor "in point offact" Mr. Wrench afterwards saidLydgate paraded flightyforeign notionswhich would not wear.  He swallowed his ire forthe momentbut he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance inthe case. The house might be a good onebut Mr. Wrench was not goingto truckle to anybody on a professional matter.  He reflectedwith much probability on his sidethat Lydgate would by-and-by becaught tripping tooand that his ungentlemanly attempts to discreditthe sale of drugs by his professional brethrenwould by-and-byrecoil on himself. He threw out biting remarks on Lydgate's tricksworthy only of a quackto get himself a factitious reputation withcredulous people. That cant about cures was never got up by soundpractitioners.

This was apoint on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could desire. To bepuffed by ignorance was not only humiliatingbut perilousand notmore enviable than the reputation of the weather-prophet. He wasimpatient of the foolish expectations amidst which all work must becarried onand likely enough to damage himself as much as Mr. Wrenchcould wishby an unprofessional openness.

HoweverLydgate was installed as medical attendant on the Vincysand theevent was a subject of general conversation in Middlemarch. Somesaidthat the Vincys had behaved scandalouslythat Mr. Vincy hadthreatened Wrenchand that Mrs. Vincy had accused him of poisoningher son.  Others were of opinion that Mr. Lydgate's passing bywas providentialthat he was wonderfully clever in feversand thatBulstrode was in the right to bring him forward. Many people believedthat Lydgate's coming to the town at all was really due to Bulstrode;and Mrs. Taftwho was always counting stitches and gathered herinformation in misleading fragments caught between the rows of herknittinghad got it into her head that Mr. Lydgate was a natural sonof Bulstrode'sa fact which seemed to justify her suspicions ofevangelical laymen.

She oneday communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs. Farebrotherwho didnot fail to tell her son of itobserving--

"Ishould not be surprised at anything in Bulstrodebut I should besorry to think it of Mr. Lydgate."

"Whymother" said Mr. Farebrotherafter an explosive laugh"youknow very well that Lydgate is of a good family in the North. Henever heard of Bulstrode before he came here."

"Thatis satisfactory so far as Mr. Lydgate is concernedCamden"said the old ladywith an air of precision.--"But as toBulstrode-- the report may be true of some other son."

CHAPTERXXVII

Letthe high Muse chant loves Olympian:

Weare but mortalsand must sing of man.

An eminentphilosopher among my friendswho can dignify even your uglyfurniture by lifting it into the serene light of sciencehas shownme this pregnant little fact.  Your pier-glass or extensivesurface of polished steel made to be rubbed by a housemaidwill beminutely and multitudinously scratched in all directions; but placenow against it a lighted candle as a centre of illuminationand lo!the scratches will seem to arrange themselves in a fine series ofconcentric circles round that little sun.  It is demonstrablethat the scratches are going everywhere impartially and it is onlyyour candle which produces the flattering illusion of a concentricarrangementits light falling with an exclusive optical selection. These things are a parable.  The scratches are eventsand thecandle is the egoism of any person now absent-- of Miss Vincyforexample.  Rosamond had a Providence of her own who had kindlymade her more charming than other girlsand who seemed to havearranged Fred's illness and Mr. Wrench's mistake in order to bringher and Lydgate within effective proximity. It would have been tocontravene these arrangements if Rosamond had consented to go away toStone Court or elsewhereas her parents wished her to doespeciallysince Mr. Lydgate thought the precaution needless.  Thereforewhile Miss Morgan and the children were sent away to a farmhouse themorning after Fred's illness had declared itselfRosamond refused toleave papa and mamma.

Poor mammaindeed was an object to touch any creature born of woman; and Mr.Vincywho doted on his wifewas more alarmed on her account than onFred's. But for his insistence she would have taken no rest: her brightness was all bedimmed; unconscious of her costume which hadalways been se fresh and gayshe was like a sick bird with languideye and plumage ruffledher senses dulled to the sights and soundsthat used most to interest her. Fred's deliriumin which he seemedto be wandering out of her reachtore her heart.  After herfirst outburst against-Mr. Wrench she went about very quietly: her one low cry was to Lydgate. She would follow him out of the roomand put her hand on his arm moaning out"Save my boy." Once she pleaded"He has always been good to meMr. Lydgate: he never had a hard word for his mother"-- as if poor Fred'ssuffering were an accusation against him. All the deepest fibres ofthe mother's memory were stirredand the young man whose voice tooka gentler tone when he spoke to herwas one with the babe whom shehad lovedwith a love new to herbefore he was born.

"Ihave good hopeMrs. Vincy" Lydgate would say.  "Comedown with me and let us talk about the food."  In that wayhe led her to the parlor where Rosamond wasand made a change forhersurprising her into taking some tea or broth which had beenprepared for her. There was a constant understanding between him andRosamond on these matters.  He almost always saw her beforegoing to the sickroomand she appealed to him as to what she coulddo for mamma. Her presence of mind and adroitness in carrying out hishints were admirableand it is not wonderful that the idea of seeingRosamond began to mingle itself with his interest in the case.Especially when the critical stage was passedand he began to feelconfident of Fred's recovery.  In the more doubtful timehe hadadvised calling in Dr. Sprague (whoif he couldwould rather haveremained neutral on Wrench's account); but after two consultationsthe conduct of the case was left to Lydgateand there was everyreason to make him assiduous.  Morning and evening he was at Mr.Vincy'sand gradually the visits became cheerful as Fred becamesimply feebleand lay not only in need of the utmost petting butconscious of itso that Mrs. Vincy felt as ifafter alltheillness had made a festival for her tenderness.

Bothfather and mother held it an added reason for good spiritswhen oldMr. Featherstone sent messages by Lydgatesaying that Fred-must makehaste and get wellas hePeter Featherstonecould not do withouthimand missed his visits sadly.  The old man himself wasgetting bedridden.  Mrs. Vincy told these messages to Fred whenhe could listenand he turned towards her his delicatepinchedfacefrom which all the thick blond hair had been cut awayand inwhich the eyes seemed to have got largeryearning for some wordabout Mary--wondering what she felt about his illness. No word passedhis lips; but "to hear with eyes belongs to love's rare wit"and the mother in the fulness of her heart not only divined Fred'slongingbut felt ready for any sacrifice in order to satisfy him.

"If Ican only see my boy strong again" she saidin her lovingfolly; "and who knows?--perhaps master of Stone Court! and hecan marry anybody he likes then."

"Notif they won't have memother" said Fred.  The illness hadmade him childishand tears came as he spoke.

"Ohtake a bit of jellymy dear" said Mrs. Vincysecretlyincredulous of any such refusal.

She neverleft Fred's side when her husband was not in the houseand thusRosamond was in the unusual position of being much alone. Lydgatenaturallynever thought of staying long with heryet it seemed thatthe brief impersonal conversations they had together were creatingthat peculiar intimacy which consists in shyness. They were obligedto look at each other in speakingand somehow the looking could notbe carried through as the matter of course which it really was. Lydgate began to feel this sort of consciousness unpleasant and oneday looked downor anywherelike an ill-worked puppet. But thisturned out badly:  the next dayRosamond looked downand theconsequence was that when their eyes met againboth were moreconscious than before.  There was no help for this in scienceand as Lydgate did not want to flirtthere seemed to be no help forit in folly.  It was therefore a relief when neighbors no longerconsidered the house in quarantineand when the chances of seeingRosamond alone were very much reduced.

But thatintimacy of mutual embarrassmentin which each feels that the otheris feeling somethinghaving once existedits effect is not to bedone away with.  Talk about the weather and other well-bredtopics is apt to seem a hollow deviceand behavior can hardly becomeeasy unless it frankly recognizes a mutual fascination--which ofcourse need not mean anything deep or serious.  This was the wayin which Rosamond and Lydgate slid gracefully into easeand madetheir intercourse lively again. Visitors came and went as usualthere was once more music in the drawing-roomand all the extrahospitality of Mr. Vincy's mayoralty returned.  Lydgatewhenever he couldtook his seat by Rosamond's sideand lingered tohear her musiccalling himself her captive--meaningall the whilenot to be her captive. The preposterousness of the notion that hecould at once set up a satisfactory establishment as a married manwas a sufficient guarantee against danger.  This play at being alittle in love was agreeableand did not interfere with graverpursuits.  Flirtationafter allwas not necessarily a singeingprocess.  Rosamondfor her parthad never enjoyed the days somuch in her life before:  she was sure of being admired by someone worth captivatingand she did not distinguish flirtation fromloveeither in herself or in another. She seemed to be sailing witha fair wind just whither she would goand her thoughts were muchoccupied with a handsome house in Lowick Gate which she hoped wouldby-and-by be vacant.  She was quite determinedwhen she wasmarriedto rid herself adroitly of all the visitors who were notagreeable to her at her father's; and she imagined the drawing-roomin her favorite house with various styles of furniture.

Certainlyher thoughts were much occupied with Lydgate himself; he seemed toher almost perfect:  if he had known his notes so that hisenchantment under her music had been less like an emotionalelephant'sand if he had been able to discriminate better therefinements of her taste in dressshe could hardly have mentioned adeficiency in him. How different he was from young Plymdale or Mr.Caius Larcher! Those young men had not a notion of Frenchand couldspeak on no subject with striking knowledgeexcept perhaps thedyeing and carrying tradeswhich of course they were ashamed tomention; they were Middlemarch gentryelated with theirsilver-headed whips and satin stocksbut embarrassed in theirmannersand timidly jocose: even Fred was above themhaving atleast the accent and manner of a university man.  WhereasLydgate was always listened tobore himself with the carelesspoliteness of conscious superiorityand seemed to have the rightclothes on by a certain natural affinitywithout ever having tothink about them.  Rosamond was proud when he entered the roomand when he approached her with a distinguishing smileshe had adelicious sense that she was the object of enviable homage. IfLydgate had been aware of all the pride he excited in that delicatebosomhe might have been just as well pleased as any other maneventhe most densely ignorant of humoral pathology or fibrous tissue: he held it one of the prettiest attitudes of the feminine mind toadore a man's pre-eminence without too precise a knowledge of what itconsisted in.  But Rosamond was not one of those helpless girlswho betray themselves unawaresand whose behavior is awkwardlydriven by their impulsesinstead of being steered by wary grace andpropriety.  Do you imagine that her rapid forecast andrumination concerning house-furniture and society were everdiscernible in her conversationeven with her mamma? On thecontraryshe would have expressed the prettiest surprise anddisapprobation if she had heard that another young lady had beendetected in that immodest prematureness--indeedwould probably havedisbelieved in its possibility.  For Rosamond never showed anyunbecoming knowledgeand was always that combination of correctsentimentsmusicdancingdrawingelegant note-writingprivatealbum for extracted verseand perfect blond lovelinesswhich madethe irresistible woman for the doomed man of that date. Think nounfair evil of herpray:  she had no wicked plotsnothingsordid or mercenary; in factshe never thought of money except assomething necessary which other people would always provide. She wasnot in the habit of devising falsehoodsand if her statements wereno direct clew to factwhythey were not intended in that light--they were among her elegant accomplishmentsintended to please.Nature had inspired many arts in finishing Mrs. Lemon's favoritepupilwho by general consent (Fred's excepted) was a rare compoundof beautyclevernessand amiability.

Lydgatefound it more and more agreeable to be with herand there was noconstraint nowthere was a delightful interchange of influence intheir eyesand what they said had that superfluity of meaning forthemwhich is observable with some sense of flatness by a thirdperson; still they had no interviews or asides from which a thirdperson need have been excluded.  In factthey flirted; andLydgate was secure in the belief that they did nothing else. If a mancould not love and be wisesurely he could flirt and be wise at thesame time?  Reallythe men in Middlemarchexcept Mr.Farebrotherwere great boresand Lydgate did not care aboutcommercial politics or cards:  what was he to do for relaxation?He was often invited to the Bulstrodes'; but the girls there werehardly out of the schoolroom; and Mrs. Bulstrode's NAIVE way ofconciliating piety and worldlinessthe nothingness of this life andthe desirability of cut glassthe consciousness at once of filthyrags and the best damaskwas not a sufficient relief from the weightof her husband's invariable seriousness.  The Vincys' housewith all its faultswas the pleasanter by contrast; besidesitnourished Rosamond--sweet to look at as a half-opened blush-roseandadorned with accomplishments for the refined amusement of man.

But hemade some enemiesother than medicalby his success with MissVincy.  One evening he came into the drawing-room rather latewhen several other visitors were there.  The card-table haddrawn off the eldersand Mr. Ned Plymdale (one of the good matchesin Middlemarchthough not one of its leading minds) was intete-a-tete with Rosamond.  He had brought the last "Keepsake"the gorgeous watered-silk publication which marked modern progress atthat time; and he considered himself very fortunate that he could bethe first to look over it with herdwelling on the ladies andgentlemen with shiny copper-plate cheeks and copper-plate smilesandpointing to comic verses as capital and sentimental stories asinteresting.  Rosamond was graciousand Mr. Ned was satisfiedthat he had the very best thing in art and literature as a medium for"paying addresses"--the very thing to please a nice girl.He had also reasonsdeep rather than ostensiblefor being satisfiedwith his own appearance.  To superficial observers his chin hadtoo vanishing an aspectlooking as if it were being graduallyreabsorbed. And it did indeed cause him some difficulty about the fitof his satin stocksfor which chins were at that time useful.

"Ithink the Honorable Mrs. S. is something like you" said Mr.Ned. He kept the book open at the bewitching portraitand looked atit rather languishingly.

"Herback is very large; she seems to have sat for that" saidRosamondnot meaning any satirebut thinking how red youngPlymdale's hands wereand wondering why Lydgate did not come. Shewent on with her tatting all the while.

"Idid not say she was as beautiful as you are" said Mr. Nedventuring to look from the portrait to its rival.

"Isuspect you of being an adroit flatterer" said Rosamondfeeling sure that she should have to reject this young gentleman asecond time.

But nowLydgate came in; the book was closed before he reached Rosamond'scornerand as he took his seat with easy confidence on the otherside of heryoung Plymdale's jaw fell like a barometer towards thecheerless side of change.  Rosamond enjoyed not only Lydgate'spresence but its effect:  she liked to excite jealousy.

"Whata late comer you are!" she saidas they shook hands. "Mammahad given you up a little while ago.  How do you find Fred?"

"Asusual; going on wellbut slowly.  I want him to go away-- toStone Courtfor example.  But your mamma seems to have someobjection."

"Poorfellow!" said Rosamondprettily.  "You will see Fredso changed" she addedturning to the other suitor; "wehave looked to Mr. Lydgate as our guardian angel during thisillness."

Mr. Nedsmiled nervouslywhile Lydgatedrawing the "Keepsake"towards him and opening itgave a short scornful laugh and tossed uphis chillas if in wonderment at human folly.

"Whatare you laughing at so profanely?" said Rosamondwith blandneutrality.

"Iwonder which would turn out to be the silliest--the engravings or thewriting here" said Lydgatein his most convinced tonewhilehe turned over the pages quicklyseeming to see all through the bookin no timeand showing his large white hands to much advantageasRosamond thought.  "Do look at this bridegroom coming outof church: did you ever see such a `sugared invention'--as theElizabethans used to say?  Did any haberdasher ever look sosmirking?  Yet I will answer for it the story makes him one ofthe first gentlemen in the land."

"Youare so severeI am frightened at you" said Rosamondkeepingher amusement duly moderate.  Poor young Plymdale had lingeredwith admiration over this very engravingand his spirit was stirred.

"Thereare a great many celebrated people writing in the `Keepsake' at allevents" he saidin a tone at once piqued and timid. "Thisis the first time I have heard it called silly."

"Ithink I shall turn round on you and accuse you of being a Goth"said Rosamondlooking at Lydgate with a smile.  "I suspectyou know nothing about Lady Blessington and L. E. L." Rosamondherself was not without relish for these writersbut she did notreadily commit herself by admirationand was alive to the slightesthint that anything was notaccording to Lydgatein the very highesttaste.

"ButSir Walter Scott--I suppose Mr. Lydgate knows him" said youngPlymdalea little cheered by this advantage.

"OhI read no literature now" said Lydgateshutting the bookandpushing it away.  "I read so much when I was a ladthat Isuppose it will last me all my life.  I used to know Scott'spoems by heart."

"Ishould like to know when you left off" said Rosamond"becausethen I might be sure that I knew something which you did not know."

"Mr.Lydgate would say that was not worth knowing" said Mr. Nedpurposely caustic.

"Onthe contrary" said Lydgateshowing no smart; but smiling withexasperating confidence at Rosamond.  "It would be worthknowing by the fact that Miss Vincy could tell it me."

YoungPlymdale soon went to look at the whist-playingthinking thatLydgate was one of the most conceitedunpleasant fellows it had everbeen his ill-fortune to meet.

"Howrash you are!" said Rosamondinwardly delighted.  "Doyou see that you have given offence?"

"What!is it Mr. Plymdale's book?  I am sorry.  I didn't thinkabout it."

"Ishall begin to admit what you said of yourself when you first camehere--that you are a bearand want teaching by the birds."

"Wellthere is a bird who can teach me what she will.  Don't I listento her willingly?"

ToRosamond 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 hermind; and ideaswe knowtend to a more solid kind of existencethenecessary materials being at hand.  It is trueLydgate had thecounter-idea of remaining unengaged; but this was a mere negativeashadow east by other resolves which themselves were capable ofshrinking. Circumstance was almost sure to be on the side ofRosamond's ideawhich had a shaping activity and looked throughwatchful blue eyeswhereas Lydgate's lay blind and unconcerned as ajelly-fish which gets melted without knowing it.

Thatevening when he went homehe looked at his phials to see how aprocess of maceration was going onwith undisturbed interest; and hewrote out his daily notes with as much precision as usual. Thereveries from which it was difficult for him to detach himself wereideal constructions of something else than Rosamond's virtuesandthe primitive tissue was still his fair unknown.  Moreoverhewas beginning to feel some zest for the growing thoughhalf-suppressed feud between him and the other medical menwhich waslikely to become more manifestnow that Bulstrode's method ofmanaging the new hospital was about to be declared; and there werevarious inspiriting signs that his non-acceptance by some ofPeacock's patients might be counterbalanced by the impression he hadproduced in other quarters. Only a few days laterwhen he hadhappened to overtake Rosamond on the Lowick road and had got downfrom his horse to walk by her side until he had quite protected herfrom a passing drovehe had been stopped by a servant on horsebackwith a message calling him in to a house of some importance wherePeacock had never attended; and it was the second instance of thiskind.  The servant was Sir James Chettam'sand the house wasLowick Manor.

CHAPTERXXVIII

  1st Gent.  All times are good to seek your wedded home
  Bringing a mutual delight.

  2d Gent.   Whytrue.
   The calendar hath notan evil day
   For souls made one by loveand evendeath
   Were sweetnessif it came like rollingwaves
   While they two clasped each otherandforesaw
   No life apart.

Mr. andMrs. Casaubonreturning from their wedding journeyarrived atLowick Manor in the middle of January.  A light snow was fallingas they descended at the doorand in the morningwhen Dorotheapassed from her dressing-room avenue the blue-green boudoir that weknow ofshe saw the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from awhite earthand spreading white branches against the dun andmotionless sky.  The distant flat shrank in uniform whitenessand low-hanging uniformity of cloud. The very furniture in the roomseemed to have shrunk since she saw it before:  the slag in thetapestry looked more like a ghost in his ghostly blue-green world;the volumes of polite literature in the bookcase looked morn likeimmovable imitations of books. The bright fire of dry oak-boughsburning on the dogs seemed an incongruous renewal of life andglow--like the figure of Dorothea herself as she entered carrying thered-leather cases containing the cameos for Celia.

She wasglowing from her morning toilet as only healthful youth can glow: there was gem-like brightness on her coiled hair and in her hazeleyes; there was warm red life in her lips; her throat had a breathingwhiteness above the differing white of the fur which itself seemed towind about her neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with atenderness gathered from her owna sentient commingled innocencewhich kept its loveliness against the crystalline purity of theoutdoor snow.  As she laid the cameo- cases on the table in thebow-windowshe unconsciously kept her hands on themimmediatelyabsorbed in looking out on the stillwhite enclosure which made hervisible world.

Mr.Casaubonwho had risen early complaining of palpitationwas in thelibrary giving audience to his curate Mr. Tucker. By-and-by Celiawould come in her quality of bridesmaid as well as sisterandthrough the next weeks there would be wedding visits received andgiven; all in continuance of that transitional life understood tocorrespond with the excitement of bridal felicityand keeping up thesense of busy ineffectivenessas of a dream which the dreamer beginsto suspect.  The duties of her married lifecontemplated as sogreat beforehandseemed to be shrinking with the furniture and thewhite vapor-walled landscape.  The clear heights where sheexpected to walk in full communion had become difficult to see evenin her imagination; the delicious repose of the soul on a completesuperior had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dimpresentiment.  When would the days begin of that active wifelydevotion which was to strengthen her husband's life and exalt herown?  Never perhapsas she had preconceived them; but somehow--still somehow.  In this solemnly pledged union of her lifedutywould present itself in some new form of inspiration and give a newmeaning to wifely love.

Meanwhilethere was the snow and the low arch of dun vapor-- there was thestifling oppression of that gentlewoman's worldwhere everything wasdone for her and none asked for her aid-- where the sense ofconnection with a manifold pregnant existence had to be kept uppainfully as an inward visioninstead of coming from without inclaims that would have shaped her energies.-- "What shall I do?""Whatever you pleasemy dear:  "that had been herbrief history since she had left off learning morning lessons andpractising silly rhythms on the hated piano.  Marriagewhichwas to bring guidance into worthy and imperative occupationhad notyet freed her from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty:  it hadnot even filled her leisure with the ruminant joy of uncheckedtenderness. Her blooming full-pulsed youth stood there in a moralimprisonment which made itself one with the chillcolorlessnarrowed landscapewith the shrunken furniturethe never-readbooksand the ghostly stag in a pale fantastic world that seemed tobe vanishing from the daylight.

In thefirst minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt nothing but thedreary oppression; then came a keen remembranceand turning awayfrom the window she walked round the room.  The ideas and hopeswhich were living in her mind when she first saw this room nearlythree months before were present now only as memories: she judgedthem as we judge transient and departed things. All existence seemedto beat with a lower pulse than her ownand her religious faith wasa solitary crythe struggle out of a nightmare in which every objectwas withering and shrinking away from her.  Each rememberedthing in the room was disenchantedwas deadened as an unlittransparencytill her wandering gaze came to the group ofminiaturesand there at last she saw something which had gatherednew breath and meaning:  it was the miniature of Mr. Casaubon'saunt Juliawho had made the unfortunate marriage-- of WillLadislaw's grandmother.  Dorothea could fancy that it was alivenow--the delicate woman's face which yet had a headstrong lookapeculiarity difficult to interpret.  Was it only her friends whothought her marriage unfortunate? or did she herself find it out tobe a mistakeand taste the salt bitterness of her tears in themerciful silence of the night?  What breadths of experienceDorothea seemed to have passed over since she first looked at thisminiature!  She felt a new companionship with itas if it hadan ear for her and could see how she was looking at it. Here was awoman who had known some difficulty about marriage. Naythe colorsdeepenedthe lips and chin seemed to get largerthe hair and eyesseemed to be sending out lightthe face was masculine and beamed onher with that full gaze which tells her on whom it falls that she istoo interesting for the slightest movement of her eyelid to passunnoticed and uninterpreted. The vivid presentation came like apleasant glow to Dorothea: she felt herself smilingand turning fromthe miniature sat down and looked up as if she were again talking toa figure in front of her. But the smile disappeared as she went onmeditatingand at last she said aloud--

"Ohit was cruel to speak so!  How sad--how dreadful!"

She rosequickly and went out of the roomhurrying along the corridorwiththe irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if shecould do anything for him.  Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr.Casaubon was alone in the library.  She felt as if all hermorning's gloom would vanish if she could see her husband gladbecause of her presence.

But whenshe reached the head of the dark oak there was Celia coming upandbelow there was Mr. Brookeexchanging welcomes and congratulationswith Mr. Casaubon.

"Dodo!"said Celiain her quiet staccato; then kissed her sisterwhose armsencircled herand said no more.  I think they both cried alittle in a furtive mannerwhile Dorothea ran down-stairs to greether uncle.

"Ineed not ask how you aremy dear" said Mr. Brookeafterkissing her forehead.  "Rome has agreed with youIsee--happinessfrescosthe antique--that sort of thing.  Wellit's very pleasant to have you back againand you understand allabout art noweh? But Casaubon is a little paleI tell him--alittle paleyou know. Studying hard in his holidays is carrying itrather too far. I overdid it at one time"--Mr. Brooke still heldDorothea's handbut had turned his face to Mr. Casaubon--"abouttopographyruinstemples--I thought I had a clewbut I saw itwould carry me too farand nothing might come of it.  You maygo any length in that sort of thingand nothing may come of ityouknow."

Dorothea'seyes also were turned up to her husband's face with some anxiety atthe idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be awareof signs which she had not noticed.

"Nothingto alarm youmy dear" said Mr. Brookeobserving herexpression.  "A little English beef and mutton will soonmake a difference.  It was all very well to look palesittingfor the portrait of Aquinasyou know--we got your letter just intime. But Aquinasnow--he was a little too subtlewasn't he? Doesanybody read Aquinas?"

"Heis not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds" said Mr.Casaubonmeeting these timely questions with dignified patience.

"Youwould like coffee in your own roomuncle?" said Dorotheacoming to the rescue.

"Yes;and you must go to Celia:  she has great news to tell youyouknow.  I leave it all to her."

Theblue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seatedthere in a pelisse exactly like her sister'ssurveying the cameoswith a placid satisfactionwhile the conversation passed on to othertopics.

"Doyou think it nice to go to Rome on a wedding journey?" saidCeliawith her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to onthe smallest occasions.

"Itwould not suit all--not youdearfor example" said Dorotheaquietly. No one would ever know what she thought of a wedding journeyto Rome.

"Mrs.Cadwallader says it is nonsensepeople going a long journey whenthey are married.  She says they get tired to death of eachotherand can't quarrel comfortablyas they would at home. And LadyChettam says she went to Bath."  Celia's color changedagain and again--seemed

To comeand go with tidings from the heart As it a running messengerhad been.

It mustmean more than Celia's blushing usually did.

"Celia!has something happened?" said Dorotheain a tone full ofsisterly feeling.  "Have you really any great news to tellme?"

"Itwas because you went awayDodo.  Then there was nobody but mefor Sir James to talk to" said Celiawith a certainroguishness in her eyes.

"Iunderstand.  It is as I used to hope and believe" saidDorotheataking her sister's face between her handsand looking ather half anxiously.  Celia's marriage seemed more serious thanit used to do.

"Itwas only three days ago" said Celia.  "And LadyChettam is very kind."

"Andyou are very happy?"

"Yes. We are not going to be married yet.  Because every thing is tobe got ready.  And I don't want to be married so very soonbecause I think it is nice to be engaged.  And we shall bemarried all our lives after."

"I dobelieve you could not marry betterKitty.  Sir James is a goodhonorable man" said Dorotheawarmly.

"Hehas gone on with the cottagesDodo.  He will tell you aboutthem when he comes.  Shall you be glad to see him?"

"Ofcourse I shall.  How can you ask me?"

"OnlyI was afraid you would be getting so learned" said Celiaregarding Mr. Casaubon's learning as a kind of damp which might indue time saturate a neighboring body.

CHAPTERXXIX

 

"Ifound that no genius in another could please me.  My unfortunate

paradoxeshad entirely dried up that source of comfort."--GOLDSMITH.

Onemorningsome weeks after her arrival at LowickDorothea-- but whyalways Dorothea?  Was her point of view the only possible onewith regard to this marriage? protest against all our interestallour effort at understanding being given to the young skins that lookblooming in spite of trouble; for these too will get fadedand willknow the older and more eating griefs which we are helping toneglect.  In spite of the blinking eyes and white molesobjectionable to Celiaand the want of muscular curve which wasmorally painful to Sir JamesMr. Casaubon had an intenseconsciousness within himand was spiritually a-hungered like therest of us.  He had done nothing exceptional inmarrying--nothing but what society sanctionsand considers anoccasion for wreaths and bouquets.  It had occurred to him thathe must not any longer defer his intention of matrimonyand he hadreflected that in taking a wifea man of good position should expectand carefully choose a blooming young lady--the younger the betterbecause more educable and submissive--of a rank equal to his ownofreligious principlesvirtuous dispositionand good understanding. On such a young lady he would make handsome settlementsand he wouldneglect no arrangement for her happiness: in returnhe shouldreceive family pleasures and leave behind him that copy of himselfwhich seemed so urgently required of a man-- to the sonneteers of thesixteenth century.  Times had altered since thenand nosonneteer had insisted on Mr. Casaubon's leaving a copy of himself;moreoverhe had not yet succeeded in issuing copies of hismythological key; but he had always intended to acquit himself bymarriageand the sense that he was fast leaving the years behindhimthat the world was getting dimmer and that he felt lonelywas areason to him for losing no more time in overtaking domestic delightsbefore they too were left behind by the years.

And whenhe had seen Dorothea he believed that he had found even more than hedemanded:  she might really be such a helpmate to him as wouldenable him to dispense with a hired secretaryan aid which Mr.Casaubon had never yet employed and had a suspicious dread of. (Mr. Casaubon was nervously conscious that he was expected tomanifest a powerful mind.) Providencein its kindnesshad suppliedhim with the wife he needed.  A wifea modest young ladywiththe purely appreciativeunambitious abilities of her sexis sure tothink her husband's mind powerful. Whether Providence had taken equalcare of Miss Brooke in presenting her with Mr. Casaubon was an ideawhich could hardly occur to him. Society never made the preposterousdemand that a man should think as much about his own qualificationsfor making a charming girl happy as he thinks of hers for makinghimself happy.  As if a man could choose not only his wife huthis wife's husband!  Or as if he were bound to provide charmsfor his posterity in his own person!-- When Dorothea accepted himwith effusionthat was only natural; and Mr. Casaubon believed thathis happiness was going to begin.

He had nothad much foretaste of happiness in his previous life. To know intensejoy without a strong bodily frameone must have an enthusiasticsoul.  Mr. Casaubon had never had a strong bodily frameand hissoul was sensitive without being enthusiastic:  it was toolanguid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight;it went on fluttering in the swampy ground where it was hatchedthinking of its wings and never flying.  His experience was ofthat pitiable kind which shrinks from pityand fears most of allthat it should be known:  it was that proud narrow sensitivenesswhich has not mass enough to spare for transformation into sympathyand quivers thread-like in small currents of self-preoccupation or atbest of an egoistic scrupulosity.  And Mr. Casaubon had manyscruples:  he was capable of a severe self-restraint; he wasresolute in being a man of honor according to the code; he would beunimpeachable by any recognized opinion.  In conduct these endshad been attained; but the difficulty of making his Key to allMythologies unimpeachable weighed like lead upon his mind; and thepamphlets--or "Parerga" as he called them--by which hetested his public and deposited small monumental records of hismarchwere far from having been seen in all their significance. Hesuspected the Archdeacon of not having read them; he was in painfuldoubt as to what was really thought of them by the leading minds ofBrasenoseand bitterly convinced that his old acquaintance Carp hadbeen the writer of that depreciatory recension which was kept lockedin a small drawer of Mr. Casaubon's deskand also in a dark closetof his verbal memory.  These were heavy impressions to struggleagainstand brought that melancholy embitterment which is theconsequence of all excessive claim: even his religious faith waveredwith his wavering trust in his own authorshipand the consolationsof the Christian hope in immortality seemed to lean on theimmortality of the still unwritten Key to all Mythologies.  Formy part I am very sorry for him. It is an uneasy lot at bestto bewhat we call highly taught and yet not to enjoy:  to be presentat this great spectacle of life and never to be liberated from asmall hungry shivering self-- never to be fully possessed by theglory we beholdnever to have our consciousness rapturouslytransformed into the vividness of a thoughtthe ardor of a passionthe energy of an actionbut always to be scholarly and uninspiredambitious and timidscrupulous and dim-sighted. Becoming a dean oreven a bishop would make little differenceI fearto Mr. Casaubon'suneasiness. Doubtless some ancient Greek has observed that behind thebig mask and the speaking-trumpetthere must always be our poorlittle eyes peeping as usual and our timorous lips more or less underanxious control.

To thismental estate mapped out a quarter of a century beforetosensibilities thus fenced inMr. Casaubon had thought of annexinghappiness with a lovely young bride; but even before marriageas wehave seenhe found himself under a new depression in theconsciousness that the new bliss was not blissful to him. Inclinationyearned back to its oldeasier custom.  And the deeper he wentin domesticity the more did the sense of acquitting himself andacting with propriety predominate over any other satisfaction.Marriagelike religion and eruditionnaylike authorship itselfwas fated to become an outward requirementand Edward Casaubon wasbent on fulfilling unimpeachably all requirements.  Even drawingDorothea into use in his studyaccording to his own intention beforemarriagewas an effort which he was always tempted to deferand butfor her pleading insistence it might never have begun. But she hadsucceeded in making it a matter of course that she should take herplace at an early hour in the library and have work either of readingaloud or copying assigned her.  The work had been easier todefine because Mr. Casaubon had adopted an immediate intention: therewas to be a new Parergona small monograph on some lately tracedindications concerning the Egyptian mysteries whereby certainassertions of Warburton's could be corrected. References wereextensive even herebut not altogether shoreless; and sentences wereactually to be written in the shape wherein they would be scanned byBrasenose and a less formidable posterity. These minor monumentalproductions were always exciting to Mr. Casaubon; digestion was madedifficult by the interference of citationsor by the rivalry ofdialectical phrases ringing against each other in his brain. And from the first there was to be a Latin dedication about whicheverything was uncertain except that it was not to be addressed toCarp:  it was a poisonous regret to Mr. Casaubon that he hadonce addressed a dedication to Carp in which he had numbered thatmember of the animal kingdom among the viros nullo aevo periturosamistake which would infallibly lay the dedicator open to ridicule inthe next ageand might even be chuckled over by Pike and Tench inthe present.

Thus Mr.Casaubon was in one of his busiest epochsand as I began to say alittle while agoDorothea joined him early in the library where hehad breakfasted alone.  Celia at this time was on a second visitto Lowickprobably the last before her marriageand was in thedrawing-room expecting Sir James.

Dorotheahad learned to read the signs of her husband's moodand she saw thatthe morning had become more foggy there during the last hour. She wasgoing silently to her desk when he saidin that distant tone whichimplied that he was discharging a disagreeable duty--

"Dorotheahere is a letter for youwhich was enclosed in one addressed to me."

It was aletter of two pagesand she immediately looked at the signature.

"Mr.Ladislaw!  What can he have to say to me?" she exclaimedin a tone of pleased surprise.  "But" she addedlooking at Mr. Casaubon"I can imagine what he has written toyou about."

"Youcanif you pleaseread the letter" said Mr. Casaubonseverely pointing to it with his penand not looking at her. "ButI may as well say beforehandthat I must decline the proposal itcontains to pay a visit here.  I trust I may be excused fordesiring an interval of complete freedom from such distractions ashave been hitherto inevitableand especially from guests whosedesultory vivacity makes their presence a fatigue."

There hadbeen no clashing of temper between Dorothea and her husband sincethat little explosion in Romewhich had left such strong traces inher mind that it had been easier ever since to quell emotion than toincur the consequence of venting it. But this ill-temperedanticipation that she could desire visits which might be disagreeableto her husbandthis gratuitous defence of himself against selfishcomplaint on her partwas too sharp a sting to be meditated on untilafter it had been resented. Dorothea had thought that she could havebeen patient with John Miltonbut she had never imagined himbehaving in this way; and for a moment Mr. Casaubon seemed to bestupidly undiscerning and odiously unjust. Pitythat "new-bornbabe" which was by-and-by to rule many a storm within herdidnot "stride the blast" on this occasion. With her firstwordsuttered in a tone that shook himshe startled Mr. Casauboninto looking at herand meeting the flash of her eyes.

"Whydo you attribute to me a wish for anything that would annoy you? Youspeak to me as if I were something you had to contend against. Waitat least till I appear to consult my own pleasure apart from yours."

"Dorotheayou are hasty" answered Mr. Casaubonnervously.

Decidedlythis woman was too young to be on the formidable level ofwifehood--unless she had been pale and feature less and takeneverything for granted.

"Ithink it was you who were first hasty in your false suppositionsabout my feeling" said Dorotheain the same tone.  Thefire was not dissipated yetand she thought it was ignoble in herhusband not to apologize to her.

"Wewillif you pleasesay no more on this subjectDorothea. I haveneither leisure nor energy for this kind of debate."

Here Mr.Casaubon dipped his pen and made as if he would return to hiswritingthough his hand trembled so much that the words seemed to bewritten in an unknown character.  There are answers whichinturning away wrathonly send it to the other end of the roomand tohave a discussion coolly waived when you feel that justice is all onyour own side is even more exasperating in marriage than inphilosophy.

Dorothealeft Ladislaw's two letters unread on her husband's writing-table andwent to her own placethe scorn and indignation within her rejectingthe reading of these lettersjust as we hurl away any trash towardswhich we seem to have been suspected of mean cupidity.  She didnot in the least divine the subtle sources of her husband's badtemper about these letters: she only knew that they had caused him tooffend her.  She began to work at onceand her hand did nottremble; on the contraryin writing out the quotations which hadbeen given to her the day beforeshe felt that she was forming herletters beautifullyand it seemed to her that she saw theconstruction of the Latin she was copyingand which she wasbeginning to understandmore clearly than usual.  In herindignation there was a sense of superioritybut it went out for thepresent in firmness of strokeand did not compress itself into aninward articulate voice pronouncing the once "affable archangel"a poor creature.

There hadbeen this apparent quiet for half an hourand Dorothea had notlooked away from her own tablewhen she heard the loud bang of abook on the floorand turning quickly saw Mr. Casaubon on thelibrary steps clinging forward as if he were in some bodily distress.She started up and bounded towards him in an instant:  he wasevidently in great straits for breath.  Jumping on a stool shegot close to his elbow and said with her whole soul melted intotender alarm--

"Canyou lean on medear?"

He wasstill for two or three minuteswhich seemed endless to herunableto speak or movegasping for breath.  When at last he descendedthe three steps and fell backward in the large chair which Dorotheahad drawn close to the foot of the ladderhe no longer gasped butseemed helpless and about to faint. Dorothea rang the bell violentlyand presently Mr. Casaubon was helped to the couch:  he did notfaintand was gradually revivingwhen Sir James Chettam came inhaving been met in the hall with the news that Mr. Casaubon had "hada fit in the library."

"GoodGod! this is just what might have been expected" was hisimmediate thought.  If his prophetic soul had been urged toparticularizeit seemed to him that "fits" would have beenthe definite expression alighted upon.  He asked his informantthe butlerwhether the doctor had been sent for.  The butlernever knew his master want the doctor before; but would it not beright to send for a physician?

When SirJames entered the libraryhoweverMr. Casaubon could make somesigns of his usual politenessand Dorotheawho in the reaction fromher first terror had been kneeling and sobbing by his side now roseand herself proposed that some one should ride off for a medical man.

"Irecommend you to send for Lydgate" said Sir James.  "Mymother has called him inand she has found him uncommonly clever.She has had a poor opinion of the physicians since my father'sdeath."

Dorotheaappealed to her husbandand he made a silent sign of approval. SoMr. Lydgate was sent for and he came wonderfully soonfor themessengerwho was Sir James Chettam's man and knew Mr. Lydgatemethim leading his horse along the Lowick road and giving his arm toMiss Vincy.

Celiainthe drawing-roomhad known nothing of the trouble till Sir Jamestold her of it.  After Dorothea's accounthe no longerconsidered the illness a fitbut still something "of thatnature."

"Poordear Dodo--how dreadful!" said Celiafeeling as much grieved asher own perfect happiness would allow.  Her little hands wereclaspedand enclosed by Sir James's as a bud is enfolded by aliberal calyx. "It is very shocking that Mr. Casaubon should beill; but I never did like him.  And I think he is not half fondenough of Dorothea; and he ought to befor I am sure no one elsewould have had him-- do you think they would?"

"Ialways thought it a horrible sacrifice of your sister" said SirJames.

"Yes. But poor Dodo never did do what other people doand I think shenever will."

"Sheis a noble creature" said the loyal-hearted Sir James. He hadjust had a fresh impression of this kindas he had seen Dorotheastretching her tender arm under her husband's neck and looking at himwith unspeakable sorrow.  He did not know how much penitencethere was in the sorrow.

"Yes"said Celiathinking it was very well for Sir James to say sobut HEwould not have been comfortable with Dodo.  "Shall I go toher?  Could I help herdo you think?"

"Ithink it would be well for you just to go and see her before Lydgatecomes" said Sir Jamesmagnanimously.  "Only don'tstay long."

WhileCelia was gone he walked up and down remembering what he hadoriginally felt about Dorothea's engagementand feeling a revival ofhis disgust at Mr. Brooke's indifference.  If Cadwallader-- ifevery one else had regarded the affair as heSir Jameshad donethe marriage might have been hindered.  It was wicked to let ayoung girl blindly decide her fate in that waywithout any effort tosave her.  Sir James had long ceased to have any regrets on hisown account:  his heart was satisfied with his engagement toCelia. But he had a chivalrous nature (was not the disinterestedservice of woman among the ideal glories of old chivalry?): hisdisregarded love had not turned to bitterness; its death had madesweet odors-- floating memories that clung with a consecrating effectto Dorothea. He could remain her brotherly friendinterpreting heractions with generous trustfulness.

CHAPTERXXX

  "Qui veut delasser hors de proposlasse."--PASCAL.

Mr.Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the firstandin a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgateseemed to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not onlyused his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course inpractice at that time)but sat quietly by his patient and watchedhim.  To Mr. Casaubon's questions about himselfhe replied thatthe source of the illness was the common error of intellectual men--atoo eager and monotonous application: the remedy wasto be satisfiedwith moderate workand to seek variety of relaxation.  Mr.Brookewho sat by on one occasionsuggested that Mr. Casaubonshould go fishingas Cadwallader didand have a turning-roommaketoystable-legsand that kind of thing.

"Inshortyou recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my secondchildhood" said poor Mr. Casaubonwith some bitterness. "Thesethings" he addedlooking at Lydgate"would be to me suchrelaxation as tow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction."

"Iconfess" said Lydgatesmiling"amusement is rather anunsatisfactory prescription.  It is something like tellingpeople to keep up their spirits.  Perhaps I had better saythatyou must submit to be mildly bored rather than to go on working."

"Yesyes" said Mr. Brooke.  "Get Dorothea to play back. gammon with you in the evenings.  And shuttlecocknow--I don'tknow a finer game than shuttlecock for the daytime.  I rememberit all the fashion. To be sureyour eyes might not stand thatCasaubon.  But you must unbendyou know.  Whyyou mighttake to some light study: conchologynow:  it always think thatmust be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read you light thingsSmollett--`Roderick Random' `Humphrey Clinker:'  they are alittle broadbut she may read anything now she's marriedyou know. I remember they made me laugh uncommonly--there's a droll bit about apostilion's breeches. We have no such humor now.  I have gonethrough all these thingsbut they might be rather new to you."

"Asnew as eating thistles" would have been an answer to representMr. Casaubon's feelings.  But he only bowed resignedlywith duerespect to his wife's uncleand observed that doubtless the works hementioned had "served as a resource to a certain order ofminds."

"Yousee" said the able magistrate to Lydgatewhen they wereoutside the door"Casaubon has been a little narrow:  itleaves him rather at a loss when you forbid him his particular workwhich I believe is something very deep indeed--in the line ofresearchyou know.  I would never give way to that; I wasalways versatile. But a clergyman is tied a little tight.  Ifthey would make him a bishopnow!--he did a very good pamphlet forPeel.  He would have more movement thenmore show; he might geta little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs. Casaubon. She is clever enough for anythingis my niece.  Tell herherhusband wants livelinessdiversion:  put her on amusingtactics."

WithoutMr. Brooke's adviceLydgate had determined on speaking to Dorothea. She had not been present while her uncle was throwing out hispleasant suggestions as to the mode in which life at Lowick might beenlivenedbut she was usually by her husband's sideand theunaffected signs of intense anxiety in her face and voice aboutwhatever touched his mind or healthmade a drama which Lydgate wasinclined to watch.  He said to himself that he was only doingright in telling her the truth about her husband's probable futurebut he certainly thought also that it would be interesting to talkconfidentially with her.  A medical man likes to makepsychological observationsand sometimes in the pursuit of suchstudies is too easily tempted into momentous prophecy which life anddeath easily set at nought. Lydgate had often been satirical on thisgratuitous predictionand he meant now to be guarded.

He askedfor Mrs. Casaubonbut being told that she was out walkinghe wasgoing awaywhen Dorothea and Celia appearedboth glowing from theirstruggle with the March wind.  When Lydgate begged to speak withher aloneDorothea opened the library door which happened to be thenearestthinking of nothing at the moment but what he might have tosay about Mr. Casaubon.  It was the first time she had enteredthis room since her husband had been taken illand the servant hadchosen not to open the shutters.  But there was light enough toread by from the narrow upper panes of the windows.

"Youwill not mind this sombre light" said Dorotheastanding in themiddle of the room.  "Since you forbade booksthe libraryhas been out of the question.  But Mr. Casaubon will soon behere againI hope.  Is he not making progress?"

"Yesmuch more rapid progress than I at first expected. Indeedhe isalready nearly in his usual state of health."

"Youdo not fear that the illness will return?" said Dorotheawhosequick ear had detected some significance in Lydgate's tone.

"Suchcases are peculiarly difficult to pronounce upon" said Lydgate."The only point on which I can be confident is that it will bedesirable to be very watchful on Mr. Casaubon's accountlest heshould in any way strain his nervous power."

"Ibeseech you to speak quite plainly" said Dorotheain animploring tone.  "I cannot bear to think that there mightbe something which I did not knowand whichif I had known itwould have made me act differently."  The words came outlike a cry: it was evident that they were the voice of some mentalexperience which lay not very far off.

"Sitdown" she addedplacing herself on the nearest chairandthrowing off her bonnet and gloveswith an instinctive discarding offormality where a great question of destiny was concerned.

"Whatyou say now justifies my own view" said Lydgate.  "Ithink it is one's function as a medical man to hinder regrets of thatsort 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 mostdifficult to pronounce upon.  He may possibly live for fifteenyears or morewithout much worse health than he has had hitherto."

Dorotheahad turned very paleand when Lydgate paused she said in a lowvoice"You mean if we are very careful."

"Yes--carefulagainst mental agitation of all kindsand against excessiveapplication."

"Hewould be miserableif he had to give up his work" saidDorotheawith a quick prevision of that wretchedness.

"I amaware of that.  The only course is to try by all meansdirectand indirectto moderate and vary his occupations. With a happyconcurrence of circumstancesthere isas I saidno immediatedanger from that affection of the heartwhich I believe to have beenthe cause of his late attack.  On the other handit is possiblethat the disease may develop itself more rapidly: it is one of thoseeases in which death is sometimes sudden. Nothing should be neglectedwhich might be affected by such an issue."

There wassilence for a few momentswhile Dorothea sat as if she had beenturned to marblethough the life within her was so intense that hermind had never before swept in brief time over an equal range ofscenes and motives.

"Helpmepray" she saidat lastin the same low voice as before."Tell me what I can do."

"Whatdo you think of foreign travel?  You have been lately in RomeIthink."

Thememories which made this resource utterly hopeless were a new currentthat shook Dorothea out of her pallid immobility.

"Ohthat would not do--that would be worse than anything" she saidwith a more childlike despondencywhile the tears rolled down."Nothing will be of any use that he does not enjoy."

"Iwish that I could have spared you this pain" said Lydgatedeeply touchedyet wondering about her marriage.  Women justlike Dorothea had not entered into his traditions.

"Itwas right of you to tell me.  I thank you for telling me thetruth."

"Iwish you to understand that I shall not say anything to enlighten Mr.Casaubon himself.  I think it desirable for him to know nothingmore than that he must not overwork him selfand must observecertain rules.  Anxiety of any kind would be precisely the mostunfavorable condition for him."

Lydgateroseand Dorothea mechanically rose at the same time? unclasping hercloak and throwing it off as if it stifled her. He was bowing andquitting herwhen an impulse which if she had been alone would haveturned into a prayermade her say with a sob in her voice--

"Ohyou are a wise manare you not?  You know all about life anddeath.  Advise me.  Think what I can do.  He has beenlaboring all his life and looking forward.  He minds aboutnothing else.-- And I mind about nothing else--"

For yearsafter Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by thisinvoluntary appeal--this cry from soul to soulwithout otherconsciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the sameembroiled mediumthe same troublous fitfully illuminated life. Butwhat could he say now except that he should see Mr. Casaubon againto-morrow?

When hewas goneDorothea's tears gushed forthand relieved her stiflingoppression.  Then she dried her eyesreminded that her distressmust not be betrayed to her husband; and looked round the roomthinking that she must order the servant to attend to it as usualsince Mr. Casaubon might now at any moment wish to enter.  Onhis writing-table there were letters which had lain untouched sincethe morning when he was taken illand among themas Dorothea. well rememberedthere were young Ladislaw's lettersthe oneaddressed to her still unopened.  The associations of theseletters had been made the more painful by that sudden attack ofillness which she felt that the agitation caused by her anger mighthave helped to bring on:  it would be time enough to read themwhen they were again thrust upon herand she had had no inclinationto fetch them from the library.  But now it occurred to her thatthey should be put out of her husband's sight: whatever might havebeen the sources of his annoyance about themhe mustif possiblenot be annoyed again; and she ran her eyes first over the letteraddressed to him to assure herself whether or not it would benecessary to write in order to hinder the offensive visit.

Will wrotefrom Romeand began by saying that his obligations to Mr. Casaubonwere too deep for all thanks not to seem impertinent. It was plainthat if he were not gratefulhe must be the poorest-spirited rascalwho had ever found a generous friend. To expand in wordy thanks wouldbe like saying"I am honest." But Will had come toperceive that his defects--defects which Mr. Casaubon had himselfoften pointed to--needed for their correction that more strenuousposition which his relative's generosity had hitherto prevented frombeing inevitable.  He trusted that he should make the bestreturnif return were possibleby showing the effectiveness of theeducation for which he was indebtedand by ceasing in future to needany diversion towards himself of funds on which others might have abetter claim.  He was coming to Englandto try his fortuneasmany other young men were obliged to do whose only capital was intheir brains.  His friend Naumann had desired him to take chargeof the "Dispute"--the picture painted for Mr. Casaubonwith whose permissionand Mrs. Casaubon'sWill would convey it toLowick in person.  A letter addressed to the Poste Restante inParis within the fortnight would hinder himif necessaryfromarriving at an inconvenient moment.  He enclosed a letter toMrs. Casaubon in which he continued a discussion about artbegunwith her in Rome.

Openingher own letter Dorothea saw that it was a lively continuation of hisremonstrance with her fanatical sympathy and her want of sturdyneutral delight in things as they were--an outpouring of his youngvivacity which it was impossible to read just now.  She hadimmediately 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 unclewho was still inthe houseand begging him to let Will know that Mr. Casaubon hadbeen illand that his health would not allow the reception of anyvisitors.

No onemore ready than Mr. Brooke to write a letter:  his onlydifficulty was to write a short oneand his ideas in this caseexpanded over the three large pages and the inward foldings. He hadsimply said to Dorothea--

"Tobe sureI will writemy dear.  He's a very clever youngfellow-- this young Ladislaw--I dare say will be a rising young man.It's a good letter--marks his sense of thingsyou know. HoweverIwill tell him about Casaubon."

But theend of Mr. Brooke's pen was a thinking organevolving sentencesespecially of a benevolent kindbefore the rest of his mind couldwell overtake them.  It expressed regrets and proposed remedieswhichwhen Mr. Brooke read themseemed felicitously worded--surprisingly the right thingand determined a sequel which he hadnever before thought of.  In this casehis pen found it such apity young Ladislaw should not have come into the neighborhood. justat that timein order that Mr. Brooke might make his acquaintancemore fullyand that they might go over the long-neglected Italiandrawings together--it also felt such an interest in a young man whowas starting in life with a stock of ideas--that by the end of thesecond page it had persuaded Mr. Brooke to invite young Ladislawsince he could not be received at Lowickto come to Tipton Grange.Why not?  They could find a great many things to do togetherand this was a period of peculiar growth--the political horizon wasexpandingand--in shortMr. Brooke's pen went off into a littlespeech which it had lately reported for that imperfectly edited organthe "Middlemarch Pioneer."  While Mr. Brooke wassealing this letterhe felt elated with an influx of dimprojects:--a young man capable of putting ideas into formthe"Pioneer" purchased to clear the pathway for a newcandidatedocuments utilized--who knew what might come of it all? Since Celia was going to marry immediatelyit would be very pleasantto have a young fellow at table with himat least for a time.

But hewent away without telling Dorothea what he had put into the letterfor she was engaged with her husbandand--in factthese things wereof no importance to her.

CHAPTERXXXI

  How will you know the pitch of that great bell
   Toolarge for you to stir?  Let but a flute
   Play'neath the fine-mixed metal listen close
   Till theright note flows fortha silvery rill.
   Then shallthe huge bell tremble--then the mass
   With myriadwaves concurrent shall respond
     In lowsoft unison.

Lydgatethat evening spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs. Casaubonand laid someemphasis on the strong feeling she appeared to have for that formalstudious man thirty years older than herself.

"Ofcourse she is devoted to her husband" said Rosamondimplying anotion of necessary sequence which the scientific man regarded as theprettiest possible for a woman; but she was thinking at the same timethat it was not so very melancholy to be mistress of Lowick Manorwith a husband likely to die soon. "Do you think her veryhandsome?"

"Shecertainly is handsomebut I have not thought about it" saidLydgate.

"Isuppose it would be unprofessional" said Rosamonddimpling."But how your practice is spreading!  You were called inbefore to the ChettamsI think; and nowthe Casaubons."

"Yes"said Lydgatein a tone of compulsory admission.  "But Idon't really like attending such people so well as the poor. Thecases are more monotonousand one has to go through more fuss andlisten more deferentially to nonsense."

"Notmore than in Middlemarch" said Rosamond.  "And atleast you go through wide corridors and have the scent of rose-leaveseverywhere."

"Thatis trueMademoiselle de Montmorenci" said Lydgatejustbending his head to the table and lifting with his fourth finger herdelicate handkerchief which lay at the mouth of her reticuleas ifto enjoy its scentwhile he looked at her with a smile.

But thisagreeable holiday freedom with which Lydgate hovered about the flowerof Middlemarchcould not continue indefinitely. It was not morepossible to find social isolation in that town than elsewhereandtwo people persistently flirting could by no means escape from "thevarious entanglementsweightsblowsclashingsmotionsby whichthings severally go on." Whatever Miss Vincy did must beremarkedand she was perhaps the more conspicuous to admirers andcritics because just now Mrs. Vincyafter some strugglehad gonewith Fred to stay a little while at Stone Courtthere being no otherway of at once gratifying old Featherstone and keeping watch againstMary Garthwho appeared a less tolerable daughter-in-law inproportion as Fred's illness disappeared.

AuntBulstrodefor examplecame a little oftener into Lowick Gate to seeRosamondnow she was alone.  For Mrs. Bulstrode had a truesisterly feeling for her brother; always thinking that he might havemarried betterbut wishing well to the children. Now Mrs. Bulstrodehad a long-standing intimacy with Mrs. Plymdale. They had nearly thesame preferences in silkspatterns for underclothingchina-wareand clergymen; they confided their little troubles of health andhousehold management to each otherand various little points ofsuperiority on Mrs. Bulstrode's sidenamelymore decidedseriousnessmore admiration for mindand a house outside the townsometimes served to give color to their conversation without dividingthem--well-meaning women bothknowing very little of their ownmotives.

Mrs.Bulstrodepaying a morning visit to Mrs. Plymdalehappened to saythat she could not stay longerbecause she was going to see poorRosamond.

"Whydo you say `poor Rosamond'?" said Mrs. Plymdalea round-eyedsharp little womanlike a tamed falcon.

"Sheis so prettyand has been brought up in such thoughtlessness. Themotheryou knowhad always that levity about herwhich makes meanxious for the children."

"WellHarrietif I am to speak my mind" said Mrs. Plymdalewithemphasis"I must sayanybody would suppose you and Mr.Bulstrode would be delighted with what has happenedfor you havedone everything to put Mr. Lydgate forward."

"Selinawhat do you mean?" said Mrs. Bulstrodein genuine surprise.

"Notbut what I am truly thankful for Ned's sake" said Mrs.Plymdale. "He could certainly better afford to keep such a wifethan some people can; but I should wish him to look elsewhere. Stilla mother has anxietiesand some young men would take to a bad lifein consequence.  Besidesif I was obliged to speakI shouldsay I was not fond of strangers coming into a town."

"Idon't knowSelina" said Mrs. Bulstrodewith a little emphasisin her turn.  "Mr. Bulstrode was a stranger here at onetime. Abraham and Moses were strangers in the landand we are toldto entertain strangers.  And especially" she addedaftera slight pause"when they are unexceptionable."

"Iwas not speaking in a religious senseHarriet.  I spoke as amother."

"SelinaI am sure you have never heard me say anything against a niece ofmine marrying your son."

"Ohit is pride in Miss Vincy--I am sure it is nothing else" saidMrs. Plymdalewho had never before given all her confidence to"Harriet" on this subject.  "No young man inMiddlemarch was good enough for her:  I have heard her mothersay as much. That is not a Christian spiritI think.  But nowfrom all I hearshe has found a man AS proud as herself."

"Youdon't mean that there is anything between Rosamond and Mr. Lydgate?"said Mrs. Bulstroderather mortified at finding out her ownignorance

"Isit possible you don't knowHarriet?"

"OhI go about so little; and I am not fond of gossip; I really neverhear any.  You see so many people that I don't see. Your circleis rather different from ours."

"Wellbut your own niece and Mr. Bulstrode's great favorite-- and yourstooI am sureHarriet!  I thoughtat one timeyou meant himfor Katewhen she is a little older."

"Idon't believe there can be anything serious at present" saidMrs. Bulstrode.  "My brother would certainly have told me."

"Wellpeople have different waysbut I understand that nobody can see MissVincy and Mr. Lydgate together without taking them to be engaged. Howeverit is not my business.  Shall I put up the pattern ofmittens?"

After thisMrs. Bulstrode drove to her niece with a mind newly weighted. She washerself handsomely dressedbut she noticed with a little more regretthan usual that Rosamondwho was just come in and met her inwalking-dresswas almost as expensively equipped. Mrs. Bulstrode wasa feminine smaller edition of her brotherand had none of herhusband's low-toned pallor.  She had a good honest glance andused no circumlocution.

"Youare aloneI seemy dear" she saidas they entered thedrawing-room togetherlooking round gravely.  Rosamond feltsure that her aunt had something particular to sayand they sat downnear each other.  Neverthelessthe quilling inside Rosamond'sbonnet was so charming that it was impossible not to desire the samekind of thing for Kateand Mrs. Bulstrode's eyeswhich were ratherfinerolled round that ample quilled circuitwhile she spoke.

"Ihave just heard something about you that has surprised me very muchRosamond."

"Whatis thataunt?"  Rosamond's eyes also were roaming over heraunt's large embroidered collar.

"Ican hardly believe it--that you should be engaged without my knowingit--without your father's telling me."  Here Mrs.Bulstrode's eyes finally rested on Rosamond'swho blushed deeplyand said--

"I amnot engagedaunt."

"Howis it that every one says sothen--that it is the town's talk?"

"Thetown's talk is of very little consequenceI think" saidRosamondinwardly gratified.

"Ohmy dearbe more thoughtful; don't despise your neighbors so.Remember you are turned twenty-two nowand you will have no fortune:your fatherI am surewill not be able to spare you anything. Mr.Lydgate is very intellectual and clever; I know there is anattraction in that.  I like talking to such men myself; and youruncle finds him very useful.  But the profession is a poor onehere. To be surethis life is not everything; but it is seldom amedical man has true religious views--there is too much pride ofintellect. And you are not fit to marry a poor man.

"Mr.Lydgate is not a poor manaunt.  He has very high connections."

"Hetold me himself he was poor."

"Thatis because he is used to people who have a high style

"Mydear RosamondYOU must not think of living in high style."

Rosamondlooked down and played with her reticule.  She was not a fieryyoung lady and had no sharp answersbut she meant to live as shepleased.

"Thenit is really true?" said Mrs. Bulstrodelooking very earnestlyat her niece.  "You are thinking of Mr. Lydgate--there issome understanding between youthough your father doesn't know. Be openmy dear Rosamond:  Mr. Lydgate has really made you anoffer?"

PoorRosamond's feelings were very unpleasant.  She had been quiteeasy as to Lydgate's feeling and intentionbut now when her aunt putthis question she did not like being unable to say Yes. Her pride washurtbut her habitual control of manner helped her.

"Prayexcuse meaunt.  I would rather not speak on the subject."

"Youwould not give your heart to a man without a decided prospectItrustmy dear.  And think of the two excellent offers I know ofthat you have refused!--and one still within your reachif you willnot throw it away.  I knew a very great beauty who married badlyat lastby doing so.  Mr. Ned Plymdale is a nice young man--some might think good-looking; and an only son; and a large businessof that kind is better than a profession.  Not that marrying iseverything I would have you seek first the kingdom of God. But a girlshould keep her heart within her own power."

"Ishould never give it to Mr. Ned Plymdaleif it were.  I havealready refused him.  If I lovedI should love at once andwithout change" said Rosamondwith a great sense of being aromantic heroineand playing the part prettily.

"Isee how it ismy dear" said Mrs. Bulstrodein a melancholyvoicerising to go.  "You have allowed your affections tobe engaged without return."

"Noindeedaunt" said Rosamondwith emphasis.

"Thenyou are quite confident that Mr. Lydgate has a serious attachment toyou?"

Rosamond'scheeks by this time were persistently burningand she felt muchmortification.  She chose to be silentand her aunt went awayall the more convinced.

Mr.Bulstrode in things worldly and indifferent was disposed to do whathis wife bade himand she nowwithout telling her reasonsdesiredhim on the next opportunity to find out in conversation with Mr.Lydgate whether he had any intention of marrying soon. The result wasa decided negative.  Mr. Bulstrodeon being cross-questionedshowed that Lydgate had spoken as no man would who had any attachmentthat could issue in matrimony. Mrs. Bulstrode now felt that she had aserious duty before herand she soon managed to arrange atete-a-tete with Lydgatein which she passed from inquiries aboutFred Vincy's healthand expressions of her sincere anxiety for herbrother's large familyto general remarks on the dangers which laybefore young people with regard to their settlement in life. Young men were often wild and disappointingmaking little return forthe money spent on themand a girl was exposed to many circumstanceswhich might interfere with her prospects.

"Especiallywhen she has great attractionsand her parents see much company"said Mrs. Bulstrode "Gentlemen pay her attentionand engrossher all to themselvesfor the mere pleasure of the momentand thatdrives off others.  I think it is a heavy responsibilityMr.Lydgateto interfere with the prospects of any girl." Here Mrs.Bulstrode fixed her eyes on himwith an unmistakable purpose ofwarningif not of rebuke.

"Clearly"said Lydgatelooking at her--perhaps even staring a little inreturn.  "On the other handa man must be a great coxcombto go about with a notion that he must not pay attention to a younglady lest she should fall in love with himor lest others shouldthink she must."

"OhMr. Lydgateyou know well what your advantages are. You know thatour young men here cannot cope with you.  Where you frequent ahouse it may militate very much against a girl's making a desirablesettlement in lifeand prevent her from accepting offers even ifthey are made."

Lydgatewas less flattered by his advantage over the Middlemarch Orlandosthan he was annoyed by the perception of Mrs. Bulstrode's meaning.She felt that she had spoken as impressively as it was necessary todoand that in using the superior word "militate" she hadthrown a noble drapery over a mass of particulars which were stillevident enough.

Lydgatewas fuming a littlepushed his hair back with one handfeltcuriously in his waistcoat-pocket with the otherand then stooped tobeckon the tiny black spanielwhich had the insight to decline hishollow caresses.  It would not have been decent to go awaybecause he had been dining with other guestsand had just taken tea.But Mrs. Bulstrodehaving no doubt that she had been understoodturned the conversation.

Solomon'sProverbsI thinkhave omitted to saythat as the sore palatefindeth gritso an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendoes. The nextday Mr. Farebrotherparting from Lydgate in the streetsupposedthat they should meet at Vincy's in the evening. Lydgate answeredcurtlyno--he had work to do--he must give up going out in theevening.

"What!you are going to get lashed to the mastehand are stopping yourears?" said the Vicar.  "Wellif you don't mean to bewon by the sirensyou are right to take precautions in time."

A few daysbeforeLydgate would have taken no notice of these words as anythingmore than the Vicar's usual way of putting things. They seemed now toconvey an innuendo which confirmed the impression that he had beenmaking a fool of himself and behaving so as to be misunderstood: nothe believedby Rosamond herself; shehe felt suretookeverything as lightly as he intended it.  She had an exquisitetact and insight in relation to all points of manners; but the peopleshe lived among were blunderers and busybodies. Howeverthe mistakeshould go no farther.  He resolved--and kept hisresolution--that he would not go to Mr. Vincy's except on business.

Rosamondbecame very unhappy.  The uneasiness first stirred by her aunt'squestions grew and grew till at the end of ten days that she had notseen Lydgateit grew into terror at the blank that might possiblycome--into foreboding of that readyfatal sponge which so cheaplywipes out the hopes of mortals. The world would have a new drearinessfor heras a wilderness that a magician's spells had turned for alittle while into a garden. She felt that she was beginning to knowthe pang of disappointed loveand that no other man could be theoccasion of such delightful aerial building as she had been enjoyingfor the last six months. Poor Rosamond lost her appetite and felt asforlorn as Ariadne-- as a charming stage Ariadne left behind with allher boxes full of costumes and no hope of a coach.

There aremany wonderful mixtures in the world which are all alike called loveand claim the privileges of a sublime rage which is an apology foreverything (in literature and the drama). Happily Rosamond did notthink of committing any desperate act: she plaited her fair hair asbeautifully as usualand kept herself proudly calm.  Her mostcheerful supposition was that her aunt Bulstrode had interfered insome way to hinder Lydgate's visits: everything was better than aspontaneous indifference in him. Any one who imagines ten days tooshort a time--not for falling into leannesslightnessor othermeasurable effects of passionbut-- for the whole spiritual circuitof alarmed conjecture and disappointmentis ignorant of what can goon in the elegant leisure of a young lady's mind.

On theeleventh dayhoweverLydgate when leaving Stone Court was requestedby Mrs. Vincy to let her husband know that there was a marked changein Mr. Featherstone's healthand that she wished him to come toStone Court on that day.  Now Lydgate might have called at thewarehouseor might have written a message on a leaf of hispocket-book and left it at the door. Yet these simple devicesapparently did not occur to himfrom which we may conclude that hehad no strong objection to calling at the house at an hour when Mr.Vincy was not at homeand leaving the message with Miss Vincy. A man mayfrom various motivesdecline to give his companybutperhaps not even a sage would be gratified that nobody missed him. It would be a gracefuleasy way of piecing on the new habits to theoldto have a few playful words with Rosamond about his resistanceto dissipationand his firm resolve to take long fasts even fromsweet sounds. It must be confessedalsothat momentary speculationsas to all the possible grounds for Mrs. Bulstrode's hints had managedto get woven like slight clinging hairs into the more substantial webof his thoughts.

Miss Vincywas aloneand blushed so deeply when Lydgate came in that he felt acorresponding embarrassmentand instead of any playfulnesshe beganat once to speak of his reason for callingand to beg heralmostformallyto deliver the message to her father.  Rosamondwhoat the first moment felt as if her happiness were returningwaskeenly hurt by Lydgate's manner; her blush had departedand sheassented coldlywithout adding an unnecessary wordsome trivialchain-work which she had in her hands enabling her to avoid lookingat Lydgate higher than his chin.  In all failuresthe beginningis certainly the half of the whole.  After sitting two longmoments while he moved his whip and could say nothingLydgate roseto goand Rosamondmade nervous by her struggle betweenmortification and the wish not to betray itdropped her chain as ifstartledand rose toomechanically.  Lydgate instantaneouslystooped to pick up the chain.  When he rose he was very near toa lovely little face set on a fair long neck which he had been usedto see turning about under the most perfect management ofself-contented grace. But as he raised his eyes now he saw a certainhelpless quivering which touched him quite newlyand made him lookat Rosamond with a questioning flash.  At this moment she was asnatural as she had ever been when she was five years old:  shefelt that her tears had risenand it was no use to try to doanything else than let them stay like water on a blue flower or letthem fall over her cheekseven as they would.

Thatmoment of naturalness was the crystallizing feather-touch: it shookflirtation into love.  Remember that the ambitious man who waslooking at those Forget-me-nots under the water was very warm-heartedand rash.  He did not know where the chain went; an idea hadthrilled through the recesses within him which had a miraculouseffect in raising the power of passionate love lying buried there inno sealed sepulchrebut under the lightesteasily pierced mould. His words were quite abrupt and awkward; but the tone made them soundlike an ardentappealing avowal.

"Whatis the matter? you are distressed.  Tell mepray."

Rosamondhad never been spoken to in such tones before.  I am not surethat she knew what the words were:  but she looked at Lydgateand the tears fell over her cheeks.  There could have been nomore complete answer than that silenceand Lydgateforgettingeverything elsecompletely mastered by the outrush of tenderness atthe sudden belief that this sweet young creature depended on him forher joyactually put his arms round herfolding her gently andprotectingly-- he was used to being gentle with the weak andsuffering--and kissed each of the two large tears.  This was astrange way of arriving at an understandingbut it was a short way. Rosamond was not angrybut she moved backward a little in timidhappinessand Lydgate could now sit near her and speak lessincompletely. Rosamond had to make her little confessionand hepoured out words of gratitude and tenderness with impulsivelavishment.  In half an hour he left the house an engaged manwhose soul was not his ownbut the woman's to whom he had boundhimself.

He cameagain in the evening to speak with Mr. Vincywhojust returned fromStone Courtwas feeling sure that it would not be long before heheard of Mr. Featherstone's demise.  The felicitous word"demise" which had seasonably occurred to himhad raisedhis spirits even above their usual evening pitch.  The rightword is always a powerand communicates its definiteness to ouraction.  Considered as a demiseold Featherstone's deathassumed a merely legal aspectso that Mr. Vincy could tap hissnuff-box over it and be jovialwithout even an intermittentaffectation of solemnity; and Mr. Vincy hated both solemnity andaffectation.  Who was ever awe struck about a testatoror sanga hymn on the title to real property? Mr. Vincy was inclined to takea jovial view of all things that evening: he even observed to Lydgatethat Fred had got the family constitution after alland would soonbe as fine a fellow as ever again; and when his approbation ofRosamond's engagement was asked forhe gave it with astonishingfacilitypassing at once to general remarks on the desirableness ofmatrimony for young men and maidensand apparently deducing from thewhole the appropriateness of a little more punch.

CHAPTERXXXII

  "They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk."
  --SHAKESPEARE:  Tempest.

Thetriumphant confidence of the Mayor founded on Mr. Featherstone'sinsistent demand that Fred and his mother should not leave himwas afeeble emotion compared with all that was agitating the breasts ofthe old man's blood-relationswho naturally manifested more theirsense of the family tie and were more visibly numerous now that hehad become bedridden.  Naturally:  for when "poorPeter" had occupied his arm-chair in the wainscoted parlornoassiduous beetles for whom the cook prepares boiling water could havebeen less welcome on a hearth which they had reasons for preferringthan those persons whose Featherstone blood was ill-nourishednotfrom penuriousness on their partbut from poverty.  BrotherSolomon and Sister Jane were richand the family candor and totalabstinence from false politeness with which they were always receivedseemed to them no argument that their brother in the solemn act ofmaking his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth.Themselves at least he had never been unnatural enough to banish fromhis houseand it seemed hardly eccentric that he should hare keptaway Brother JonahSister Marthaand the restwho had no shadow ofsuch claims.  They knew Peter's maximthat money was a goodeggand should be laid in a warm nest.

ButBrother JonahSister Marthaand all the needy exilesheld adifferent point of view.  Probabilities are as various as thefaces to be seen at will in fretwork or paper-hangings: every form istherefrom Jupiter to Judyif you only look with creativeinclination. To the poorer and least favored it seemed likely thatsince Peter had done nothing for them in his lifehe would rememberthem at the last.  Jonah argued that men liked to make asurprise of their willswhile Martha said that nobody need besurprised if he left the best part of his money to those who leastexpected it. Also it was not to be thought but that an own brother"lying there" with dropsy in his legs must come to feelthat blood was thicker than waterand if he didn't alter his willhe might have money by him.  At any rate some blood-relationsshould be on the premises and on the watch against those who werehardly relations at all. Such things had been known as forged willsand disputed willswhich seemed to have the golden-hazy advantage ofsomehow enabling non-legatees to live out of them.  Againthosewho were no blood-relations might be caught making away withthings--and poor Peter "lying there" helpless! Somebody should be on the watch. But in this conclusion they were atone with Solomon and Jane; alsosome nephewsniecesand cousinsarguing with still greater subtilty as to what might be done by a manable to "will away" his property and give himself largetreats of oddityfelt in a handsome sort of way that there was afamily interest to be attended toand thought of Stone Court as aplace which it would be nothing but right for them to visit. Sister Marthaotherwise Mrs. Cranchliving with some wheeziness inthe Chalky Flatscould not undertake the journey; but her sonasbeing poor Peter's own nephewcould represent her advantageouslyand watch lest his uncle Jonah should make an unfair use of theimprobable things which seemed likely to happen.  In fact therewas a general sense running in the Featherstone blood that everybodymust watch everybody elseand that it would be well for everybodyelse to reflect that the Almighty was watching him.

Thus StoneCourt continually saw one or other blood-relation alighting ordepartingand Mary Garth had the unpleasant task of carrying theirmessages to Mr. Featherstonewho would see none of themand senther down with the still more unpleasant task of telling them so. As manager of the household she felt bound to ask them in goodprovincial 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.

"Ohmy dearyou must do things handsomely where there's last illness anda property.  God knowsI don't grudge them every ham in thehouse--onlysave the best for the funeral.  Have some stuffedveal alwaysand a fine cheese in cut.  You must expect to keepopen house in these last illnesses" said liberal Mrs. Vincyonce more of cheerful note and bright plumage.

But someof the visitors alighted and did not depart after the handsometreating to veal and ham.  Brother Jonahfor example (there aresuch unpleasant people in most families; perhaps even in the highestaristocracy there are Brobdingnag specimensgigantically in debt andbloated at greater expense)--Brother JonahI sayhaving come downin the worldwas mainly supported by a calling which he was modestenough not to boast ofthough it was much better than swindlingeither on exchange or turfbut which did not require his presence atBrassing so long as he had a good corner to sit in and a supply offood.  He chose the kitchen-cornerpartly because he liked itbestand partly because he did not want to sit with Solomonconcerning whom he had a strong brotherly opinion.  Seated in afamous arm-chair and in his best suitconstantly within sight ofgood cheerhe had a comfortable consciousness of being on thepremisesmingled with fleeting suggestions of Sunday and the bar atthe Green Man; and he informed Mary Garth that he should not go outof reach of his brother Peter while that poor fellow was aboveground.  The troublesome ones in a family are usually either thewits or the idiots. Jonah was the wit among the Featherstonesandjoked with the maid- servants when they came about the hearthbutseemed to consider Miss Garth a suspicious characterand followedher with cold eyes.

Mary wouldhave borne this one pair of eyes with comparative easebutunfortunately there was young Cranchwhohaving come all the wayfrom the Chalky Flats to represent his mother and watch his uncleJonahalso felt it his duty to stay and to sit chiefly in thekitchen to give his uncle company.  Young Cranch was not exactlythe balancing point between the wit and the idiot-- verging slightlytowards the latter typeand squinting so as to leave everything indoubt about his sentiments except that they were not of a forciblecharacter.  When Mary Garth entered the kitchen and Mr. JonahFeatherstone began to follow her with his cold detective eyesyoungCranch turning his head in the same direction seemed to insist on itthat she should remark how he was squintingas if he did it withdesignlike the gypsies when Borrow read the New Testament to them. This was rather too much for poor Mary; sometimes it made herbilioussometimes it upset her gravity. One day that she had anopportunity she could not resist describing the kitchen scene toFredwho would not be hindered from immediately going to see itaffecting simply to pass through. But no sooner did he face the foureyes than he had to rush through the nearest door which happened tolead to the dairyand there under the high roof and among the panshe gave way to laughter which made a hollow resonance perfectlyaudible in the kitchen. He fled by another doorwaybut Mr. Jonahwho had not before seen Fred's white complexionlong legsandpinched delicacy of faceprepared many sarcasms in which thesepoints of appearance were wittily combined with the lowest moralattributes.

"WhyTomYOU don't wear such gentlemanly trousers-- you haven't got halfsuch fine long legs" said Jonah to his nephewwinking at thesame timeto imply that there was something more in these statementsthan their undeniableness.  Tom looked at his legsbut left ituncertain whether he preferred his moral advantages to a more viciouslength of limb and reprehensible gentility of trouser.

In thelarge wainscoted parlor too there were constantly pairs of eyes onthe watchand own relatives eager to be "sitters-up." Manycamelunchedand departedbut Brother Solomon and the lady who hadbeen Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she was Mrs.Waule found it good to be there every day for hoarswithout othercalculable occupation than that of observing the cunning Mary Garth(who was so deep that she could be found out in nothing) and givingoccasional dry wrinkly indications of crying-- as if capable oftorrents in a wetter season--at the thought that they were notallowed to go into Mr. Featherstone's room. For the old man's dislikeof his own family seemed to get stronger as he got less able to amusehimself by saying biting things to them. Too languid to stinghe hadthe more venom refluent in his blood.

Not fullybelieving the message sent through Mary Garththey had presentedthemselves together within the door of the bedroomboth inblack--Mrs. Waule having a white handkerchief partially unfolded inher hand--and both with faces in a sort of half-mourning purple;while Mrs. Vincy with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying wasactually administering a cordial to their own brotherand thelight-complexioned Fredhis short hair curling as might be expectedin a gambler'swas lolling at his ease in a large chair.

OldFeatherstone no sooner caught sight of these funereal figuresappearing in spite of his orders than rage came to strengthen himmore successfully than the cordial.  He was propped up on abed-restand always had his gold-headed stick lying by him. Heseized it now and swept it backwards and forwards in as large an areaas he couldapparently to ban these ugly spectrescrying in ahoarse sort of screech--

"BackbackMrs. Waule!  BackSolomon!"

"OhBrother.  Peter" Mrs. Waule began--but Solomon put hishand before her repressingly.  He was a large-cheeked mannearly seventywith small furtive eyesand was not only of muchblander temper but thought himself much deeper than his brotherPeter; indeed not likely to be deceived in any of his fellow-meninasmuch as they could not well be more greedy and deceitful than hesuspected them of being. Even the invisible powershe thoughtwerelikely to be soothed by a bland parenthesis here and there--comingfrom a man of propertywho might have been as impious as others.

"BrotherPeter" he saidin a wheedling yet gravely official tone"It'snothing but right I should speak to you about the Three Crofts andthe Manganese.  The Almighty knows what I've got on my mind--"

"Thenhe knows more than I want to know" said Peterlaying down hisstick with a show of truce which had a threat in it toofor hereversed the stick so as to make the gold handle a club in case ofcloser fightingand looked hard at Solomon's bald head.

"There'sthings you might repent ofBrotherfor want of speaking to me"said Solomonnot advancinghowever.  "I could sit up withyou to-nightand Jane with mewillinglyand you might take yourown time to speakor let me speak."

"YesI shall take my own time--you needn't offer me yours" saidPeter.

"Butyou can't take your own time to die inBrother" began Mrs.Waulewith her usual woolly tone.  "And when you liespeechless you may be tired of having strangers about youand youmay think of me and my children"--but here her voice broke underthe touching thought which she was attributing to her speechlessbrother; the mention of ourselves being naturally affecting.

"NoI shan't" said old Featherstonecontradictiously. "Ishan't think of any of you.  I've made my willI tell youI'vemade my will."  Here he turned his head towards Mrs. Vincyand swallowed some more of his cordial.

"Somepeople would be ashamed to fill up a place belonging by rights toothers" said Mrs. Wauleturning her narrow eyes in the samedirection.

"Ohsister" said Solomonwith ironical softness"you and meare not fineand handsomeand clever enough:  we must behumble and let smart people push themselves before us."

Fred'sspirit could not bear this:  rising and looking at Mr.Featherstonehe said"Shall my mother and I leave the roomsirthat you may be alone with your friends?"

"SitdownI tell you" said old Featherstonesnappishly. "Stopwhere you are.  Good-bySolomon" he addedtrying towield his stick againbut failing now that he had reversed thehandle. "Good-byMrs. Waule.  Don't you come again."

"Ishall be down-stairsBrotherwhether or no" said Solomon. "Ishall do my dutyand it remains to be seen what the Almighty willallow."

"Yesin property going out of families" said Mrs. Wauleincontinuation--"and where there's steady young men to carry on.But I pity them who are not suchand I pity their mothers. Good-byBrother Peter."

"RememberI'm the eldest after youBrotherand prospered from the firstjustas you didand have got land already by the name of Featherstone"said Solomonrelying much on that reflectionas one which might besuggested in the watches of the night. "But I bid you good-byfor the present."

Their exitwas hastened by their seeing old Mr. Featherstone pull his wig oneach side and shut his eyes with his mouth-widening grimaceas if hewere determined to be deaf and blind.

None theless they came to Stone Court daily and sat below at the post ofdutysometimes carrying on a slow dialogue in an undertone in whichthe observation and response were so far apartthat any one hearingthem might have imagined himself listening to speaking automatainsome doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really workor winditself up for a long time in order to stick and be silent. Solomonand Jane would have been sorry to be quick:  what that led tomight be seen on the other side of the wall in the person of BrotherJonah.

But theirwatch in the wainscoted parlor was sometimes varied by the presenceof other guests from far or near.  Now that Peter Featherstonewas up-stairshis property could be discussed with all that localenlightenment to be found on the spot:  some rural andMiddlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the family andsympathy with their interest against the Vincysand femininevisitors were even moved to tearsin conversation with Mrs. Waulewhen they recalled the fact that they themselves had beendisappointed in times past by codicils and marriages for spite on thepart of ungrateful elderly gentlemenwhoit might have beensupposedhad been spared for something better.  Suchconversation paused suddenlylike an organ when the bellows are letdropif Mary Garth came into the room; and all eyes were turned onher as a possible legateeor one who might get access to ironchests.

But theyounger men who were relatives or connections of the familyweredisposed to admire her in this problematic lightas a girl whoshowed much conductand who among all the chances that were flyingmight turn out to be at least a moderate prize.  Hence she hadher share of compliments and polite attentions.

Especiallyfrom Mr. Borthrop Trumbulla distinguished bachelor and auctioneerof those partsmuch concerned in the sale of land and cattle: a public characterindeedwhose name was seen on widely distributedplacardsand who might reasonably be sorry for those who did notknow of him.  He was second cousin to Peter Featherstoneandhad been treated by him with more amenity than any other relativebeing useful in matters of business; and in that programme of hisfuneral which the old man had himself dictatedhe had been named asa Bearer.  There was no odious cupidity in Mr. BorthropTrumbull-- nothing more than a sincere sense of his own meritwhichhe was awarein case of rivalry might tell against competitors; sothat if Peter Featherstonewho so far as heTrumbullwasconcernedhad behaved like as good a soul as ever breathedshouldhave done anything handsome by himall he could say wasthat he hadnever fished and fawnedbut had advised him to the best of hisexperiencewhich now extended over twenty years from the time of hisapprenticeship at fifteenand was likely to yield a knowledge of nosurreptitious kind. His admiration was far from being confined tohimselfbut was accustomed professionally as well as privately todelight in estimating things at a high rate.  He was an amateurof superior phrasesand never used poor language without immediatelycorrecting himself-- which was fortunateas he was rather loudandgiven to predominatestanding or walking about frequentlypullingdown his waistcoat with the air of a man who is very much of his ownopiniontrimming himself rapidly with his fore-fingerand markingeach new series in these movements by a busy play with his largeseals. There was occasionally a little fierceness in his demeanorbut it was directed chiefly against false opinionof which there isso much to correct in the world that a man of some reading andexperience necessarily has his patience tried.  He felt that theFeatherstone family generally was of limited understandingbut beinga man of the world and a public charactertook everything as amatter of courseand even went to converse with Mr. Jonah and youngCranch in the kitchennot doubting that he had impressed the lattergreatly by his leading questions concerning the Chalky Flats. If anybody had observed that Mr. Borthrop Trumbullbeing anauctioneerwas bound to know the nature of everythinghe would havesmiled and trimmed himself silently with the sense that he camepretty near that.  On the wholein an auctioneering wayhe wasan honorable mannot ashamed of his businessand feeling that "thecelebrated Peelnow Sir Robert" if introduced to himwouldnot fail to recognize his importance.

"Idon't mind if I have a slice of that hamand a glass of that aleMiss Garthif you will allow me" he saidcoming into theparlor at half-past elevenafter having had the exceptionalprivilege of seeing old Featherstoneand standing with his back tothe fire between Mrs. Waule and Solomon.

"It'snot necessary for you to go out;--let me ring the bell."

"Thankyou" said Mary"I have an errand."

"WellMr. Trumbullyou're highly favored" said Mrs. Waule.

"What!seeing the old man?" said the auctioneerplaying with his sealsdispassionately. "Ahyou see he has relied on me considerably."Here he pressed his lips togetherand frowned meditatively.

"Mightanybody ask what their brother has been saying?" said Solomonin a soft tone of humilityin which he had a sense of luxuriouscunninghe being a rich man and not in need of it.

"Ohyesanybody may ask" said Mr. Trumbullwith loud andgood-humored though cutting sarcasm.  "Anybody mayinterrogate. Any one may give their remarks an interrogative turn"he continuedhis sonorousness rising with his style.  "Thisis constantly done by good speakerseven when they anticipate noanswer.  It is what we call a figure of speech--speech at a highfigureas one may say." The eloquent auctioneer smiled at hisown ingenuity.

"Ishouldn't be sorry to hear he'd remembered youMr. Trumbull"said Solomon.  "I never was against the deserving. It's the undeserving I'm against."

"Ahthere it isyou seethere it is" said Mr. Trumbullsignificantly.  "It can't be denied that undeserving peoplehave been legateesand even residuary legatees.  It is sowithtestamentary dispositions."  Again he pursed up his lipsand frowned a little.

"Doyou mean to say for certainMr. Trumbullthat my brother has lefthis land away from our family?" said Mrs. Wauleon whomas anunhopeful womanthose long words had a depressing effect.

"Aman might as well turn his land into charity land at once as leave itto some people" observed Solomonhis sister's question havingdrawn no answer.

"WhatBlue-Coat land?" said Mrs. Wauleagain.  "OhMr.Trumbullyou never can mean to say that.  It would be flying inthe face of the Almighty that's prospered him."

While Mrs.Waule was speakingMr. Borthrop Trumbull walked away from thefireplace towards the windowpatrolling with his fore-finger roundthe inside of his stockthen along his whiskers and the curves ofhis hair.  He now walked to Miss Garth's work-tableopened abook which lay there and read the title aloud with pompous emphasisas if he were offering it for sale:

"`Anneof Geierstein' (pronounced Jeersteen) or the `Maiden of the Mistbythe author of Waverley.'"  Then turning the pagehe begansonorously--"The course of four centuries has well-nigh elapsedsince the series of events which are related in the followingchapters took place on the Continent."  He pronounced thelast truly admirable word with the accent on the last syllablenotas unaware of vulgar usagebut feeling that this novel deliveryenhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to thewhole.

And nowthe servant came in with the trayso that the moments for answeringMrs. Waule's question had gone by safelywhile she and Solomonwatching Mr. Trumbull's movementswere thinking that high learninginterfered sadly with serious affairs.  Mr. Borthrop Trumbullreally knew nothing about old Featherstone's will; but he couldhardly have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had beenarrested for misprision of treason.

"Ishall take a mere mouthful of ham and a glass of ale" he saidreassuringly.  "As a man with public businessI take asnack when I can.  I will back this ham" he addedafterswallowing some morsels with alarming haste"against any ham inthe three kingdoms. In my opinion it is better than the hams atFreshitt Hall-- and I think I am a tolerable judge."

"Somedon't like so much sugar in their hams" said Mrs. Waule. "Butmy poor brother would always have sugar."

"Ifany person demands betterhe is at liberty to do so; butGod blessmewhat an aroma!  I should be glad to buy in that qualityIknow.  There is some gratification to a gentleman"-- hereMr. Trumbull's voice conveyed an emotional remonstrance-- "inhaving this kind of ham set on his table."

He pushedaside his platepoured out his glass of ale and drew his chair alittle forwardprofiting by the occasion to look at the inner sideof his legswhich he stroked approvingly-- Mr. Trumbull having allthose less frivolous airs and gestures which distinguish thepredominant races of the north.

"Youhave an interesting work thereI seeMiss Garth" he observedwhen Mary re-entered. "It is by the author of `Waverley': thatis Sir Walter Scott.  I have bought one of his works myself-- avery nice thinga very superior publicationentitled `Ivanhoe.' Youwill not get any writer to beat him in a hurryI think-- he willnotin my opinionbe speedily surpassed.  I have just beenreading a portion at the commencement of `Anne of Jeersteen.' Itcommences well."  (Things never began with Mr. BorthropTrumbull: they al ways commencedboth in private life and on hishandbills.) "You are a readerI see.  Do you subscribe toour Middlemarch library?"

"No"said Mary.  "Mr. Fred Vincy brought this book."

"I ama great bookman myself" returned Mr. Trumbull. "I have noless than two hundred volumes in calfand I flatter myself they arewell selected.  Also pictures by MurilloRubensTeniersTitianVandyckand others. I shall be happy to lend you any workyou like to mentionMiss Garth."

"I ammuch obliged" said Maryhastening away again"but I havelittle time for reading."

"Ishould say my brother has done something for HER in his will"said Mr. Solomonin a very low undertonewhen she had shut the doorbehind herpointing with his head towards the absent Mary.

"Hisfirst wife was a poor match for himthough" said Mrs. Waule."She brought him nothing:  and this young woman is only herniece-- and very proud.  And my brother has always paid herwage."

"Asensible girl thoughin my opinion" said Mr. Trumbullfinishing his ale and starting up with an emphatic adjustment of hiswaistcoat. "I have observed her when she has been mixingmedicine in drops. She minds what she is doingsir.  That is agreat point in a womanand a great point for our friend up-stairspoor dear old soul. A man whose life is of any value should think ofhis wife as a nurse: that is what I should doif I married; and Ibelieve I have lived single long enough not to make a mistake in thatline.  Some men must marry to elevate themselves a littlebutwhen I am in need of thatI hope some one will tell me so--I hopesome individual will apprise me of the fact.  I wish you goodmorningMrs. Waule. Good morningMr. Solomon.  I trust weshall meet under less melancholy auspices."

When Mr.Trumbull had departed with a fine bowSolomonleaning forwardobserved to his sister"You may dependJanemy brother hasleft that girl a lumping sum."

"Anybodywould think sofrom the way Mr. Trumbull talks" said Jane. Thenafter a pause"He talks as if my daughters wasn't to betrusted to give drops."

"Auctioneerstalk wild" said Solomon.  "Not but what Trumbull hasmade money."

CHAPTERXXXIII

  "Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;
  And let us all to meditation."
   --2 Henry VI.

That nightafter twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr.Featherstone's roomand sat there alone through the small hours. Sheoften chose this taskin which she found some pleasurenotwithstanding the old man's testiness whenever he demanded herattentions.  There were intervals in which she could sitperfectly stillenjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light.The red fire with its gently audible movement seemed like a solemnexistence calmly independent of the petty passionsthe imbeciledesiresthe straining after worthless uncertaintieswhich weredaily moving her contempt.  Mary was fond of her own thoughtsand could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her hands inher lap; forhaving early had strong reason to believe that thingswere not likely to be arranged for her peculiar satisfactionshewasted no time in astonishment and annoyance at that fact.  Andshe had already come to take life very much as a comedy in which shehad a proudnaya generous resolution not to act the mean ortreacherous part. Mary might have become cynical if she had not hadparents whom she honoredand a well of affectionate gratitude withinherwhich was all the fuller because she had learned to make nounreasonable claims.

She satto-night revolvingas she was wontthe scenes of the dayher lipsoften curling with amusement at the oddities to which her fancy addedfresh drollery:  people were so ridiculous with their illusionscarrying their fool's caps unawaresthinking their own lies opaquewhile everybody else's were transparentmaking themselves exceptionsto everythingas if when all the world looked yellow under a lampthey alone were rosy.  Yet there were some illusions underMary's eyes which were not quite comic to her.  She was secretlyconvincedthough she had no other grounds than her close observationof old Featherstone's naturethat in spite of his fondness forhaving the Vincys about himthey were as likely to be disappointedas any of the relations whom he kept at a distance. She had a gooddeal of disdain for Mrs. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fredshould be alone togetherbut it did not hinder her from thinkinganxiously of the way in which Fred would be affectedif it shouldturn out that his uncle had left him as poor as ever. She could makea butt of Fred when he was presentbut she did not enjoy his follieswhen he was absent.

Yet sheliked her thoughts:  a vigorous young mind not overbalanced bypassionfinds a good in making acquaintance with lifeand watchesits own powers with interest.  Mary had plenty of merrimentwithin.

Herthought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the old manon the bed:  such sentiments are easier to affect than to feelabout an aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but aremnant of vices.  She had always seen the most disagreeableside of Mr. Featherstone.  he was not proud of herand she wasonly useful to him.  To be anxious about a soul that is alwayssnapping at you must be left to the saints of the earth; and Mary wasnot one of them.  She had never returned him a harsh wordandhad waited on him faithfully:  that was her utmost. OldFeatherstone himself was not in the least anxious about his soulandhad declined to see Mr. Tucker on the subject.

To-nighthe had not snappedand for the first hour or two he lay remarkablystilluntil at last Mary heard him rattling his bunch of keysagainst the tin box which he always kept in the bed beside him. Aboutthree o'clock he saidwith remarkable distinctness"Missycome here!"

Maryobeyedand found that he had already drawn the tin box from underthe clothesthough he usually asked to have this done for him; andhe had selected the key.  He now unlocked the boxanddrawingfrom it another keylooked straight at her with eyes that seemed tohave recovered all their sharpness and said"How many of 'emare in the house?"

"Youmean of your own relationssir" said Marywell used to theold man's way of speech.  He nodded slightly and she went on.

"Mr.Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here."

"Ohaythey stickdo they? and the rest--they come every dayI'llwarrant--Solomon and Janeand all the young uns? They come peepingand counting and casting up?"

"Notall of them every day.  Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule are hereevery dayand the others come often."

The oldman listened with a grimace while she spokeand then saidrelaxinghis face"The more fools they.  You hearkenmissy. It'sthree o'clock in the morningand I've got all my faculties as wellas ever I had in my life.  I know all my propertyand where themoney's put outand everything.  And I've made everything readyto change my mindand do as I like at the last. Do you hearmissy? I've got my faculties."

"Wellsir?" said Maryquietly.

He nowlowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning.  "I've madetwo willsand I'm going to burn one.  Now you do as I tell you.This is the key of my iron chestin the closet there.  You pushwell at the side of the brass plate at the toptill it goes like abolt: 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 andTestament-- big printed."

"Nosir" said Maryin a firm voice"I cannot do that."

"Notdo it?  I tell youyou must" said the old manhis voicebeginning to shake under the shock of this resistance.

"Icannot touch your iron chest or your will.  I must refuse to doanything that might lay me open to suspicion."

"Itell youI'm in my right mind.  Shan't I do as I like at thelast? I made two wills on purpose.  Take the keyI say."

"NosirI will not" said Marymore resolutely still. Herrepulsion was getting stronger.

"Itell youthere's no time to lose."

"Icannot help thatsir.  I will not let the close of your lifesoil the beginning of mine.  I will not touch your iron chest oryour will."  She moved to a little distance from thebedside.

The oldman paused with a blank stare for a little whileholding the one keyerect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to work withhis bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him.

"Missy"he began to sayhurriedly"look here! take the money-- thenotes and gold--look here--take it--you shall have it all-- do as Itell you."

He made aneffort to stretch out the key towards her as far as possibleandMary again retreated.

"Iwill not touch your key or your moneysir.  Pray don't ask meto do it again.  If you doI must go and call your brother."

He let hishand falland for the first time in her life Mary saw old PeterFeatherstone begin to cry childishly.  She saidin as gentle atone as she could command"Pray put up your moneysir;"and then went away to her seat by the firehoping this would help toconvince him that it was useless to say more. Presently he ralliedand said eagerly--

"Lookherethen.  Call the young chap.  Call Fred Vincy."

Mary'sheart began to beat more quickly.  Various ideas rushed throughher mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply. She hadto make a difficult decision in a hurry.

"Iwill call himif you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others withhim."

"NobodyelseI say.  The young chap.  I shall do as I like."

"Waittill broad daylightsirwhen every one is stirring. Or let me callSimmons nowto go and fetch the lawyer?  He can be here in lessthan two hours."

"Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer?  Nobody shall know--I saynobody shall know.  I shall do as I like."

"Letme call some one elsesir" said Marypersuasively.  Shedid not like her position--alone with the old manwho seemed to showa strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak againand again without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired notto push unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. "Letmepraycall some one else."

"Youlet me aloneI say.  Look heremissy.  Take the money.You'll never have the chance again.  It's pretty nigh twohundred-- there's more in the boxand nobody knows how much therewas. Take it and do as I tell you."

Marystanding by the firesaw its red light falling on the old manpropped up on his pillows and bed-restwith his bony hand holdingout the keyand the money lying on the quilt before him.  Shenever forgot that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at thelast. But the way in which he had put the offer of the money urgedher to speak with harder resolution than ever.

"Itis of no usesir.  I will not do it.  Put up your money. Iwill not touch your money.  I will do anything else I can tocomfort you; but I will not touch your keys or your money."

"Anythingelse anything else!" said old Featherstonewith hoarse ragewhichas if in a nightmaretried to be loudand yet was only justaudible.  "I want nothing else.  You come here--youcome here."

Maryapproached him cautiouslyknowing him too well.  She saw himdropping his keys and trying to grasp his stickwhile he looked ather like an aged hyenathe muscles of his face getting distortedwith the effort of his hand.  She paused at a safe distance.

"Letme give you some cordial" she saidquietly"and try tocompose yourself.  You will perhaps go to sleep.  Andto-morrow by daylight you can do as you like."

He liftedthe stickin spite of her being beyond his reachand threw it witha hard effort which was but impotence. It fellslipping over thefoot of the bed.  Mary let it lieand retreated to her chair bythe fire.  By-and-by she would go to him with the cordial. Fatigue would make him passive. It was getting towards the chillestmoment of the morningthe fire had got lowand she could seethrough the chink between the moreen window-curtains the lightwhitened by the blind. Having put some wood on the fire and thrown ashawl over hershe sat downhoping that Mr. Featherstone might nowfall asleep. If she went near him the irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after throwing the stickbut she had seen himtaking his keys again and laying his right hand on the money. He did not put it uphoweverand she thought that he was droppingoff to sleep.

But Maryherself began to be more agitated by the remembrance of what she hadgone throughthan she had been by the reality-- questioning thoseacts of hers which had come imperatively and excluded all question inthe critical moment.

Presentlythe dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated every creviceandMary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his head turned alittle on one side.  She went towards him with inaudible stepsand thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the nextmoment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objectsmade her uncertain.  The violent beating of her heart renderedher perceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him andlistened for his breathingshe could not trust her conclusions. Shewent to the window and gently propped aside the curtain and blindsothat the still light of the sky fell on the bed.

The nextmoment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In a verylittle while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstonewas deadwith his right hand clasping the keysand his left handlying on the heap of notes and gold.

BOOK IV

THREE LOVEPROBLEMS

CHAPTERXXXIV

   1st Gent. Such men as this are featherschipsand straws.
  Carry no weightno force.
   2d Gent.   Butlevity
   Is causal tooand makes the sum of weight.
    For power finds its place in lack of power;
  Advance is cessionand the driven ship
   May runaground because the helmsman's thought
   Lacked forceto balance opposites."

It was ona morning of May that Peter Featherstone was buried. In the prosaicneighborhood of MiddlemarchMay was not always warm and sunnyandon this particular morning a chill wind was blowing the blossoms fromthe surrounding gardens on to the green mounds of Lowick churchyard. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then allowed a gleam to light upany objectwhether ugly or beautifulthat happened to stand withinits golden shower.  In the churchyard the objects wereremarkably variousfor there was a little country crowd waiting tosee the funeral.  The news had spread that it was to be a "bigburying;" the old gentleman had left written directions abouteverything and meant to have a funeral "beyond his betters." This was true; for old Featherstone had not been a Harpagon whosepassions had all been devoured by the ever-lean and ever-hungrypassion of savingand who would drive a bargain with his undertakerbeforehand.  He loved moneybut he also loved to spend it ingratifying his peculiar tastesand perhaps he loved it best of allas a means of making others feel his power more or lessuncomfortably.  If any one will here contend that there musthave been traits of goodness in old FeatherstoneI will not presumeto deny this; but I must observe that goodness is of a modest natureeasily discouragedand when much privacyelbowed in early life byunabashed vicesis apt to retire into extreme privacyso that it ismore easily believed in by those who construct a selfish oldgentleman theoreticallythan by those who form the narrowerjudgments based on his personal acquaintance. In any casehe hadbeen bent on having a handsome funeraland on having persons "bid"to it who would rather have stayed at home. He had even desired thatfemale relatives should follow him to the graveand poor sisterMartha had taken a difficult journey for this purpose from the ChalkyFlats.  She and Jane would have been altogether cheered (in atearful manner) by this sign that a brother who disliked seeing themwhile he was living had been prospectively fond of their presencewhen he should have become a testatorif the sign had not been madeequivocal by being extended to Mrs. Vincywhose expense in handsomecrape seemed to imply the most presumptuous hopesaggravated by abloom of complexion which told pretty plainly that she was not ablood-relationbut of that generally objectionable class calledwife's kin.

We are allof us imaginative in some form or otherfor images are the brood ofdesire; and poor old Featherstonewho laughed much at the way inwhich others cajoled themselvesdid not escape the fellowship ofillusion.  In writing the programme for his burial he certainlydid not make clear to himself that his pleasure in the little dramaof which it formed a part was confined to anticipation. In chucklingover the vexations he could inflict by the rigid clutch of his deadhandhe inevitably mingled his consciousness with that lividstagnant presenceand so far as he was preoccupied with a futurelifeit was with one of gratification inside his coffin. Thus oldFeatherstone was imaginativeafter his fashion.

Howeverthe three mourning-coaches were filled according to the writtenorders of the deceased.  There were pall-bearers on horsebackwith the richest scarfs and hatbandsand even the under-bearers hadtrappings of woe which were of a good well-priced quality. The blackprocessionwhen dismountedlooked the larger for the smallness ofthe churchyard; the heavy human faces and the black draperiesshivering in the wind seemed to tell of a world strangely incongruouswith the lightly dropping blossoms and the gleams of sunshine on thedaisies.  The clergyman who met the procession was Mr.Cadwallader--also according to the request of Peter Featherstoneprompted as usual by peculiar reasons. Having a contempt for curateswhom he always called understrappershe was resolved to be buried bya beneficed clergyman.  Mr. Casaubon was out of the questionnot merely because he declined duty of this sortbut becauseFeatherstone had an especial dislike to him as the rector of his ownparishwho had a lien on the land in the shape of tithealso as thedeliverer of morning sermonswhich the old manbeing in his pew andnot at all sleepyhad been obliged to sit through with an inwardsnarl.  He had an objection to a parson stuck up above his headpreaching to him. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader had been ofa different kind: the trout-stream which ran through Mr. Casaubon'sland took its course through Featherstone's alsoso that Mr.Cadwallader was a parson who had had to ask a favor instead ofpreaching.  Moreoverhe was one of the high gentry living fourmiles away from Lowickand was thus exalted to an equal sky with thesheriff of the county and other dignities vaguely regarded asnecessary to the system of things. There would be a satisfaction inbeing buried by Mr. Cadwalladerwhose very name offered a fineopportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you liked.

Thisdistinction conferred on the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt was thereason why Mrs. Cadwallader made one of the group that watched oldFeatherstone's funeral from an upper window of the manor. She was notfond of visiting that housebut she likedas she saidto seecollections of strange animals such as there would be at thisfuneral; and she had persuaded Sir James and the young Lady Chettamto drive the Rector and herself to Lowick in order that the visitmight be altogether pleasant.

"Iwill go anywhere with youMrs. Cadwallader" Celia had said;"but I don't like funerals."

"Ohmy dearwhen you have a clergyman in your family you mustaccommodate your tastes:  I did that very early.  When Imarried Humphrey I made up my mind to like sermonsand I set out byliking the end very much.  That soon spread to the middle andthe beginningbecause I couldn't have the end without them."

"Noto be sure not" said the Dowager Lady Chettamwith statelyemphasis.

The upperwindow from which the funeral could be well seen was in the roomoccupied by Mr. Casaubon when he had been forbidden to work; but hehad resumed nearly his habitual style of life now in spite ofwarnings and prescriptionsand after politely welcoming Mrs.Cadwallader had slipped again into the library to chew a cud oferudite mistake about Cush and Mizraim.

But forher visitors Dorothea too might have been shut up in the libraryandwould not have witnessed this scene of old Featherstone's funeralwhichaloof as it seemed to be from the tenor of her lifealwaysafterwards came back to her at the touch of certain sensitive pointsin memoryjust as the vision of St. Peter's at Rome was inwoven withmoods of despondency.  Scenes which make vital changes in ourneighbors' lot are but the background of our ownyetlike aparticular aspect of the fields and treesthey become associated forus with the epochs of our own historyand make a part of that unitywhich lies in the selection of our keenest consciousness.

Thedream-like association of something alien and ill-understood with thedeepest secrets of her experience seemed to mirror that sense ofloneliness which was due to the very ardor of Dorothea's nature. Thecountry gentry of old time lived in a rarefied social air: dottedapart on their stations up the mountain they looked down withimperfect discrimination on the belts of thicker life below. AndDorothea was not at ease in the perspective and chilliness of thatheight.

"Ishall not look any more" said Celiaafter the train hadentered the churchplacing herself a little behind her husband'selbow so that she could slyly touch his coat with her cheek.  "Idare say Dodo likes it:  she is fond of melancholy things andugly people."

"I amfond of knowing something about the people I live among" saidDorotheawho had been watching everything with the interest of amonk on his holiday tour.  "It seems to me we know nothingof our neighborsunless they are cottagers. One is constantlywondering what sort of lives other people leadand how they takethings.  I am quite obliged to Mrs. Cadwallader for coming andcalling me out of the library."

"Quiteright to feel obliged to me" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Yourrich Lowick farmers are as curious as any buffaloes or bisonsand Idare say you don't half see them at church.  They are quitedifferent from your uncle's tenants or Sir James's--monsters--farmers without landlords--one can't tell how to class them."

"Mostof these followers are not Lowick people" said Sir James; "Isuppose they are legatees from a distanceor from Middlemarch.Lovegood tells me the old fellow has left a good deal of money aswell as land."

"Thinkof that now! when so many younger sons can't dine at their ownexpense" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "Ah" turninground at the sound of the opening door"here is Mr. Brooke. I felt that we were incomplete beforeand here is the explanation.You are come to see this odd funeralof course?"

"NoI came to look after Casaubon--to see how he goes onyou know. And to bring a little news--a little newsmy dear" said Mr.Brookenodding at Dorothea as she came towards him. "I lookedinto the libraryand I saw Casaubon over his books. I told him itwouldn't do:  I said`This will never doyou know: think ofyour wifeCasaubon.'  And he promised me to come up.  Ididn't tell him my news:  I saidhe must come up."

"Ahnow they are coming out of church" Mrs. Cadwallader exclaimed."Dear mewhat a wonderfully mixed set!  Mr. Lydgate asdoctorI suppose.  But that is really a good looking womanandthe fair young man must be her son.  Who are theySir Jamesdoyou know?"

"Isee Vincythe Mayor of Middlemarch; they are probably his wife andson" said Sir Jameslooking interrogatively at Mr. Brookewhonodded and said--

"Yesa very decent family--a very good fellow is Vincy; a credit to themanufacturing interest.  You have seen him at my houseyouknow."

"Ahyes:  one of your secret committee" said Mrs. Cadwalladerprovokingly.

"Acoursing fellowthough" said Sir Jameswith a fox-hunter'sdisgust.

"Andone of those who suck the life out of the wretched handloom weaversin Tipton and Freshitt.  That is how his family look so fair andsleek" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "Those darkpurple-faced people are an excellent foil.  Dear methey arelike a set of jugs! Do look at Humphrey:  one might fancy him anugly archangel towering above them in his white surplice."

"It'sa solemn thingthougha funeral" said Mr. Brooke"ifyou take it in that lightyou know."

"ButI am not taking it in that light.  I can't wear my solemnity toooftenelse it will go to rags.  It was time the old man diedand none of these people are sorry."

"Howpiteous!" said Dorothea.  "This funeral seems to methe most dismal thing I ever saw.  It is a blot on the morning Icannot bear to think that any one should die and leave no lovebehind."

She wasgoing to say morebut she saw her husband enter and seat himself alittle in the background.  The difference his presence made toher was not always a happy one:  she felt that he often inwardlyobjected to her speech.

"Positively"exclaimed Mrs. Cadwallader"there is a new face come out frombehind that broad man queerer than any of them: a little round headwith bulging eyes--a sort of frog-face--do look. He must be ofanother bloodI think."

"Letme see!" said Celiawith awakened curiositystanding behindMrs. Cadwallader and leaning forward over her head.  "Ohwhat an odd face!" Then with a quick change to another sort ofsurprised expressionshe added"WhyDodoyou never told methat Mr. Ladislaw was come again!"

Dorotheafelt a shock of alarm:  every one noticed her sudden paleness asshe looked up immediately at her unclewhile Mr. Casaubon looked ather.

"Hecame with meyou know; he is my guest--puts up with me at theGrange" said Mr. Brookein his easiest tonenodding atDorotheaas if the announcement were just what she might haveexpected. "And we have brought the picture at the top of thecarriage. I knew you would be pleased with the surpriseCasaubon. There you are to the very life--as Aquinasyou know.  Quite theright sort of thing.  And you will hear young Ladislaw talkabout it. He talks uncommonly well--points out thisthatand theother-- knows art and everything of that kind--companionableyouknow--is up with you in any track--what I've been wanting a longwhile."

Mr.Casaubon bowed with cold politenessmastering his irritationbutonly so far as to be silent.  He remembered Will's letter quiteas well as Dorothea did; he had noticed that it was not among theletters which had been reserved for him on his recoveryand secretlyconcluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to come to Lowickhe had shrunk with proud sensitiveness from ever recurring to thesubject.  He now inferred that she had asked her uncle to inviteWill to the Grange; and she felt it impossible at that moment toenter into any explanation.

Mrs.Cadwallader's eyesdiverted from the churchyardsaw a good deal ofdumb show which was not so intelligible to her as she could havedesiredand could not repress the question"Who is Mr.Ladislaw?"

"Ayoung relative of Mr. Casaubon's" said Sir Jamespromptly. Hisgood-nature often made him quick and clear-seeing in personalmattersand he had divined from Dorothea's glance at her husbandthat there was some alarm in her mind.

"Avery nice young fellow--Casaubon has done everything for him"explained Mr. Brooke.  "He repays your expense in himCasaubon" he went onnodding encouragingly.  "I hopehe will stay with me a long while and we shall make something of mydocuments.  I have plenty of ideas and factsyou knowand Ican see he is just the man to put them into shape--remembers what theright quotations areomne tulit punctumand that sort ofthing--gives subjects a kind of turn.  I invited him some timeago when you were illCasaubon; Dorothea said you couldn't haveanybody in the houseyou knowand she asked me to write."

PoorDorothea felt that every word of her uncle's was about as pleasant asa grain of sand in the eye to Mr. Casaubon.  It would bealtogether unfitting now to explain that she had not wished her uncleto invite Will Ladislaw.  She could not in the least make clearto herself the reasons for her husband's dislike to his presence-- adislike painfully impressed on her by the scene in the library; butshe felt the unbecomingness of saying anything that might convey anotion of it to others.  Mr. Casaubonindeedhad notthoroughly represented those mixed reasons to himself; irritatedfeeling with himas with all of usseeking rather for justificationthan for self-knowledge. But he wished to repress outward signsandonly Dorothea could discern the changes in her husband's face beforehe observed with more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual--

"Youare exceedingly hospitablemy dear sir; and I owe youacknowledgments for exercising your hospitality towards a relative ofmine."

Thefuneral was ended nowand the churchyard was being cleared.

"Nowyou can see himMrs. Cadwallader" said Celia.  "Heis just like a miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt that hangs inDorothea's boudoir-- quite nice-looking."

"Avery pretty sprig" said Mrs. Cadwalladerdryly.  "Whatis your nephew to beMr. Casaubon?"

"Pardonmehe is not my nephew.  He is my cousin."

"Wellyou know" interposed Mr. Brooke"he is trying his wings.He is just the sort of young fellow to rise.  I should be gladto give him an opportunity.  He would make a good secretarynowlike HobbesMiltonSwift--that sort of man."

"Iunderstand" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "One who canwrite speeches."

"I'llfetch him in nowehCasaubon?" said Mr. Brooke. "Hewouldn't come in till I had announced himyou know.  And we'llgo down and look at the picture.  There you are to the life: adeep subtle sort of thinker with his fore-finger on the pagewhileSaint Bonaventure or somebody elserather fat and floridis lookingup at the Trinity.  Everything is symbolicalyou know-- thehigher style of art:  I like that up to a certain pointbut nottoo far--it's rather straining to keep up withyou know. But you areat home in thatCasaubon.  And your painter's flesh isgood--soliditytransparencyeverything of that sort. I went intothat a great deal at one time.  HoweverI'll go and fetchLadislaw."

CHAPTERXXXV

  "Nonje ne comprends pas de plus charmant plaisir
  Que de voir d'heritiers une troupe affligee
   Lemaintien interditet la mine allongee
   Lire un longtestament ou palesetonnes
   On leur laisse un bonsoiravec un pied de nez.
   Pour voir au naturel leurtristesse profonde
   Je reviendraisje croisexpresde l'autre monde."
   --REGNARD:  LeLegataire Universel.

When theanimals entered the Ark in pairsone may imagine that allied speciesmade much private remark on each otherand were tempted to thinkthat so many forms feeding on the same store of fodder were eminentlysuperfluousas tending to diminish the rations. (I fear the partplayed by the vultures on that occasion would be too painful for artto representthose birds being disadvantageously naked about thegulletand apparently without rites and ceremonies.)

The samesort of temptation befell the Christian Carnivora who formed PeterFeatherstone's funeral procession; most of them having their mindsbent on a limited store which each would have liked to get the mostof. The long-recognized blood-relations and connections by marriagemade already a goodly numberwhichmultiplied by possibilitiespresented a fine range for jealous conjecture and pathetichopefulness. Jealousy of the Vincys had created a fellowship inhostility among all persons of the Featherstone bloodso that in theabsence of any decided indication that one of themselves was to havemore than the restthe dread lest that long-legged Fred Vincy shouldhave the land was necessarily dominantthough it left abundantfeeling and leisure for vaguer jealousiessuch as were entertainedtowards Mary Garth.  Solomon found time to reflect that Jonahwas undeservingand Jonah to abuse Solomon as greedy; Janetheelder sisterheld that Martha's children ought not to expect so muchas the young Waules; and Marthamore lax on the subject ofprimogeniturewas sorry to think that Jane was so "having." These nearest of kin were naturally impressed with theunreasonableness of expectations in cousins and second cousinsandused their arithmetic in reckoning the large sums that small legaciesmight mount toif there were too many of them.  Two cousinswere present to hear the willand a second cousin besides Mr.Trumbull.  This second cousin was a Middlemarch mercer of politemanners and superfluous aspirates. The two cousins were elderly menfrom Brassingone of them conscious of claims on the score ofinconvenient expense sustained by him in presents of oysters andother eatables to his rich cousin Peter; the other entirelysaturnineleaning his hands and chin on a stickand conscious ofclaims based on no narrow performance but on merit generally: both blameless citizens of Brassingwho wished that JonahFeatherstone did not live there. The wit of a family is usually bestreceived among strangers.

"WhyTrumbull himself is pretty sure of five hundred--THAT you maydepend--I shouldn't wonder if my brother promised him" saidSolomonmusing aloud with his sistersthe evening before thefuneral.

"Deardear!" said poor sister Marthawhose imagination of hundredshad been habitually narrowed to the amount of her unpaid rent.

But in themorning all the ordinary currents of conjecture were disturbed by thepresence of a strange mourner who had plashed among them as if fromthe moon.  This was the stranger described by Mrs. Cadwalladeras frog-faced:  a man perhaps about two or three and thirtywhose prominent eyesthin-lippeddownward-curved mouthand hairsleekly brushed away from a forehead that sank suddenly above theridge of the eyebrowscertainly gave his face a batrachianunchangeableness of expression.  Hereclearlywas a newlegatee; else why was he bidden as a mourner?  Here were newpossibilitiesraising a new uncertaintywhich almost checked remarkin the mourning-coaches. We are all humiliated by the suddendiscovery of a fact which has existed very comfortably and perhapsbeen staring at us in private while we have been making up our worldentirely without it.  No one had seen this questionable strangerbefore except Mary Garthand she knew nothing more of him than thathe had twice been to Stone Court when Mr. Featherstone wasdown-stairsand had sat alone with him for several hours.  Shehad found an opportunity of mentioning this to her fatherandperhaps Caleb's were the only eyesexcept the lawyer'swhichexamined the stranger with more of inquiry than of disgust orsuspicion.  Caleb Garthhaving little expectation and lesscupiditywas interested in the verification of his own guessesandthe calmness with which he half smilingly rubbed his chin and shotintelligent glances much as if he were valuing a treemade a finecontrast with the alarm or scorn visible in other faces when theunknown mournerwhose name was understood to be Riggentered thewainscoted parlor and took his seat near the door to make part of theaudience when the will should be read.  Just then Mr. Solomonand Mr. Jonah were gone up-stairs with the lawyer to search for thewill; and Mrs. Wauleseeing two vacant seats between herself and Mr.Borthrop Trumbullhad the spirit to move next to that greatauthoritywho was handling his watch-seals and trimming his outlineswith a determination not to show anything so compromising to a man ofability as wonder or surprise.

"Isuppose you know everything about what my poor brother's doneMr.Trumbull" said Mrs. Waulein the lowest of her woolly toneswhile she turned her crape-shadowed bonnet towards Mr. Trumbull'sear.

"Mygood ladywhatever was told me was told in confidence" saidthe auctioneerputting his hand up to screen that secret.

"Themwho've made sure of their good-luck may be disappointed yet"Mrs. Waule continuedfinding some relief in this communication.

"Hopesare often delusive" said Mr. Trumbullstill in confidence.

"Ah!"said Mrs. Waulelooking across at the Vincysand then moving backto the side of her sister Martha.

"It'swonderful how close poor Peter was" she saidin the sameundertones.  "We none of us know what he might have had onhis mind. I only hope and trust he wasn't a worse liver than we thinkofMartha."

Poor Mrs.Cranch was bulkyandbreathing asthmaticallyhad the additionalmotive for making her remarks unexceptionable and giving them ageneral bearingthat even her whispers were loud and liable tosudden bursts like those of a deranged barrel-organ.

"Inever WAS covetiousJane" she replied; "but I have sixchildren and have buried threeand I didn't marry into money. Theeldestthat sits thereis but nineteen--so I leave you to guess.And stock always shortand land most awkward.  But if ever I'vebegged and prayed; it's been to God above; though where there's onebrother a bachelor and the other childless after twice marrying--anybody might think!"

MeanwhileMr. Vincy had glanced at the passive face of Mr. Riggand had takenout his snuff-box and tapped itbut had put it again unopened as anindulgence whichhowever clarifying to the judgmentwas unsuited tothe occasion.  "I shouldn't wonder if Featherstone hadbetter feelings than any of us gave him credit for" heobservedin the ear of his wife.  "This funeral shows athought about everybody: it looks well when a man wants to befollowed by his friendsand if they are humblenot to be ashamed ofthem.  I should be all the better pleased if he'd left lots ofsmall legacies. They may be uncommonly useful to fellows in a smallway."

"Everythingis as handsome as could becrape and silk and everything" saidMrs. Vincycontentedly.

But I amsorry to say that Fred was under some difficulty in repressing alaughwhich would have been more unsuitable than his father'ssnuff-box. Fred had overheard Mr. Jonah suggesting something about a"love-child" and with this thought in his mindthestranger's facewhich happened to be opposite himaffected him tooludicrously. Mary Garthdiscerning his distress in the twitchings ofhis mouthand his recourse to a coughcame cleverly to his rescueby asking him to change seats with herso that he got into a shadowycorner. Fred was feeling as good-naturedly as possible towardseverybodyincluding Rigg; and having some relenting towards allthese people who were less lucky than he was aware of being himselfhe would not for the world have behaved amiss; stillit wasparticularly easy to laugh.

But theentrance of the lawyer and the two brothers drew every one'sattention.  The lawyer was Mr. Standishand he had come toStone Court this morning believing that he knew thoroughly well whowould be pleased and who disappointed before the day was over. Thewill he expected to read was the last of three which he had drawn upfor Mr. Featherstone.  Mr. Standish was not a man who varied hismanners:  he behaved with the same deep-voicedoff-handcivility to everybodyas if he saw no difference in themand talkedchiefly of the hay-cropwhich would be "very fineby God!"of the last bulletins concerning the Kingand of the Duke ofClarencewho was a sailor every inch of himand just the man torule over an island like Britain.

OldFeatherstone had often reflected as he sat looking at the fire thatStandish would be surprised some day:  it is true that if he haddone as he liked at the lastand burnt the will drawn up by anotherlawyerhe would not have secured that minor end; still he had hadhis pleasure in ruminating on it.  And certainly Mr. Standishwas surprisedbut not at all sorry; on the contraryhe ratherenjoyed the zest of a little curiosity in his own mindwhich thediscovery of a second will added to the prospective amazement on thepart of the Featherstone family.

As to thesentiments of Solomon and Jonahthey were held in utter suspense: it seemed to them that the old will would have a certain validityand that there might be such an interlacement of poor Peter's formerand latter intentions as to create endless "lawing" beforeanybody came by their own--an inconvenience which would have at leastthe advantage of going all round.  Hence the brothers showed athoroughly neutral gravity as they re-entered with Mr. Standish; butSolomon took out his white handkerchief again with a sense that inany case there would be affecting passagesand crying at funeralshowever drywas customarily served up in lawn.

Perhapsthe person who felt the most throbbing excitement at this moment wasMary Garthin the consciousness that it was she who had virtuallydetermined the production of this second willwhich might havemomentous effects on the lot of some persons present. No soul exceptherself knew what had passed on that final night.

"Thewill I hold in my hand" said Mr. Standishwhoseated at thetable in the middle of the roomtook his time about everythingincluding the coughs with which he showed a disposition to clear hisvoice"was drawn up by myself and executed by our deceasedfriend on the 9th of August1825.  But I find that there is asubsequent instrument hitherto unknown to mebearing date the 20thof July1826hardly a year later than the previous one. And thereis fartherI see"--Mr. Standish was cautiously travelling overthe document with his spectacles--"a codicil to this latterwillbearing date March 11828."

"Deardear!" said sister Marthanot meaning to be audiblebut drivento some articulation under this pressure of dates.

"Ishall begin by reading the earlier will" continued Mr.Standish"since suchas appears by his not having destroyedthe documentwas the intention of deceased."

Thepreamble was felt to be rather longand several besides Solomonshook their heads patheticallylooking on the ground: all eyesavoided meeting other eyesand were chiefly fixed either on thespots in the table-cloth or on Mr. Standish's bald head; exceptingMary Garth's. When all the rest were trying to look nowhere inparticularit was safe for her to look at them. And at the sound ofthe first "give and bequeath" she could see all complexionschanging subtlyas if some faint vibration were passing throughthemsave that of Mr. Rigg.  He sat in unaltered calmandinfactthe companypreoccupied with more important problemsand withthe complication of listening to bequests which might or might not berevokedhad ceased to think of him.  Fred blushedand Mr.Vincy found it impossible to do without his snuff-box in his handthough he kept it closed.

The smallbequests came firstand even the recollection that there was anotherwill and that poor Peter might have thought better of itcould notquell the rising disgust and indignation.  One likes to be donewell by in every tensepastpresentand future. And here was Petercapable five years ago of leaving only two hundred apiece to his ownbrothers and sistersand only a hundred apiece to his own nephewsand nieces:  the Garths were not mentionedbut Mrs. Vincy andRosamond were each to have a hundred. Mr. Trumbull was to have thegold-headed cane and fifty pounds; the other second cousins and thecousins present were each to have the like handsome sumwhichasthe saturnine cousin observedwas a sort of legacy that left a mannowhere; and there was much more of such offensive dribbling in favorof persons not present-- problematicalandit was to be fearedlowconnections. Altogetherreckoning hastilyhere were about threethousand disposed of.  Where then had Peter meant the rest ofthe money to go-- and where the land? and what was revoked and whatnot revoked-- and was the revocation for better or for worse? All emotion must be conditionaland might turn out to be the wrongthing. The men were strong enough to bear up and keep quiet underthis confused suspense; some letting their lower lip fallotherspursing it upaccording to the habit of their muscles.  ButJane and Martha sank under the rush of questionsand began to cry;poor Mrs. Cranch being half moved with the consolation of getting anyhundreds at all without working for themand half aware that hershare was scanty; whereas Mrs. Waule's mind was entirely flooded withthe sense of being an own sister and getting littlewhile somebodyelse was to have much.  The general expectation now was that the"much" would fall to Fred Vincybut the Vincys themselveswere surprised when ten thousand pounds in specified investments weredeclared to be bequeathed to him:--was the land coming too? Fred bit his lips: it was difficult to help smilingand Mrs. Vincyfelt herself the happiest of women--possible revocation shrinking outof sight in this dazzling vision.

There wasstill a residue of personal property as well as the landbut thewhole was left to one personand that person was-- O possibilities! O expectations founded on the favor of "close" oldgentlemen!  O endless vocatives that would still leaveexpression slipping helpless from the measurement of mortal folly!--that residuary legatee was Joshua Riggwho was also sole executorand who was to take thenceforth the name of Featherstone.

There wasa rustling which seemed like a shudder running round the room. Every one stared afresh at Mr. Riggwho apparently experienced nosurprise.

"Amost singular testamentary disposition!" exclaimed Mr. Trumbullpreferring for once that he should be considered ignorant in thepast. "But there is a second will--there is a further document. We have not yet heard the final wishes of the deceased."

Mary Garthwas feeling that what they had yet to hear were not the finalwishes.  The second will revoked everything except the legaciesto the low persons before mentioned (some alterations in these beingthe occasion of the codicil)and the bequest of all the land lyingin Lowick parish with all the stock and household furnituretoJoshua Rigg.  The residue of the property was to be devoted tothe erection and endowment of almshouses for old mento be calledFeatherstone's Alms-Housesand to be built on a piece of land nearMiddlemarch already bought for the purpose by the testatorhewishing--so the document declared--to please God Almighty. Nobodypresent had a farthing; but Mr. Trumbull had the gold-headed cane. Ittook some time for the company to recover the power of expression.Mary dared not look at Fred.

Mr. Vincywas the first to speak--after using his snuff- box energetically--andhe spoke with loud indignation. "The most unaccountable will Iever heard!  I should say he was not in his right mind when hemade it.  I should say this last will was void" added Mr.Vincyfeeling that this expression put the thing in the true light. "Eh Standish?"

"Ourdeceased friend always knew what he was aboutI think" saidMr. Standish.  "Everything is quite regular.  Here isa letter from Clemmens of Brassing tied with the will.  He drewit up. A very respectable solicitor."

"Inever noticed any alienation of mind--any aberration of intellect inthe late Mr. Featherstone" said Borthrop Trumbull"but Icall this will eccentric.  I was always willingly of service tothe old soul; and he intimated pretty plainly a sense of obligationwhich would show itself in his will.  The gold-headed cane isfarcical considered as an acknowledgment to me; but happily I amabove mercenary considerations."

"There'snothing very surprising in the matter that I can see" saidCaleb Garth.  "Anybody might have had more reason forwondering if the will had been what you might expect from anopen-minded straightforward man.  For my partI wish there wasno such thing as a will."

"That'sa strange sentiment to come from a Christian manby God!" saidthe lawyer.  "I should like to know how you will back thatupGarth!"

"Oh"said Calebleaning forwardadjusting his finger-tips with nicetyand looking meditatively on the ground.  It always seemed to himthat words were the hardest part of "business."

But hereMr. Jonah Featherstone made himself heard.  "Wellhealways was a fine hypocritewas my brother Peter.  But thiswill cuts out everything.  If I'd knowna wagon and six horsesshouldn't have drawn me from Brassing.  I'll put a white hat anddrab coat on to-morrow."

"Deardear" wept Mrs. Cranch"and we've been at the expense oftravellingand that poor lad sitting idle here so long! It's thefirst time I ever heard my brother Peter was so wishful to please GodAlmighty; but if I was to be struck helpless I must say it's hard--Ican think no other."

"It'lldo him no good where he's gonethat's my belief" said Solomonwith a bitterness which was remarkably genuinethough his tone couldnot help being sly.  "Peter was a bad liverand almshouseswon't cover itwhen he's had the impudence to show it at the last."

"Andall the while had got his own lawful family--brothers and sisters andnephews and nieces--and has sat in church with 'em whenever hethought well to come" said Mrs. Waule.  "And mighthave left his property so respectableto them that's never been usedto extravagance or unsteadiness in no manner of way--and not so poorbut what they could have saved every penny and made more of it. Andme--the trouble I've been attimes and timesto come here and besisterly--and him with things on his mind all the while that mightmake anybody's flesh creep.  But if the Almighty's allowed ithe means to punish him for it.  Brother SolomonI shall begoingif you'll drive me."

"I'veno desire to put my foot on the premises again" said Solomon."I've got land of my own and property of my own to will away."

"It'sa poor tale how luck goes in the world" said Jonah. "Itnever answers to have a bit of spirit in you.  You'd better be adog in the manger.  But those above ground might learn a lesson.One fool's will is enough in a family."

"There'smore ways than one of being a fool" said Solomon. "Ishan't leave my money to be poured down the sinkand I shan't leaveit to foundlings from Africay.  I like Featherstones that werebrewed suchand not turned Featherstones with sticking the name on'em."

Solomonaddressed these remarks in a loud aside to Mrs. Waule as he rose toaccompany her.  Brother Jonah felt himself capable of much morestinging wit than thisbut he reflected that there was no use inoffending the new proprietor of Stone Courtuntil you were certainthat he was quite without intentions of hospitality towards witty menwhose name he was about to bear.

Mr. JoshuaRiggin factappeared to trouble himself little about anyinnuendoesbut showed a notable change of mannerwalking coolly upto Mr. Standish and putting business questions with much coolness. He had a high chirping voice and a vile accent. Fredwhom he nolonger moved to laughterthought him the lowest monster he had everseen.  But Fred was feeling rather sick. The Middlemarch mercerwaited for an opportunity of engaging Mr. Rigg in conversation: there was no knowing how many pairs of legs the new proprietor mightrequire hose forand profits were more to be relied on thanlegacies.  Alsothe merceras a second cousinwasdispassionate enough to feel curiosity.

Mr. Vincyafter his one outbursthad remained proudly silentthough too muchpreoccupied with unpleasant feelings to think of movingtill heobserved that his wife had gone to Fred's side and was cryingsilently while she held her darling's hand. He rose immediatelyandturning his back on the company while he said to her in anundertone--"Don't give wayLucy; don't make a fool ofyourselfmy dearbefore these people" he added in his usualloud voice--"Go and order the phaetonFred; I have no time towaste."

Mary Garthhad before this been getting ready to go home with her father. Shemet Fred in the halland now for the first time had the courage tolook at him He had that withered sort of paleness which willsometimes come on young facesand his hand was very cold when sheshook it.  Mary too was agitated; she was conscious thatfatallywithout will of her ownshe had perhaps made a greatdifference to Fred's lot.

"Good-by"she saidwith affectionate sadness.  "Be braveFred. I dobelieve you are better without the money.  What was the good ofit to Mr. Featherstone?"

"That'sall very fine" said Fredpettishly.  "What is afellow to do?  I must go into the Church now."  (Heknew that this would vex Mary:  very well; then she must tellhim what else he could do.) "And I thought I should be able topay your father at once and make everything right.  And you havenot even a hundred pounds left you. What shall you do nowMary?"

"Takeanother situationof courseas soon as I can get one. My father hasenough to do to keep the restwithout me.  Good-by."

In a veryshort time Stone Court was cleared of well-brewed Featherstones andother long-accustomed visitors.  Another stranger had beenbrought to settle in the neighborhood of Middlemarchbut in the caseof Mr. Rigg Featherstone there was more discontent with immediatevisible consequences than speculation as to the effect which hispresence might have in the future.  No soul was prophetic enoughto have any foreboding as to what might appear on the trial of JoshuaRigg.

And here Iam naturally led to reflect on the means of elevating a low subject. Historical parallels are remarkably efficient in this way.  Thechief objection to them isthat the diligent narrator may lackspaceor (what is often the same thing) may not be able to think ofthem with any degree of particularitythough he may have aphilosophical confidence that if known they would be illustrative. Itseems an easier and shorter way to dignityto observe that-- sincethere never was a true story which could not be told in parableswhere you might put a monkey for a margraveand vice versa--whatever has been or is to be narrated by me about low peoplemay beennobled by being considered a parable; so that if any bad habits andugly consequences are brought into viewthe reader may have therelief of regarding them as not more than figuratively ungenteelandmay feel himself virtually in company with persons of some style.Thus while I tell the truth about loobiesmy reader's imaginationneed not be entirely excluded from an occupation with lords; and thepetty sums which any bankrupt of high standing would be sorry toretire uponmay be lifted to the level of high commercialtransactions by the inexpensive addition of proportional ciphers.

As to anyprovincial history in which the agents are all of high moral rankthat must be of a date long posterior to the first Reform BillandPeter Featherstoneyou perceivewas dead and buried some monthsbefore Lord Grey came into office.

CHAPTERXXXVI

  "'Tis strange to see the humors of these men
  These great aspiring spiritsthat should be wise:
   .   .   .   .   .  .   .   .
   For being the nature ofgreat spirits to love
   To be where they may be mosteminent;
   Theyrating of themselves so farre above
  Us in conceitwith whom they do frequent
   Imaginehow we wonder and esteeme
   All that they do or say;which makes them strive
   To make our admiration moreextreme
   Which they suppose they cannot'less theygive
   Notice of their extreme and highest thoughts.
  --DANIEL:  Tragedy of Philotas.

Mr. Vincywent home from the reading of the will with his point of viewconsiderably changed in relation to many subjects.  He was anopen-minded manbut given to indirect modes of expressing himself:when he was disappointed in a market for his silk braidshe swore atthe groom; when his brother-in-law Bulstrode had vexed himhe madecutting remarks on Methodism; and it was now apparent that heregarded Fred's idleness with a sudden increase of severityby histhrowing an embroidered cap out of the smoking-room on to thehall-floor.

"Wellsir" he observedwhen that young gentleman was moving off tobed"I hope you've made up your mind now to go up next term andpass your examination.  I've taken my resolutionso I adviseyou to lose no time in taking yours."

Fred madeno answer:  he was too utterly depressed.  Twenty-fourhours ago he had thought that instead of needing to know what heshould dohe should by this time know that he needed to do nothing: that he should hunt in pinkhave a first-rate hunterride to coveron a fine hackand be generally respected for doing so; moreoverthat he should be able at once to pay Mr. Garthand that Mary couldno longer have any reason for not marrying him.  And all thiswas to have come without study or other inconveniencepurely by thefavor of providence in the shape of an old gentleman's caprice. But nowat the end of the twenty-four hoursall those firmexpectations were upset. It was "rather hard lines" thatwhile he was smarting under this disappointment he should be treatedas if he could have helped it. But he went away silently and hismother pleaded for him.

"Don'tbe hard on the poor boyVincy.  He'll turn out well yetthoughthat wicked man has deceived him.  I feel as sure as I sit hereFred will turn out well--else why was he brought back from the brinkof the grave?  And I call it a robbery:  it was like givinghim the landto promise it; and what is promisingif makingeverybody believe is not promising?  And you see he did leavehim ten thousand poundsand then took it away again."

"Tookit away again!" said Mr. Vincypettishly.  "I tellyou the lad's an unlucky ladLucy.  And you've always spoiledhim."

"WellVincyhe was my firstand you made a fine fuss with him when hecame.  You were as proud as proud" said Mrs. Vincyeasilyrecovering her cheerful smile.

"Whoknows what babies will turn to?  I was fool enoughI dare say"said the husband--more mildlyhowever.

"Butwho has handsomerbetter children than ours?  Fred is farbeyond other people's sons:  you may hear it in his speechthathe has kept college company.  And Rosamond--where is there agirl like her?  She might stand beside any lady in the landandonly look the better for it.  You see--Mr. Lydgate has kept thehighest company and been everywhereand he fell in love with her atonce. Not but what I could have wished Rosamond had not engagedherself. She might have met somebody on a visit who would have been afar better match; I mean at her schoolfellow Miss Willoughby's. Thereare relations in that family quite as high as Mr. Lydgate's."

"Damnrelations!" said Mr. Vincy; "I've had enough of them. Idon't want a son-in-law who has got nothing but his relations torecommend him."

"Whymy dear" said Mrs. Vincy"you seemed as pleased as couldbe about it.  It's trueI wasn't at home; but Rosamond told meyou hadn't a word to say against the engagement.  And she hasbegun to buy in the best linen and cambric for her underclothing."

"Notby my will" said Mr. Vincy.  "I shall have enough todo this yearwith an idle scamp of a sonwithout paying forwedding-clothes. The times are as tight as can be; everybody is beingruined; and I don't believe Lydgate has got a farthing.  Ishan't give my consent to their marrying.  Let 'em waitastheir elders have done before 'em."

"Rosamondwill take it hardVincyand you know you never could bear to crossher."

"YesI could.  The sooner the engagement's offthe better. I don'tbelieve he'll ever make an incomethe way he goes on. He makesenemies; that's all I hear of his making."

"Buthe stands very high with Mr. Bulstrodemy dear.  The marriagewould please HIMI should think."

"Pleasethe deuce!" said Mr. Vincy.  "Bulstrode won't pay fortheir keep.  And if Lydgate thinks I'm going to give money forthem to set up housekeepinghe's mistakenthat's all.  Iexpect I shall have to put down my horses soon.  You'd bettertell Rosy what I say."

This was anot infrequent procedure with Mr. Vincy--to be rash in jovial assentand on becoming subsequently conscious that he had been rashtoemploy others in making the offensive retractation. HoweverMrs.Vincywho never willingly opposed her husbandlost no time the nextmorning in letting Rosamond know what he had said.  Rosamondexamining some muslin-worklistened in silenceand at the end gavea certain turn of her graceful neckof which only long experiencecould teach you that it meant perfect obstinacy.

"Whatdo you saymy dear?" said her motherwith affectionatedeference.

"Papadoes not mean anything of the kind" said Rosamondquitecalmly. "He has always said that he wished me to marry the man Iloved. And I shall marry Mr. Lydgate.  It is seven weeks nowsince papa gave his consent.  And I hope we shall have Mrs.Bretton's house."

"Wellmy dearI shall leave you to manage your papa.  You always domanage everybody.  But if we ever do go and get damaskSadler'sis the place--far better than Hopkins's. Mrs. Bretton's is verylargethough:  I should love you to have such a house; but itwill take a great deal of furniture--carpeting and everythingbesides plate and glass.  And you hearyour papa says he willgive no money.  Do you think Mr. Lydgate expects it?"

"Youcannot imagine that I should ask himmamma.  Of course heunderstands his own affairs."

"Buthe may have been looking for moneymy dearand we all thought ofyour having a pretty legacy as well as Fred;--and now everything isso dreadful--there's no pleasure in thinking of anythingwith thatpoor boy disappointed as he is."

"Thathas nothing to do with my marriagemamma.  Fred must leave offbeing idle.  I am going up-stairs to take this work to MissMorgan: she does the open hemming very well.  Mary Garth mightdo some work for me nowI should think.  Her sewing isexquisite; it is the nicest thing I know about Mary.  I shouldso like to have all my cambric frilling double-hemmed. And it takes along time."

Mrs.Vincy's belief that Rosamond could manage her papa was well founded. Apart from his dinners and his coursingMr. Vincyblustering as hewashad as little of his own way as if he had been a primeminister:  the force of circumstances was easily too much forhimas it is for most pleasure-loving florid men; and thecircumstance called Rosamond was particularly forcible by means ofthat mild persistence whichas we knowenables a white soft livingsubstance to make its way in spite of opposing rock. Papa was not arock:  he had no other fixity than that fixity of alternatingimpulses sometimes called habitand this was altogether unfavorableto his taking the only decisive line of conduct in relation to hisdaughter's engagement--namelyto inquire thoroughly into Lydgate'scircumstancesdeclare his own inability to furnish moneyand forbidalike either a speedy marriage or an engagement which must be toolengthy.  That seems very simple and easy in the statement; buta disagreeable resolve formed in the chill hours of the morning hadas many conditions against it as the early frostand rarelypersisted under the warming influences of the day.  The indirectthough emphatic expression of opinion to which Mr. Vincy was pronesuffered much restraint in this case:  Lydgate was a proud mantowards whom innuendoes were obviously unsafeand throwing his haton the floor was out of the question.  Mr. Vincy was a little inawe of hima little vain that he wanted to marry Rosamonda littleindisposed to raise a question of money in which his own position wasnot advantageousa little afraid of being worsted in dialogue with aman better educated and more highly bred than himselfand a littleafraid of doing what his daughter would not like. The part Mr. Vincypreferred playing was that of the generous host whom nobodycriticises.  In the earlier half of the day there was businessto hinder any formal communication of an adverse resolve; in thelater there was dinnerwinewhistand general satisfaction. And inthe mean while the hours were each leaving their little deposit andgradually forming the final reason for inactionnamelythat actionwas too late.  The accepted lover spent most of his evenings inLowick Gateand a love-making not at all dependent on money-advancesfrom fathers-in-lawor prospective income from a professionwent onflourishingly under Mr. Vincy's own eyes. Young love-making--thatgossamer web!  Even the points it clings to--the things whenceits subtle interlacings are swung-- are scarcely perceptible: momentary touches of fingertipsmeetings of rays from blue and darkorbsunfinished phraseslightest changes of cheek and lipfaintesttremors.  The web itself is made of spontaneous beliefs andindefinable joysyearnings of one life towards anothervisions ofcompletenessindefinite trust. And Lydgate fell to spinning that webfrom his inward self with wonderful rapidityin spite of experiencesupposed to be finished off with the drama of Laure--in spite too ofmedicine and biology; for the inspection of macerated muscle or ofeyes presented in a dish (like Santa Lucia's)and other incidents ofscientific inquiryare observed to be less incompatible with poeticlove than a native dulness or a lively addiction to the lowestprose.  As for Rosamondshe was in the water-lily's expandingwonderment at its own fuller lifeand she too was spinningindustriously at the mutual web.  All this went on in the cornerof the drawing-room where the piano stoodand subtle as it wasthelight made it a sort of rainbow visible to many observers besides Mr.Farebrother.  The certainty that Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate wereengaged became general in Middlemarch without the aid of formalannouncement.

AuntBulstrode was again stirred to anxiety; but this time she addressedherself to her brothergoing to the warehouse expressly to avoidMrs. Vincy's volatility.  His replies were not satisfactory.

"Walteryou never mean to tell me that you have allowed all this to go onwithout inquiry into Mr. Lydgate's prospects?" said Mrs.Bulstrodeopening her eyes with wider gravity at her brotherwhowas in his peevish warehouse humor.  "Think of this girlbrought up in luxury--in too worldly a wayI am sorry to say-- whatwill she do on a small income?"

"Ohconfound itHarriet I what can I do when men come into the townwithout any asking of mine?  Did you shut your house up againstLydgate?  Bulstrode has pushed him forward more than anybody. Inever made any fuss about the young fellow.  You should go andtalk to your husband about itnot me."

"WellreallyWalterhow can Mr. Bulstrode be to blame? I am sure he didnot wish for the engagement."

"Ohif Bulstrode had not taken him by the handI should never haveinvited him."

"Butyou called him in to attend on Fredand I am sure that was a mercy"said Mrs. Bulstrodelosing her clew in the intricacies of thesubject.

"Idon't know about mercy" said Mr. Vincytestily.  "Iknow I am worried more than I like with my family.  I was a goodbrother to youHarrietbefore you married Bulstrodeand I must sayhe doesn't always show that friendly spirit towards your family thatmight have been expected of him."  Mr. Vincy was verylittle like a Jesuitbut no accomplished Jesuit could have turned aquestion more adroitly. Harriet had to defend her husband instead ofblaming her brotherand the conversation ended at a point as farfrom the beginning as some recent sparring between thebrothers-in-law at a vestry meeting.

Mrs.Bulstrode did not repeat her brother's complaints to her husbandbutin the evening she spoke to him of Lydgate and Rosamond. He did notshare her warm interesthowever; and only spoke with resignation ofthe risks attendant on the beginning of medical practice and thedesirability of prudence.

"I amsure we are bound to pray for that thoughtless girl-- brought up asshe has been" said Mrs. Bulstrodewishing to rouse herhusband's feelings.

"Trulymy dear" said Mr. Bulstrodeassentingly.  "Those whoare not of this world can do little else to arrest the errors of theobstinately worldly.  That is what we must accustom ourselves torecognize with regard to your brother's family.  I could havewished that Mr. Lydgate had not entered into such a union; but myrelations with him are limited to that use of his gifts for God'spurposes which is taught us by the divine government under eachdispensation."

Mrs.Bulstrode said no moreattributing some dissatisfaction which shefelt to her own want of spirituality.  She believed that herhusband was one of those men whose memoirs should be written whenthey died.

As toLydgate himselfhaving been acceptedhe was prepared to accept allthe consequences which he believed himself to foresee with perfectclearness.  Of course he must be married in a year-- perhapseven in half a year.  This was not what he had intended; butother schemes would not be hindered:  they would simply adjustthemselves anew.  Marriageof coursemust be prepared for inthe usual way.  A house must be taken instead of the rooms he atpresent occupied; and Lydgatehaving heard Rosamond speak withadmiration of old Mrs. Bretton's house (situated in Lowick Gate)took notice when it fell vacant after the old lady's deathandimmediately entered into treaty for it.

He didthis in an episodic wayvery much as he gave orders to his tailorfor every requisite of perfect dresswithout any notion of beingextravagant.  On the contraryhe would have despised anyostentation of expense; his profession had familiarized him with allgrades of povertyand he cared much for those who sufferedhardships. He would have behaved perfectly at a table where the saucewas served in a jug with the handle offand he would have rememberednothing about a grand dinner except that a man was there who talkedwell. But it had never occurred to him that he should live in anyother than what he would have called an ordinary waywith greenglasses for hockand excellent waiting at table.  In warminghimself at French social theories he had brought away no smell ofscorching. We may handle even extreme opinions with impunity whileour furnitureour dinner-givingand preference for armorialbearings in our own easelink us indissolubly with the establishedorder. And Lydgate's tendency was not towards extreme opinions: he would have liked no barefooted doctrinesbeing particular abouthis boots: he was no radical in relation to anything but medicalreform and the prosecution of discovery.  In the rest ofpractical life he walked by hereditary habit; half from that personalpride and unreflecting egoism which I have already called commonnessand half from that naivete which belonged to preoccupation withfavorite ideas.

Any inwarddebate Lydgate had as to the consequences of this engagement whichhad stolen upon himturned on the paucity of time rather than ofmoney.  Certainlybeing in love and being expected continuallyby some one who always turned out to be prettier than memory couldrepresent her to bedid interfere with the diligent use of sparehours which might serve some "plodding fellow of a German"to make the greatimminent discovery. This was really an argumentfor not deferring the marriage too longas he implied to Mr.Farebrotherone day that the Vicar came to his room with somepond-products which he wanted to examine under a better microscopethan his ownandfinding Lydgate's tableful of apparatus andspecimens in confusionsaid sarcastically--

"Eroshas degenerated; he began by introducing order and harmonyand nowhe brings back chaos."

"Yesat some stages" said Lydgatelifting his brows and smilingwhile he began to arrange his microscope.  "But a betterorder will begin after."

"Soon?"said the Vicar.

"Ihope soreally.  This unsettled state of affairs uses up thetimeand when one has notions in scienceevery moment is anopportunity. I feel sure that marriage must be the best thing for aman who wants to work steadily.  He has everything at homethen--no teasing with personal speculations--he can get calmness andfreedom."

"Youare an enviable dog" said the Vicar"to have such aprospect-- Rosamondcalmness and freedomall to your share. Here am I with nothing but my pipe and pond-animalcules. Noware youready?"

Lydgatedid not mention to the Vicar another reason he had for wishing toshorten the period of courtship.  It was rather irritating tohimeven with the wine of love in his veinsto be obliged to mingleso often with the family party at the Vincys'and to enter so muchinto Middlemarch gossipprotracted good cheerwhist-playingandgeneral futility.  He had to be deferential when Mr. Vincydecided questions with trenchant ignoranceespecially as to thoseliquors which were the best inward picklepreserving you from theeffects of bad air.  Mrs. Vincy's openness and simplicity werequite unstreaked with suspicion as to the subtle offence she mightgive to the taste of her intended son-in-law; and altogether Lydgatehad to confess to himself that he was descending a little in relationto Rosamond's family.  But that exquisite creature herselfsuffered in the same sort of way:-- it was at least one delightfulthought that in marrying herhe could give her a much-neededtransplantation.

"Dear!"he said to her one eveningin his gentlest toneas he sat down byher and looked closely at her face--

But I mustfirst say that he had found her alone in the drawing-roomwhere thegreat old-fashioned windowalmost as large as the side of the roomwas opened to the summer scents of the garden at the back of thehouse.  Her father and mother were gone to a partyand the restwere all out with the butterflies.

"Dear!your eyelids are red."

"Arethey?" said Rosamond.  "I wonder why."  Itwas not in her nature to pour forth wishes or grievances.  Theyonly came forth gracefully on solicitation.

"Asif you could hide it from me!"? said Lydgatelaying his handtenderly on both of hers.  "Don't I see a tiny drop on oneof the lashes? Things trouble youand you don't tell me.  Thatis unloving."

"Whyshould I tell you what you cannot alter?  They are every-daythings:--perhaps they have been a little worse lately."

"Familyannoyances.  Don't fear speaking.  I guess them."

"Papahas been more irritable lately.  Fred makes him angryand thismorning there was a fresh quarrel because Fred threatens to throw hiswhole education awayand do something quite beneath him. Andbesides--"

Rosamondhesitatedand her cheeks were gathering a slight flush. Lydgate hadnever seen her in trouble since the morning of their engagementandhe had never felt so passionately towards her as at this moment. He kissed the hesitating lips gentlyas if to encourage them.

"Ifeel that papa is not quite pleased about our engagement"Rosamond continuedalmost in a whisper; "and he said last nightthat he should certainly speak to you and say it must be given up."

"Willyou give it up?" said Lydgatewith quick energy--almostangrily.

"Inever give up anything that I choose to do" said Rosamondrecovering her calmness at the touching of this chord.

"Godbless you!" said Lydgatekissing her again.  Thisconstancy of purpose in the right place was adorable.  He wenton:--

"Itis too late now for your father to say that our engagement must begiven up.  You are of ageand I claim you as mine. If anythingis done to make you unhappy--that is a reason for hastening ourmarriage."

Anunmistakable delight shone forth from the blue eyes that met hisandthe radiance seemed to light up all his future with mild sunshine.Ideal happiness (of the kind known in the Arabian Nightsin whichyou are invited to step from the labor and discord of the street intoa paradise where everything is given to you and nothing claimed)seemed to be an affair of a few weeks' waitingmore or less.

"Whyshould we defer it?" he saidwith ardent insistence. "Ihave taken the house now:  everything else can soon be gotready-- can it not?  You will not mind about new clothes. Those can be bought afterwards."

"Whatoriginal notions you clever men have!" said Rosamonddimplingwith more thorough laughter than usual at this humorous incongruity."This is the first time I ever heard of wedding-clothes beingbought after marriage."

"Butyou don't mean to say you would insist on my waiting months for thesake of clothes?" said Lydgatehalf thinking that Rosamond wastormenting him prettilyand half fearing that she really shrank fromspeedy marriage.  "Rememberwe are looking forward to abetter sort of happiness even than this--being continually togetherindependent of othersand ordering our lives as we will. Comedeartell me how soon you can be altogether mine."

There wasa serious pleading in Lydgate's toneas if he felt that she would beinjuring him by any fantastic delays.  Rosamond became serioustooand slightly meditative; in factshe was going through manyintricacies of lace-edging and hosiery and petticoat-tuckinginorder to give an answer that would at least be approximative.

"Sixweeks would be ample--say soRosamond" insisted Lydgatereleasing her hands to put his arm gently round her.

One littlehand immediately went to pat her hairwhile she gave her neck ameditative turnand then said seriously--

"Therewould be the house-linen and the furniture to be prepared. Stillmamma could see to those while we were away."

"Yesto be sure.  We must be away a week or so."

"Ohmore than that!" said Rosamondearnestly.  She wasthinking of her evening dresses for the visit to Sir GodwinLydgate'swhich she had long been secretly hoping for as adelightful employment of at least one quarter of the honeymoonevenif she deferred her introduction to the uncle who was a doctor ofdivinity (also a pleasing though sober kind of rankwhen sustainedby blood). She looked at her lover with some wondering remonstranceas she spokeand he readily understood that she might wish tolengthen the sweet time of double solitude.

"Whateveryou wishmy darlingwhen the day is fixed.  But let us take adecided courseand put an end to any discomfort you may besuffering.  Six weeks!--I am sure they would be ample."

"Icould certainly hasten the work" said Rosamond.  "Willyouthenmention it to papa?--I think it would be better to writeto him." She blushed and looked at him as the garden flowerslook at us when we walk forth happily among them in the transcendentevening light: is there not a soul beyond utterancehalf nymphhalfchildin those delicate petals which glow and breathe about thecentres of deep color?

He touchedher ear and a little bit of neck under it with his lipsand they satquite still for many minutes which flowed by them like a smallgurgling brook with the kisses of the sun upon it. Rosamond thoughtthat no one could be more in love than she was; and Lydgate thoughtthat after all his wild mistakes and absurd credulityhe had foundperfect womanhood--felt as If already breathed upon by exquisitewedded affection such as would be bestowed by an accomplishedcreature who venerated his high musings and momentous labors andwould never interfere with them; who would create order in the homeand accounts with still magicyet keep her fingers ready to touchthe lute and transform life into romance at any moment; who wasinstructed to the true womanly limit and not a hair's- breadthbeyond--docilethereforeand ready to carry out behests which camefrom that limit.  It was plainer now than ever that his notionof remaining much longer a bachelor had been a mistake: marriagewould not be an obstruction but a furtherance. And happening the nextday to accompany a patient to Brassinghe saw a dinner-service therewhich struck him as so exactly the right thing that he bought it atonce.  It saved time to do these things just when you thought ofthemand Lydgate hated ugly crockery. The dinner-service in questionwas expensivebut that might be in the nature of dinner-services.Furnishing was necessarily expensive; but then it had to be done onlyonce.

"Itmust be lovely" said Mrs. Vincywhen Lydgate mentioned hispurchase with some descriptive touches.  "Just what Rosyought to have.  I trust in heaven it won't be broken!"

"Onemust hire servants who will not break things" said Lydgate.(Certainlythis was reasoning with an imperfect vision of sequences.But at that period there was no sort of reasoning which was not moreor less sanctioned by men of science.)

Of courseit was unnecessary to defer the mention of anything to mammawho didnot readily take views that were not cheerfuland being a happy wifeherselfhad hardly any feeling but pride in her daughter'smarriage.  But Rosamond had good reasons for suggesting toLydgate that papa should be appealed to in writing. She prepared forthe arrival of the letter by walking with her papa to the warehousethe next morningand telling him on the way that Mr. Lydgate wishedto be married soon.

"Nonsensemy dear!" said Mr. Vincy.  "What has he got to marryon? You'd much better give up the engagement.  I've told you sopretty plainly before this.  What have you had such an educationforif you are to go and marry a poor man?  It's a cruel thingfor a father to see."

"Mr.Lydgate is not poorpapa.  He bought Mr. Peacock's practicewhichthey sayis worth eight or nine hundred a-year."

"Stuffand nonsense!  What's buying a practice?  He might as wellbuy next year's swallows.  It'll all slip through his fingers."

"Onthe contrarypapahe will increase the practice.  See how hehas been called in by the Chettams and Casaubons."

"Ihope he knows I shan't give anything--with this disappointment aboutFredand Parliament going to be dissolvedand machine-breakingeverywhereand an election coming on--"

"Dearpapa! what can that have to do with my marriage?"

"Apretty deal to do with it!  We may all be ruined for what Iknow-- the country's in that state!  Some say it's the end ofthe worldand be hanged if I don't think it looks like it! Anyhowit's not a time for me to be drawing money out of mybusinessand I should wish Lydgate to know that."

"I amsure he expects nothingpapa.  And he has such very highconnections:  he is sure to rise in one way or another. He isengaged in making scientific discoveries."

Mr. Vincywas silent.

"Icannot give up my only prospect of happinesspapa Mr. Lydgate is agentleman.  I could never love any one who was not a perfectgentleman.  You would not like me to go into a consumptionasArabella Hawley did.  And you know that I never change my mind."

Again papawas silent.

"Promisemepapathat you will consent to what we wish. We shall never giveeach other up; and you know that you have always objected to longcourtships and late marriages."

There wasa little more urgency of this kindtill Mr. Vincy said"Wellwellchildhe must write to me first before I car answer him"--and Rosamond was certain that she had gained her point.

Mr.Vincy's answer consisted chiefly in a demand that Lydgate shouldinsure his life--a demand immediately conceded.  This was adelightfully reassuring idea supposing that Lydgate diedbut in themean time not a self-supporting idea.  Howeverit seemed tomake everything comfortable about Rosamond's marriage; and thenecessary purchases went on with much spirit.  Not withoutprudential considerationshowever.  A bride (who is going tovisit at a baronet's) must have a few first-ratepocket-handkerchiefs; but beyond the absolutely necessary half-dozenRosamond contented herself without the very highest style ofembroidery and Valenciennes. Lydgate alsofinding that his sum ofeight hundred pounds had been considerably reduced since he had cometo Middlemarchrestrained his inclination for some plate of an oldpattern which was shown to him when he went into Kibble'sestablishment at Brassing to buy forks and spoons.  He was tooproud to act as if he presupposed that Mr. Vincy would advance moneyto provide furniture-; and thoughsince it would not be necessary topay for everything at oncesome bills would be left standing overhe did not waste time in conjecturing how much his father-in-lawwould give in the form of dowryto make payment easy.  He wasnot going to do anything extravagantbut the requisite things mustbe boughtand it would be bad economy to buy them of a poorquality.  All these matters were by the bye. Lydgate foresawthat science and his profession were the objects he should alonepursue enthusiastically; but he could not imagine himself pursuingthem in such a home as Wrench had--the doors all openthe oil-clothwornthe children in soiled pinaforesand lunch lingering in theform of bonesblack-handled knivesand willow-pattern. But Wrenchhad a wretched lymphatic wife who made a mummy of herself indoors ina large shawl; and he must have altogether begun with an ill-chosendomestic apparatus.

Rosamondhoweverwas on her side much occupied with conjecturesthough herquick imitative perception warned her against betraying them toocrudely.

"Ishall like so much to know your family" she said one daywhenthe wedding journey was being discussed.  "We might perhapstake a direction that would allow us to see them as we returned.Which of your uncles do you like best?"

"Oh--myuncle GodwinI think.  He is a good-natured old fellow."

"Youwere constantly at his house at Quallinghamwhen you were a boywere you not?  I should so like to see the old spot andeverything you were used to.  Does he know you are going to bemarried?"

"No"said Lydgatecarelesslyturning in his chair and rubbing his hairup.

"Dosend him word of ityou naughty undutiful nephew.  He willperhaps ask you to take me to Quallingham; and then you could show meabout the groundsand I could imagine you there when you were aboy.  Rememberyou see me in my homejust as it has been sinceI was a child.  It is not fair that I should be so ignorant ofyours. But perhaps you would be a little ashamed of me.  Iforgot that."

Lydgatesmiled at her tenderlyand really accepted the suggestion that theproud pleasure of showing so charming a bride was worth sometrouble.  And now he came to think of ithe would like to seethe old spots with Rosamond.

"Iwill write to himthen.  But my cousins are bores."

It seemedmagnificent to Rosamond to be able to speak so slightingly of abaronet's familyand she felt much contentment in the prospect ofbeing able to estimate them contemptuously on her own account.

But mammawas near spoiling alla day or two laterby saying--

"Ihope your uncle Sir Godwin will not look down on RosyMr. Lydgate. Ishould think he would do something handsome.  A thousand or twocan be nothing to a baronet."

"Mamma!"said Rosamondblushing deeply; and Lydgate pitied her so much thathe remained silent and went to the other end of the room to examine aprint curiouslyas if he had been absent-minded. Mamma had a littlefilial lecture afterwardsand was docile as usual. But Rosamondreflected that if any of those high-bred cousins who were boresshould be induced to visit Middlemarchthey would see many things inher own family which might shock them.  Hence it seemeddesirable that Lydgate should by-and-by get some first-rate positionelsewhere than in Middlemarch; and this could hardly be difficult inthe case of a man who had a titled uncle and could make discoveries. Lydgateyou perceivehad talked fervidly to Rosamond of his hopesas to the highest uses of his lifeand had found it delightful to belistened to by a creature who would bring him the sweet furtheranceof satisfying affection--beauty--repose--such help as our thoughtsget from the summer sky and the flower-fringed meadows.

Lydgaterelied much on the psychological difference between what for the sakeof variety I will call goose and gander: especially on the innatesubmissiveness of the goose as beautifully corresponding to thestrength of the gander.

CHAPTERXXXVII

  "Thrice happy she that is so well assured
   Untoherself and settled so in heart
   That neither will forbetter be allured
   Ne fears to worse with any chanceto start
   But like a steddy ship doth stronglypart
   The raging waves and keeps her course aright;
  Ne aught for tempest doth from it depart
   Ne aughtfor fairer weather's false delight.
   Suchself-assurance need not fear the spight

 

  Ofgrudging foes; ne favour seek of friends;
   But in thestay of her own stedfast might
   Neither to one herselfnor other bends.
   Most happy she that most assureddoth rest
   But he most happy who such one lovesbest."
   --SPENSER.

The doubthinted by Mr. Vincy whether it were only the general election or theend of the world that was coming onnow that George the Fourth wasdeadParliament dissolvedWellington and Peel generally depreciatedand the new King apologeticwas a feeble type of the uncertaintiesin provincial opinion at that time. With the glow-worm lights ofcountry placeshow could men see which were their own thoughts inthe confusion of a Tory Ministry passing Liberal measuresof Torynobles and electors being anxious to return Liberals rather thanfriends of the recreant Ministersand of outcries for remedies whichseemed to have a mysteriously remote bearing on private interestandwere made suspicious by the advocacy of disagreeable neighbors? Buyers of the Middlemarch newspapers found themselves in an anomalousposition:  during the agitation on the Catholic Question manyhad given up the "Pioneer"--which had a motto from CharlesJames Fox and was in the van of progress-- because it had takenPeel's side about the Papistsand had thus blotted its Liberalismwith a toleration of Jesuitry and Baal; but they were illsatisfiedwith the "Trumpet" which--since its blasts against Romeand in the general flaccidity of the public mind (nobody knowing whowould support whom)--had become feeble in its blowing.

It was atimeaccording to a noticeable article in the "Pioneer"when the crying needs of the country might well counteract areluctance to public action on the part of men whose minds had fromlong experience acquired breadth as well as concentrationdecisionof judgment as well as tolerancedispassionateness as well asenergy-- in factall those qualities which in the melancholyexperience of mankind have been the least disposed to share lodgings.

Mr.Hackbuttwhose fluent speech was at that time floating more widelythan usualand leaving much uncertainty as to its ultimate channelwas heard to say in Mr. Hawley's office that the article in question"emanated" from Brooke of Tiptonand that Brooke hadsecretly bought the "Pioneer" some months ago.

"Thatmeans mischiefeh?" said Mr. Hawley.  "He's got thefreak of being a popular man nowafter dangling about like a straytortoise. So much the worse for him.  I've had my eye on him forsome time. He shall be prettily pumped upon.  He's a damned badlandlord. What business has an old county man to come currying favorwith a low set of dark-blue freemen?  As to his paperI onlyhope he may do the writing himself.  It would be worth ourpaying for."

"Iunderstand he has got a very brilliant young fellow to edit itwhocan write the highest style of leading articlequite equal toanything in the London papers.  And he means to take very highground on Reform."

"LetBrooke reform his rent-roll. He's a cursed old screwand thebuildings all over his estate are going to rack. I sup pose thisyoung fellow is some loose fish from London."

"Hisname is Ladislaw.  He is said to be of foreign extraction."

"Iknow the sort" said Mr. Hawley; "some emissary. He'll begin with flourishing about the Rights of Man and end withmurdering a wench. That's the style."

"Youmust concede that there are abusesHawley" said Mr. Hackbuttforeseeing some political disagreement with his family lawyer. "Imyself should never favor immoderate views--in fact I take my standwith Huskisson--but I cannot blind myself to the consideration thatthe non-representation of large towns--"

"Largetowns be damned!" said Mr. Hawleyimpatient of exposition. "Iknow a little too much about Middlemarch elections.  Let 'emquash every pocket borough to-morrowand bring in every mushroomtown in the kingdom--they'll only increase the expense of gettinginto Parliament.  I go upon facts."

Mr.Hawley's disgust at the notion of the "Pioneer" beingedited by an emissaryand of Brooke becoming actively political-- asif a tortoise of desultory pursuits should protrude its small headambitiously and become rampant--was hardly equal to the annoyancefelt by some members of Mr. Brooke's own family. The result had oozedforth graduallylike the discovery that your neighbor has set up anunpleasant kind of manufacture which will be permanently under yournostrils without legal remedy.  The "Pioneer" had beensecretly bought even before Will Ladislaw's arrivalthe expectedopportunity having offered itself in the readiness of the proprietorto part with a valuable property which did not pay; and in theinterval since Mr. Brooke had written his invitationthose germinalideas of making his mind tell upon the world at large which had beenpresent in him from his younger yearsbut had hitherto lain in someobstructionhad been sprouting under cover.

Thedevelopment was much furthered by a delight in his guest which provedgreater even than he had anticipated.  For it seemed that Willwas not only at home in all those artistic and literary subjectswhich Mr. Brooke had gone into at one timebut that he wasstrikingly ready at seizing the points of the political situationand dealing with them in that large spirit whichaided by adequatememorylends itself to quotation and general effectiveness oftreatment.

"Heseems to me a kind of Shelleyyou know" Mr. Brooke took anopportunity of sayingfor the gratification of Mr. Casaubon. "Idon't mean as to anything objectionable--laxities or atheismoranything of that kindyou know--Ladislaw's sentiments in every way Iam sure are good--indeedwe were talking a great deal together lastnight.  But he has the same sort of enthusiasm for libertyfreedomemancipation--a fine thing under guidance-- under guidanceyou know.  I think I shall be able to put him on the right tack;and I am the more pleased because he is a relation of yoursCasaubon."

If theright tack implied anything more precise than the rest of Mr.Brooke's speechMr. Casaubon silently hoped that it referred to someoccupation at a great distance from Lowick. He had disliked Willwhile he helped himbut he had begun to dislike him still more nowthat Will had declined his help.  That is the way with us whenwe have any uneasy jealousy in our disposition: if our talents arechiefly of the burrowing kindour honey-sipping cousin (whom we havegrave reasons for objecting to) is likely to have a secret contemptfor usand any one who admires him passes an oblique criticism onourselves.  Having the scruples of rectitude in our soulsweare above the meanness of injuring him-- rather we meet all hisclaims on us by active benefits; and the drawing of cheeks for himbeing a superiority which he must recognizegives our bitterness amilder infusion.  Now Mr. Casaubon had been deprived of thatsuperiority (as anything more than a remembrance) in a suddencapricious manner.  His antipathy to Will did not spring fromthe common jealousy of a winter-worn husband: it was somethingdeeperbred by his lifelong claims and discontents; but Dorotheanow that she was present--Dorotheaas a young wife who herself hadshown an offensive capability of criticismnecessarily gaveconcentration to the uneasiness which had before been vague.

WillLadislaw on his side felt that his dislike was flourishing at theexpense of his gratitudeand spent much inward discourse injustifying the dislike.  Casaubon hated him--he knew that verywell; on his first entrance he could discern a bitterness in themouth and a venom in the glance which would almost justify declaringwar in spite of past benefits.  He was much obliged to Casaubonin the pastbut really the act of marrying this wife was a set-offagainst the obligation It was a question whether gratitude whichrefers to what is done for one's self ought not to give way toindignation at what is done against another.  And Casaubon haddone a wrong to Dorothea in marrying her.  A man was bound toknow himself better than thatand if he chose to grow gray crunchingbones in a cavernhe had no business to be luring a girl into hiscompanionship. "It is the most horrible of virgin-sacrifices"said Will; and he painted to himself what were Dorothea's inwardsorrows as if he had been writing a choric wail.  But he wouldnever lose sight of her: he would watch over her--if he gave upeverything else in life he would watch over herand she should knowthat she had one slave in the worldWill had--to use Sir ThomasBrowne's phrase-- a "passionate prodigality" of statementboth to himself and others. The simple truth was that nothing theninvited him so strongly as the presence of Dorothea.

Invitationsof the formal kind had been wantinghoweverfor Will had never beenasked to go to Lowick.  Mr. Brookeindeedconfident of doingeverything agreeable which Casaubonpoor fellowwas too muchabsorbed to think ofhad arranged to bring Ladislaw to Lowickseveral times (not neglecting meanwhile to introduce him elsewhere onevery opportunity as "a young relative of Casaubon's"). Andthough Will had not seen Dorothea alonetheir interviews had beenenough to restore her former sense of young companionship with onewho was cleverer than herselfyet seemed ready to be swayed by her.Poor Dorothea before her marriage had never found much room in otherminds for what she cared most to say; and she had notas we knowenjoyed her husband's superior instruction so much as she hadexpected.  If she spoke with any keenness of interest to Mr.Casaubonhe heard her with an air of patience as if she had given aquotation from the Delectus familiar to him from his tender yearsand sometimes mentioned curtly what ancient sects or personages hadheld similar ideasas if there were too much of that sort in stockalready; at other times he would inform her that she was mistakenand reassert what her remark had questioned.

But WillLadislaw always seemed to see more in what she said than she herselfsaw.  Dorothea had little vanitybut she had the ardent woman'sneed to rule beneficently by making the joy of another soul. Hencethe mere chance of seeing Will occasionally was like a lunette openedin the wall of her prisongiving her a glimpse of the sunny air; andthis pleasure began to nullify her original alarm at what her husbandmight think about the introduction of Will as her uncle's guest. Onthis subject Mr. Casaubon had remained dumb.

But Willwanted to talk with Dorothea aloneand was impatient of slowcircumstance.  However slight the terrestrial intercoursebetween Dante and Beatrice or Petrarch and Lauratime changes theproportion of thingsand in later days it is preferable to havefewer sonnets and more conversation.  Necessity excusedstratagembut stratagem was limited by the dread of offendingDorothea. He found out at last that he wanted to take a particularsketch at Lowick; and one morning when Mr. Brooke had to drive alongthe Lowick road on his way to the county townWill asked to be setdown with his sketch-book and camp-stool at Lowickand withoutannouncing himself at the Manor settled himself to sketch in aposition where he must see Dorothea if she came out to walk-- and heknew that she usually walked an hour in the morning.

But thestratagem was defeated by the weather.  Clouds gathered withtreacherous quicknessthe rain came downand Will was obliged totake shelter in the house.  He intendedon the strength ofrelationshipto go into the drawing-room and wait there withoutbeing announced; and seeing his old acquaintance the butler in thehallhe said"Don't mention that I am herePratt; I will waittill luncheon; I know Mr. Casaubon does not like to be disturbed whenhe is in the library."

"Masteris outsir; there's only Mrs. Casaubon in the library. I'd bettertell her you're heresir" said Pratta red-cheeked man givento lively converse with Tantrippand often agreeing with her that itmust be dull for Madam.

"Ohvery well; this confounded rain has hindered me from sketching"said Willfeeling so happy that he affected indifference withdelightful ease.

In anotherminute he was in the libraryand Dorothea was meeting him with hersweet unconstrained smile.

"Mr.Casaubon has gone to the Archdeacon's" she saidat once. "Idon't know whether he will be at home again long before dinner. Hewas uncertain how long he should be.  Did you want to sayanything particular to him?"

"No;I came to sketchbut the rain drove me in.  Else I would nothave disturbed you yet.  I supposed that Mr. Casaubon was hereand I know he dislikes interruption at this hour."

"I amindebted to the rainthen.  I am so glad to see you."Dorothea uttered these common words with the simple sincerity of anunhappy childvisited at school.

"Ireally came for the chance of seeing you alone" said Willmysteriously forced to be just as simple as she was.  He couldnot stay to ask himselfwhy not?  "I wanted to talk aboutthingsas we did in Rome.  It always makes a difference whenother people are present."

"Yes"said Dorotheain her clear full tone of assent.  "Sitdown." She seated herself on a dark ottoman with the brown booksbehind herlooking in her plain dress of some thin woollen-whitematerialwithout a single ornament on her besides her wedding-ringas if she were under a vow to be different from all other women; andWill sat down opposite her at two yards' distancethe light fallingon his bright curls and delicate but rather petulant profilewithits defiant curves of lip and chin.  Each looked at the other asif they had been two flowers which had opened then and there.Dorothea for the moment forgot her husband's mysterious irritationagainst Will:  it seemed fresh water at her thirsty lips tospeak without fear to the one person whom she had found receptive;for in looking backward through sadness she exaggerated a pastsolace.

"Ihave often thought that I should like to talk to you again" shesaidimmediately.  "It seems strange to me how many thingsI said to you."

"Iremember them all" said Willwith the unspeakable content inhis soul of feeling that he was in the presence of a creature worthyto be perfectly loved.  I think his own feelings at that momentwere perfectfor we mortals have our divine momentswhen love issatisfied in the completeness the beloved object.

"Ihave tried to learn a great deal since we were in Rome" saidDorothea.  "I can read Latin a littleand I am beginningto understand just a little Greek.  I can help Mr. Casaubonbetter now. I can find out references for him and save his eyes inmany ways. But it is very difficult to be learned; it seems as ifpeople were worn out on the way to great thoughtsand can neverenjoy them because they are too tired."

"If aman has a capacity for great thoughtshe is likely to overtake thembefore he is decrepit" said Willwith irrepressible quickness.But through certain sensibilities Dorothea was as quick as heandseeing her face changehe addedimmediately"But it is quitetrue that the best minds have been sometimes overstrained in workingout their ideas."

"Youcorrect me" said Dorothea.  "I expressed myself ill.I should have said that those who have great thoughts get too muchworn in working them out.  I used to feel about thateven whenI was a little girl; and it always seemed to me that the use I shouldlike to make of my life would be to help some one who did greatworksso that his burthen might be lighter."

Dorotheawas led on to this bit of autobiography without any sense of making arevelation.  But she had never before said anything to Willwhich threw so strong a light on her marriage. He did not shrug hisshoulders; and for want of that muscular outlet he thought the moreirritably of beautiful lips kissing holy skulls and other emptinessesecclesiastically enshrined. Also he had to take care that his speechshould not betray that thought.

"Butyou may easily carry the help too far" he said"and getover-wrought yourself.  Are you not too much shut up?  Youalready look paler.  It would be better for Mr. Casaubon to havea secretary; he could easily get a man who would do half his work forhim. It would save him more effectuallyand you need only help himin lighter ways."

"Howcan you think of that?" said Dorotheain a tone of earnestremonstrance.  "I should have no happiness if I did nothelp him in his work.  What could I do?  There is no goodto be done in Lowick.  The only thing I desire is to help himmore. And he objects to a secretary:  please not to mention thatagain."

"Certainlynotnow I know your feeling.  But I have heard both Mr. Brookeand Sir James Chettam express the same wish."

"Yes?"said Dorothea"but they don't understand--they want me to be agreat deal on horsebackand have the garden altered and newconservatoriesto fill up my days.  I thought you couldunderstand that one's mind has other wants" she addedratherimpatiently-- "besidesMr. Casaubon cannot bear to hear of asecretary."

"Mymistake is excusable" said Will.  "In old days I usedto hear Mr. Casaubon speak as if he looked forward to having asecretary. Indeed he held out the prospect of that office to me. But I turned out to be--not good enough for it."

Dorotheawas trying to extract out of this an excuse for her husband's evidentrepulsionas she saidwith a playful smile"You were not asteady worker enough."

"No"said Willshaking his head backward somewhat after the manner ofa-spirited horse.  And thenthe old irritable demon promptinghim to give another good pinch at the moth-wings of poor Mr.Casaubon's gloryhe went on"And I have seen since that Mr.Casaubon does not like any one to overlook his work.  and knowthoroughly what he is doing.  He is too doubtful--too uncertainof himself.  I may not be good for muchbut he dislikes mebecause I disagree with him."

Will wasnot without his intentions to be always generousbut our tongues arelittle triggers which have usually been pulled before generalintentions can be brought to bear.  And it was too intolerablethat Casaubon's dislike of him should not be fairly accounted for toDorothea.  Yet when he had spoken he was rather uneasy as to theeffect on her.

ButDorothea was strangely quiet--not immediately indignantas she hadbeen on a like occasion in Rome.  And the cause lay deep. Shewas no longer struggling against the perception of factsbutadjusting herself to their clearest perception; and now when shelooked steadily at her husband's failurestill more at his possibleconsciousness of failureshe seemed to be looking along the onetract where duty became tenderness.  Will's want of reticencemight have been met with more severityif he had not already beenrecommended to her mercy by her husband's dislikewhich must seemhard to her till she saw better reason for it.

She didnot answer at oncebut after looking down ruminatingly she saidwith some earnestness"Mr. Casaubon must have overcome hisdislike of you so far as his actions were concerned: and that isadmirable."

"Yes;he has shown a sense of justice in family matters. It was anabominable thing that my grandmother should have been disinheritedbecause she made what they called a mesalliancethough there wasnothing to be said against her husband except that he was a Polishrefugee who gave lessons for his bread."

"Iwish I knew all about her!" said Dorothea.  "I wonderhow she bore the change from wealth to poverty:  I wonderwhether she was happy with her husband!  Do you know much aboutthem?"

"No;only that my grandfather was a patriot--a bright fellow-- could speakmany languages--musical--got his bread by teaching all sorts ofthings.  They both died rather early.  And I never knewmuch of my fatherbeyond what my mother told me; but he inheritedthe musical talents.  I remember his slow walk and his long thinhands; and one day remains with me when he was lying illand I wasvery hungryand had only a little bit of bread."

"Ahwhat a different life from mine!" said Dorotheawith keeninterestclasping her hands on her lap.  "I have alwayshad too much of everything.  But tell me how it was-- Mr.Casaubon could not have known about you then."

"No;but my father had made himself known to Mr. Casaubonand that was mylast hungry day.  My father died soon afterand my mother and Iwere well taken care of.  Mr. Casaubon always expresslyrecognized it as his duty to take care of us because of the harshinjustice which had been shown to his mother's sister. But now I amtelling you what is not new to you."

In hisinmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell Dorothea what wasrather new even in his own construction of things-- namelythat Mr.Casaubon had never done more than pay a debt towards him.  Willwas much too good a fellow to be easy under the sense of beingungrateful.  And when gratitude has become a matter of reasoningthere are many ways of escaping from its bonds.

"No"answered Dorothea; "Mr. Casaubon has always avoided dwelling onhis own honorable actions."  She did not feel that herhusband's conduct was depreciated; but this notion of what justicehad required in his relations with Will Ladislaw took strong hold onher mind. After a moment's pauseshe added"He had never toldme that he supported your mother.  Is she still living?"

"No;she died by an accident--a fall--four years ago.  It is curiousthat my mothertooran away from her familybut not for the sakeof her husband.  She never would tell me anything about herfamilyexcept that she forsook them to get her own living--went onthe stagein fact.  She was a dark-eyed creaturewith crispringletsand never seemed to be getting old.  You see I come ofrebellious blood on both sides" Will endedsmiling brightly atDorotheawhile she was still looking with serious intentness beforeherlike a child seeing a drama for the first time.

But herfacetoobroke into a smile as she said"That is yourapologyI supposefor having yourself been rather rebellious; Imeanto Mr. Casaubon's wishes.  You must remember that you havenot done what he thought best for you.  And if he dislikes you--you were speaking of dislike a little while ago--but I should rathersayif he has shown any painful feelings towards youyou mustconsider how sensitive he has become from the wearing effect ofstudy.  Perhaps" she continuedgetting into a pleadingtone"my uncle has not told you how serious Mr. Casaubon'sillness was. It would be very petty of us who are well and can bearthingsto think much of small offences from those who carry a weightof trial."

"Youteach me better" said Will.  "I will never grumble onthat subject again."  There was a gentleness in his tonewhich came from the unutterable contentment of perceiving--whatDorothea was hardly conscious of--that she was travelling into theremoteness of pure pity and loyalty towards her husband.  Willwas ready to adore her pity and loyaltyif she would associatehimself with her in manifesting them.  "I have reallysometimes been a perverse fellow" he went on"but I willnever againif I can help itdo or say what you would disapprove."

"Thatis very good of you" said Dorotheawith another open smile. "Ishall have a little kingdom thenwhere I shall give laws. But youwill soon go awayout of my ruleI imagine.  You will soon betired of staying at the Grange."

"Thatis a point I wanted to mention to you--one of the reasons why Iwished to speak to you alone.  Mr. Brooke proposes that I shouldstay in this neighborhood.  He has bought one of the Middlemarchnewspapersand he wishes me to conduct thatand also to help him inother ways."

"Wouldnot that be a sacrifice of higher prospects for you?" saidDorothea.

"Perhaps;but I have always been blamed for thinking of prospectsand notsettling to anything.  And here is something offered to me. Ifyou would not like me to accept itI will give it up. Otherwise Iwould rather stay in this part of the country than go away. I belongto nobody anywhere else."

"Ishould like you to stay very much" said Dorotheaat onceassimply and readily as she had spoken at Rome.  There was not theshadow of a reason in her mind at the moment why she should not sayso.

"ThenI WILL stay" said Ladislawshaking his head backwardrisingand going towards the windowas if to see whether the rain hadceased.

But thenext momentDorotheaaccording to a habit which was gettingcontinually strongerbegan to reflect that her husband feltdifferently from herselfand she colored deeply under the doubleembarrassment of having expressed what might be in opposition to herhusband's feelingand of having to suggest this opposition to Will.If is face was not turned towards herand this made it easier tosay--

"Butmy opinion is of little consequence on such a subject. I think youshould be guided by Mr. Casaubon.  I spoke without thinking ofanything else than my own feelingwhich has nothing to do with thereal question.  But it now occurs to me-- perhaps Mr. Casaubonmight see that the proposal was not wise. Can you not wait now andmention it to him?"

"Ican't wait to-day" said Willinwardly seared by thepossibility that Mr. Casaubon would enter.  "The rain isquite over now.  I told Mr. Brooke not to call for me:  Iwould rather walk the five miles. I shall strike across HalsellCommonand see the gleams on the wet grass.  I like that."

Heapproached her to shake hands quite hurriedlylonging but not daringto say"Don't mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon." Nohedared notcould not say it.  To ask her to be less simple anddirect would be like breathing on the crystal that you want to seethe light through.  And there was always the other great dread--of himself becoming dimmed and forever ray-shorn in her eyes.

"Iwish you could have stayed" said Dorotheawith a touch ofmournfulnessas she rose and put out her hand.  She also hadher thought which she did not like to express:--Will certainly oughtto lose no time in consulting Mr. Casaubon's wishesbut for her tourge this might seem an undue dictation.

So theyonly said "Good-by" and Will quitted the housestrikingacross the fields so as not to run any risk of encountering Mr.Casaubon's carriagewhichhoweverdid not appear at the gate untilfour o'clock. That was an unpropitious hour for coming home: it wastoo early to gain the moral support under ennui of dressing hisperson for dinnerand too late to undress his mind of the day'sfrivolous ceremony and affairsso as to be prepared for a goodplunge into the serious business of study.  On such occasions heusually threw into an easy-chair in the libraryand allowed Dorotheato read the London papers to himclosing his eyes the while. To-dayhoweverhe declined that reliefobserving that he had already hadtoo many public details urged upon him; but he spoke more cheerfullythan usualwhen Dorothea asked about his fatigueand added withthat air of formal effort which never forsook him even when he spokewithout his waistcoat and cravat--

"Ihave had the gratification of meeting my former acquaintanceDr.Spanningto-dayand of being praised by one who is himself a worthyrecipient of praise.  He spoke very handsomely of my latetractate on the Egyptian Mysteries--usingin factterms which itwould not become me to repeat."  In uttering the lastclauseMr. Casaubon leaned over the elbow of his chairand swayedhis head up and downapparently as a muscular outlet instead of thatrecapitulation which would not have been becoming.

"I amvery glad you have had that pleasure" said Dorotheadelightedto see her husband less weary than usual at this hour. "Beforeyou came I had been regretting that you happened to be out to-day."

"Whysomy dear?" said Mr. Casaubonthrowing himself backwardagain.

"BecauseMr. Ladislaw has been here; and he has mentioned a proposal of myuncle's which I should like to know your opinion of." Herhusband she felt was really concerned in this question. Even with herignorance of the world she had a vague impression that the positionoffered to Will was out of keeping with his family connectionsandcertainly Mr. Casaubon had a claim to be consulted. He did not speakbut merely bowed.

"Dearuncleyou knowhas many projects.  It appears that he hasbought one of the Middlemarch newspapersand he has asked Mr.Ladislaw to stay in this neighborhood and conduct the paper for himbesides helping him in other ways."

Dorothealooked at her husband while she spokebut he had at first blinkedand finally closed his eyesas if to save them; while his lipsbecame more tense.  "What is your opinion?" she addedrather timidlyafter a slight pause.

"DidMr. Ladislaw come on purpose to ask my opinion?" said Mr.Casaubonopening his eyes narrowly with a knife-edged look atDorothea. She was really uncomfortable on the point he inquiredaboutbut she only became a little more seriousand her eyes didnot swerve.

"No"she answered immediately"he did not say that he came to askyour opinion.  But when he mentioned the proposalhe of courseexpected me to tell you of it."

Mr.Casaubon was silent.

"Ifeared that you might feel some objection.  But certainly ayoung man with so much talent might be very useful to my uncle--might help him to do good in a better way.  And Mr. Ladislawwishes to have some fixed occupation.  He has been blamedhesaysfor not seeking something of that kindand he would like tostay in this neighborhood because no one cares for him elsewhere."

Dorotheafelt that this was a consideration to soften her husband. Howeverhedid not speakand she presently recurred to Dr. Spanning and theArchdeacon's breakfast.  But there was no longer sunshine onthese subjects.

The nextmorningwithout Dorothea's knowledgeMr. Casaubon despatched thefollowing letterbeginning "Dear Mr. Ladislaw" (he hadalways before addressed him as "Will"):--

"Mrs.Casaubon informs me that a proposal has been made to youand(according to an inference by no means stretched) has on your partbeen in some degree entertainedwhich involves your residence inthis neighborhood in a capacity which I am justified in sayingtouches my own position in such a way as renders it not only naturaland warrantable IN me when that effect is viewed under the influenceof legitimate feelingbut incumbent on me when the same effect isconsidered in the light of my responsibilitiesto state at once thatyour acceptance of the proposal above indicated would be highlyoffensive to me.  That I have some claim to the exercise of aveto herewould notI believebe denied by any reasonable personcognizant of the relations between us:  relations whichthoughthrown into the past by your recent procedureare not therebyannulled in their character of determining antecedents. I will nothere make reflections on any person's judgment. It is enough for meto point out to yourself that there are certain social fitnesses andproprieties which should hinder a somewhat near relative of mine frombecoming any wise conspicuous in this vicinity in a status not onlymuch beneath my ownbut associated at best with the sciolism ofliterary or political adventurers. At any ratethe contrary issuemust exclude you from further reception at my house.
  Yours faithfully
   "EDWARD CASAUBON."

MeanwhileDorothea's mind was innocently at work towards the furtherembitterment of her husband; dwellingwith a sympathy that grew toagitationon what Will had told her about his parents andgrandparents. Any private hours in her day were usually spent in herblue-green boudoirand she had come to be very fond of its pallidquaintness. Nothing had been outwardly altered there; but while thesummer had gradually advanced over the western fields beyond theavenue of elmsthe bare room had gathered within it those memoriesof an inward life which fill the air as with a cloud of good or hadangelsthe invisible yet active forms of our spiritual triumphs orour spiritual falls. She had been so used to struggle for and to findresolve in looking along the avenue towards the arch of western lightthat the vision itself had gained a communicating power.  Eventhe pale stag seemed to have reminding glances and to mean mutely"Yeswe know." And the group of delicately touchedminiatures had made an audience as of beings no longer disturbedabout their own earthly lotbut still humanly interested. Especially the mysterious "Aunt Julia" about whom Dorotheahad never found it easy to question her husband.

And nowsince her conversation with Willmany fresh images had gatheredround that Aunt Julia who was Will's grandmother; the presence ofthat delicate miniatureso like a living face that she knewhelpingto concentrate her feelings.  What a wrongto cut off the girlfrom the family protection and inheritance only because she hadchosen a man who was poor!  Dorotheaearly troubling her elderswith questions about the facts around herhad wrought herself intosome independent clearness as to the historicalpolitical reasonswhy eldest sons had superior rightsand why land should beentailed:  those reasonsimpressing her with a certain awemight be weightier than she knewbut here was a question of tieswhich left them uninfringed.  Here was a daughter whose child--even according to the ordinary aping of aristocratic institutions bypeople who are no more aristocratic than retired grocersand whohave no more land to "keep together" than a lawn and apaddock-- would have a prior claim.  Was inheritance a questionof liking or of responsibility?  All the energy of Dorothea'snature went on the side of responsibility--the fulfilment of claimsfounded on our own deedssuch as marriage and parentage.

It wastrueshe said to herselfthat Mr. Casaubon had a debt to theLadislaws--that he had to pay back what the Ladislaws had beenwronged of.  And now she began to think of her husband's willwhich had been made at the time of their marriageleaving the bulkof his property to herwith proviso in case of her having children.That ought to be altered; and no time ought to be lost.  Thisvery question which had just arisen about Will Ladislaw's occupationwas the occasion for placing things on a newright footing. Herhusbandshe felt sureaccording to all his previous conductwouldbe ready to take the just viewif she proposed it--shein whoseinterest an unfair concentration of the property had been urged. Hissense of right had surmounted and would continue to surmount anythingthat might be called antipathy.  She suspected that her uncle'sscheme was disapproved by Mr. Casaubonand this made it seem all themore opportune that a fresh understanding should be begunso thatinstead of Will's starting penniless and accepting the first functionthat offered itselfhe should find himself in possession of arightful income which should be paid by her husband during his lifeandby an immediate alteration of the willshould be secured at hisdeath.  The vision of all this as what ought to be done seemedto Dorothea like a sudden letting in of daylightwaking her from herprevious stupidity and incurious self-absorbed ignorance about herhusband's relation to others.  Will Ladislaw had refused Mr.Casaubon's future aid on a ground that no longer appeared right toher; and Mr. Casaubon had never himself seen fully what was the claimupon him.  "But he will!" said Dorothea. "Thegreat strength of his character lies here.  And what are wedoing with our money?  We make no use of half of our income. My own money buys me nothing but an uneasy conscience."

There wasa peculiar fascination for Dorothea in this division of propertyintended for herselfand always regarded by her as excessive. Shewas blindyou seeto many things obvious to others-- likely totread in the wrong placesas Celia had warned her; yet her blindnessto whatever did not lie in her own pure purpose carried her safely bythe side of precipices where vision would have been perilous withfear.

Thethoughts which had gathered vividness in the solitude of her boudoiroccupied her incessantly through the day on which Mr. Casaubon hadsent his letter to Will.  Everything seemed hindrance to hertill she could find an opportunity of opening her heart to herhusband. To his preoccupied mind all subjects were to be approachedgentlyand she had never since his illness lost from herconsciousness the dread of agitating him.  Bat when young ardoris set brooding over the conception of a prompt deedthe deed itselfseems to start forth with independent lifemastering idealobstacles. The day passed in a sombre fashionnot unusualthoughMr. Casaubon was perhaps unusually silent; but there were hours ofthe night which might be counted on as opportunities of conversation;for Dorotheawhen aware of her husband's sleeplessnesshadestablished a habit of risinglighting a candleand reading him tosleep again.  And this night she was from the beginningsleeplessexcited by resolves. He slept as usual for a few hoursbut she had risen softly and had sat in the darkness for nearly anhour before he said--

"Dorotheasince you are upwill you light a candle?"

"Doyou feel illdear?" was her first questionas she obeyed him.

"Nonot at all; but I shall be obligedsince you are upif you willread me a few pages of Lowth."

"MayI talk to you a little instead?" said Dorothea.

"Certainly."

"Ihave been thinking about money all day--that I have always had toomuchand especially the prospect of too much."

"Thesemy dear Dorotheaare providential arrangements."

"Butif one has too much in consequence of others being wrongedit seemsto me that the divine voice which tells us to set that wrong rightmust be obeyed."

"Whatmy loveis the bearing of your remark?"

"Thatyou have been too liberal in arrangements for me--I meanwith regardto property; and that makes me unhappy."

"Howso?  I have none but comparatively distant connections."

"Ihave been led to think about your aunt Juliaand how she was left inpoverty only because she married a poor manan act which was notdisgracefulsince he was not unworthy.  It was on that groundI knowthat you educated Mr. Ladislaw and provided for his mother."

Dorotheawaited a few moments for some answer that would help her onward. Nonecameand her next words seemed the more forcible to herfallingclear upon the dark silence.

"Butsurely we should regard his claim as a much greater oneeven to thehalf of that property which I know that you have destined for me. AndI think he ought at once to be provided for on that understanding. Itis not right that he should be in the dependence of poverty while weare rich.  And if there is any objection to the proposal hementionedthe giving him his true place and his true share would setaside any motive for his accepting it."

"Mr.Ladislaw has probably been speaking to you on this subject?"said Mr. Casaubonwith a certain biting quickness not habitual tohim.

"Indeedno!" said Dorotheaearnestly.  "How can you imagineitsince he has so lately declined everything from you?  I fearyou think too hardly of himdear.  He only told me a littleabout his parents and grandparentsand almost all in answer to myquestions. You are so goodso just--you have done everything youthought to be right.  But it seems to me clear that more thanthat is right; and I must speak about itsince I am the person whowould get what is called benefit by that `more' not being done."

There wasa perceptible pause before Mr. Casaubon repliednot quickly asbeforebut with a still more biting emphasis.

"Dorotheamy lovethis is not the first occasionbut it were well that itshould be the laston which you have assumed a judgment on subjectsbeyond your scope.  Into the question how far conductespecially in the matter of alliancesconstitutes a forfeiture offamily claimsI do not now enter.  Suffice itthat you are nothere qualified to discriminate.  What I now wish you tounderstand isthat I accept no revisionstill less dictation withinthat range of affairs which I have deliberated upon as distinctly andproperly mine.  It is not for you to interfere between me andMr. Ladislawand still less to encourage communications from him toyou which constitute a criticism on my procedure."

PoorDorotheashrouded in the darknesswas in a tumult of conflictingemotions.  Alarm at the possible effect on himself of herhusband's strongly manifested angerwould have checked anyexpression of her own resentmenteven if she had been quite freefrom doubt and compunction under the consciousness that there mightbe some justice in his last insinuation.  Hearing him breathequickly after he had spokenshe sat listeningfrightenedwretched--with a dumb inward cry for help to bear this nightmare of alife in which every energy was arrested by dread.  But nothingelse happenedexcept that they both remained a long while sleeplesswithout speaking again.

The nextdayMr. Casaubon received the following answer from Will Ladislaw:--

"DEARMR. CASAUBON--I have given all due consideration to your letter ofyesterdaybut I am unable to take precisely your view of our mutualposition.  With the fullest acknowledgment of your generousconduct to me in the pastI must still maintain that an obligationof this kind cannot fairly fetter me as you appear to expect that itshould.  Granted that a benefactor's wishes may constitute aclaim; there must always be a reservation as to the quality of thosewishes. They may possibly clash with more imperative considerations.Or a benefactor's veto might impose such a negation on a man's lifethat the consequent blank might be more cruel than the benefactionwas generous.  I am merely using strong illustrations.  Inthe present case I am unable to take your view of the bearing whichmy acceptance of occupation--not enriching certainlybut notdishonorable-- will have on your own position which seems to me toosubstantial to be affected in that shadowy manner.  And though Ido not believe that any change in our relations will occur (certainlynone has yet occurred) which can nullify the obligations imposed onme by the pastpardon me for not seeing that those obligationsshould restrain me from using the ordinary freedom of living where Ichooseand maintaining myself by any lawful occupation I may choose.Regretting that there exists this difference between us as to arelation in which the conferring of benefits has been entirely onyour side--
   I remainyours with persistentobligation
   WILL LADISLAW."

Poor Mr.Casaubon felt (and must not webeing impartialfeel with him alittle?) that no man had juster cause for disgust and suspicion thanhe.  Young Ladislawhe was suremeant to defy and annoy himmeant to win Dorothea's confidence and sow her mind with disrespectand perhaps aversiontowards her husband.  Some motive beneaththe surface had been needed to account for Will's sudden change of inrejecting Mr. Casaubon's aid and quitting his travels; and thisdefiant determination to fix himself in the neighborhood by taking upsomething so much at variance with his former choice as Mr. Brooke'sMiddlemarch projectsrevealed clearly enough that the undeclaredmotive had relation to Dorothea.  Not for one moment did Mr.Casaubon suspect Dorothea of any doubleness:  he had nosuspicions of herbut he had (what was little less uncomfortable)the positive knowledge that her tendency to form opinions about herhusband's conduct was accompanied with a disposition to regard WillLadislaw favorably and be influenced by what he said. His own proudreticence had prevented him from ever being undeceived in thesupposition that Dorothea had originally asked her uncle to inviteWill to his house.

And nowon receiving Will's letterMr. Casaubon had to consider his duty. He would never have been easy to call his action anything else thanduty; but in this casecontending motives thrust him back intonegations.

Should heapply directly to Mr. Brookeand demand of that troublesomegentleman to revoke his proposal?  Or should he consult SirJames Chettamand get him to concur in remonstrance against a stepwhich touched the whole family?  In either case Mr. Casaubon wasaware that failure was just as probable as success.  It wasimpossible for him to mention Dorothea's name in the matterandwithout some alarming urgency Mr. Brooke was as likely as notaftermeeting all representations with apparent assentto wind up bysaying"Never fearCasaubon! Depend upon ityoung Ladislawwill do you credit.  Depend upon itI have put my finger on theright thing."  And Mr. Casaubon shrank nervously fromcommunicating on the subject with Sir James Chettambetween whom andhimself there had never been any cordialityand who wouldimmediately think of Dorothea without any mention of her.

Poor Mr.Casaubon was distrustful of everybody's feeling towards himespecially as a husband.  To let any one suppose that he wasjealous would be to admit their (suspected) view of hisdisadvantages: to let them know that he did not find marriageparticularly blissful would imply his conversion to their (probably)earlier disapproval. It would be as bad as letting CarpandBrasenose generallyknow how backward he was in organizing thematter for his "Key to all Mythologies."  All throughhis life Mr. Casaubon had been trying not to admit even to himselfthe inward sores of self-doubt and jealousy.  And on the mostdelicate of all personal subjectsthe habit of proud suspiciousreticence told doubly.

Thus Mr.Casaubon remained proudlybitterly silent.  But he hadforbidden Will to come to Lowick Manorand he was mentally preparingother measures of frustration.

CHAPTERXXXVIII

"C'estbeaucoup que le jugement des hommes sur les actions humaines;

totou tard il devient efficace."--GUIZOT.

Sir JamesChettam could not look with any satisfaction on Mr. Brooke's newcourses; but it was easier to object than to hinder. Sir Jamesaccounted for his having come in alone one day to lunch with theCadwalladers by saying--

"Ican't talk to you as I wantbefore Celia:  it might hurt her.Indeedit would not be right."

"Iknow what you mean--the `Pioneer' at the Grange!" darted in Mrs.Cadwalladeralmost before the last word was off her friend'stongue.  "It is frightful--this taking to buying whistlesand blowing them in everybody's hearing.  Lying in bed all dayand playing at dominoeslike poor Lord Plessywould be more privateand bearable."

"Isee they are beginning to attack our friend Brooke in the `Trumpet'"said the Rectorlounging back and smiling easilyas he would havedone if he had been attacked himself.  "There aretremendous sarcasms against a landlord not a hundred miles fromMiddlemarchwho receives his own rentsand makes no returns."

"I dowish Brooke would leave that off" said Sir Jameswith hislittle frown of annoyance.

"Ishe really going to be put in nominationthough?" said Mr.Cadwallader.  "I saw Farebrother yesterday-- he's Whiggishhimselfhoists Brougham and Useful Knowledge; that's the worst Iknow of him;--and he says that Brooke is getting up a pretty strongparty.  Bulstrodethe bankeris his foremost man.  But hethinks Brooke would come off badly at a nomination."

"Exactly"said Sir Jameswith earnestness.  "I have been inquiringinto the thingfor I've never known anything about Middlemarchpolitics before--the county being my business.  What Brooketrusts tois that they are going to turn out Oliver because he is aPeelite. But Hawley tells me that if they send up a Whig at all it issure to be Bagsterone of those candidates who come from heavenknows wherebut dead against Ministersand an experiencedParliamentary man. Hawley's rather rough:  he forgot that he wasspeaking to me. He said if Brooke wanted a peltinghe could get itcheaper than by going to the hustings."

"Iwarned you all of it" said Mrs. Cadwalladerwaving her handsoutward.  "I said to Humphrey long agoMr. Brooke is goingto make a splash in the mud.  And now he has done it."

"Wellhe might have taken it into his head to marry" said the Rector."That would have been a graver mess than a little flirtationwith politics."

"Hemay do that afterwards" said Mrs. Cadwallader--"when hehas come out on the other side of the mud with an ague."

"WhatI care for most is his own dignity" said Sir James. "Ofcourse I care the more because of the family.  But he's gettingon in life nowand I don't like to think of his exposing himself.They will be raking up everything against him."

"Isuppose it's no use trying any persuasion" said the Rector."There's such an odd mixture of obstinacy and changeableness inBrooke. Have you tried him on the subject?"

"Wellno" said Sir James; "I feel a delicacy in appearing todictate. But I have been talking to this young Ladislaw that Brookeis making a factotum of.  Ladislaw seems clever enough foranything. I thought it as well to hear what he had to say; and he isagainst Brooke's standing this time.  I think he'll turn himround: I think the nomination may be staved off."

"Iknow" said Mrs. Cadwalladernodding.  "Theindependent member hasn't got his speeches well enough by heart."

"Butthis Ladislaw--there again is a vexatious business" said SirJames.  "We have had him two or three times to dine at theHall (you have met himby the bye) as Brooke's guest and a relationof Casaubon'sthinking he was only on a flying visit. And now I findhe's in everybody's mouth in Middlemarch as the editor of the`Pioneer.'  There are stories going about him as a quill-drivingaliena foreign emissaryand what not."

"Casaubonwon't like that" said the Rector.

"ThereIS some foreign blood in Ladislaw" returned Sir James. "Ihope he won't go into extreme opinions and carry Brooke on."

"Ohhe's a dangerous young sprigthat Mr. Ladislaw" said Mrs.Cadwallader"with his opera songs and his ready tongue. A sortof Byronic hero--an amorous conspiratorit strikes me. And ThomasAquinas is not fond of him.  I could see thatthe day thepicture was brought."

"Idon't like to begin on the subject with Casaubon" said SirJames. "He has more right to interfere than I. But it's adisagreeable affair all round.  What a character for anybodywith decent connections to show himself in!--one of those newspaperfellows! You have only to look at Keckwho manages the `Trumpet.' Isaw him the other day with Hawley.  His writing is sound enoughI believebut he's such a low fellowthat I wished he had been onthe wrong side."

"Whatcan you expect with these peddling Middlemarch papers?" said theRector.  "I don't suppose you could get a high style of mananywhere to be writing up interests he doesn't really care aboutandfor pay that hardly keeps him in at elbows."

"Exactly: that makes it so annoying that Brooke should have put a man who has asort of connection with the family in a position of that kind. For my partI think Ladislaw is rather a fool for accepting."

"Itis Aquinas's fault" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "Whydidn't he use his interest to get Ladislaw made an attache or sent toIndia? That is how families get rid of troublesome sprigs."

"Thereis no knowing to what lengths the mischief may go" said SirJamesanxiously.  "But if Casaubon says nothingwhat canI do?"

"Ohmy dear Sir James" said the Rector"don't let us make toomuch of all this.  It is likely enough to end in mere smoke.After a month or two Brooke and this Master Ladislaw will get tiredof each other; Ladislaw will take wing; Brooke will sell the`Pioneer' and everything will settle down again as usual."

"Thereis one good chance--that he will not like to feel his money oozingaway" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "If I knew the items ofelection expenses I could scare him.  It's no use plying himwith wide words like Expenditure:  I wouldn't talk ofphlebotomyI would empty a pot of leeches upon him.  What wegood stingy people don't likeis having our sixpences sucked awayfrom us."

"Andhe will not like having things raked up against him" said SirJames.  "There is the management of his estate.  theyhave begun upon that already.  And it really is painful for meto see. It is a nuisance under one's very nose.  I do think oneis bound to do the best for one's land and tenantsespecially inthese hard times."

"Perhapsthe `Trumpet' may rouse him to make a changeand some good may comeof it all" said the Rector.  "I know I should beglad. I should hear less grumbling when my tithe is paid.  Idon't know what I should do if there were not a modus in Tipton."

"Iwant him to have a proper man to look after things--I want him totake on Garth again" said Sir James.  "He got rid ofGarth twelve years agoand everything has been going wrong since. Ithink of getting Garth to manage for me--he has made such a capitalplan for my buildings; and Lovegood is hardly up to the mark. ButGarth would not undertake the Tipton estate again unless Brooke leftit entirely to him."

"Inthe right of it too" said the Rector.  "Garth is anindependent fellow:  an originalsimple-minded fellow. One daywhen he was doing some valuation for mehe told mepoint-blank that clergymen seldom understood anything about businessand did mischief when they meddled; but he said it as quietly andrespectfully as if he had been talking to me about sailors.  Hewould make a different parish of Tiptonif Brooke would let himmanage. I wishby the help of the `Trumpet' you could bring thatround."

"IfDorothea had kept near her unclethere would have been some chance"said Sir James.  "She might have got some power over him intimeand she was always uneasy about the estate. She had wonderfullygood notions about such things.  But now Casaubon takes her upentirely.  Celia complains a good deal. We can hardly get her todine with ussince he had that fit." Sir James ended with alook of pitying disgustand Mrs. Cadwallader shrugged her shouldersas much as to say that SHE was not likely to see anything new in thatdirection.

"PoorCasaubon!" the Rector said.  "That was a nasty attack.I thought he looked shattered the other day at the Archdeacon's."

"Inpoint of fact" resumed Sir Jamesnot choosing to dwell on"fits" "Brooke doesn't mean badly by his tenants orany one elsebut he has got that way of paring and clipping atexpenses."

"Comethat's a blessing" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "Thathelps him to find himself in a morning.  He may not know his ownopinionsbut he does know his own pocket."

"Idon't believe a man is in pocket by stinginess on his land"said Sir James.

"Ohstinginess may be abused like other virtues:  it will not do tokeep one's own pigs lean" said Mrs. Cadwalladerwho had risento look out of the window.  "But talk of an independentpolitician and he will appear."

"What! Brooke?" said her husband.

"Yes. Nowyou ply him with the `Trumpet' Humphrey; and I will put theleeches on him.  What will you doSir James?"

"Thefact isI don't like to begin about it with Brookein our mutualposition; the whole thing is so unpleasant.  I do wish peoplewould behave like gentlemen" said the good baronetfeelingthat this was a simple and comprehensive programme for socialwell-being.

"Hereyou all areeh?" said Mr. Brookeshuffling round and shakinghands.  "I was going up to the Hall by-and-byChettam. Butit's pleasant to find everybodyyou know.  Wellwhat do youthink of things?--going on a little fast!  It was true enoughwhat Lafitte said--`Since yesterdaya century has passed away:'--they're in the next centuryyou knowon the other side of thewater. Going on faster than we are."

"Whyyes" said the Rectortaking up the newspaper.  "Hereis the `Trumpet' accusing you of lagging behind--did you see?"

"Eh?no" said Mr. Brookedropping his gloves into his hat andhastily adjusting his eye-glass. But Mr. Cadwallader kept the paperin his handsayingwith a smile in his eyes--

"Lookhere! all this is about a landlord not a hundred miles fromMiddlemarchwho receives his own rents. They say he is the mostretrogressive man in the county. I think you must have taught themthat word in the `Pioneer.'"

"Ohthat is Keek--an illiterate fellowyou know.  Retrogressivenow! Comethat's capital.  He thinks it means destructive: they want to make me out a destructiveyou know" said Mr.Brookewith that cheerfulness which is usually sustained by anadversary's ignorance.

"Ithink he knows the meaning of the word.  Here is a sharp strokeor two.  If we had to describe a man who is retrogressive in themost evil sense of the word--we should sayhe is one who would dubhimself a reformer of our constitutionwhile every interest forwhich he is immediately responsible is going to decay: aphilanthropist who cannot bear one rogue to be hangedbut does notmind five honest tenants being half-starved: a man who shrieks atcorruptionand keeps his farms at rack-rent: who roars himself redat rotten boroughsand does not mind if every field on his farms hasa rotten gate:  a man very open-hearted to Leeds and Manchesterno doubt; he would give any number of representatives who will payfor their seats out of their own pockets:  what he objects togivingis a little return on rent-days to help a tenant to buystockor an outlay on repairs to keep the weather out at a tenant'sbarn-door or make his house look a little less like an Irishcottier's. But we all know the wag's definition of a philanthropist: a man whose charity increases directly as the square of the distance.And so on. All the rest is to show what sort of legislator aphilanthropist is likely to make" ended the Rectorthrowingdown the paperand clasping his hands at the back of his headwhilehe looked at Mr. Brooke with an air of amused neutrality.

"Comethat's rather goodyou know" said Mr. Brooketaking up thepaper and trying to bear the attack as easily as his neighbor didbut coloring and smiling rather nervously; "that about roaringhimself red at rotten boroughs--I never made a speech about rottenboroughs in my life.  And as to roaring myself red and that kindof thing-- these men never understand what is good satire. Satireyou knowshould be true up to a certain point.  Irecollect they said that in `The Edinburgh' somewhere--it must betrue up to a certain point."

"Wellthat is really a hit about the gates" said Sir Jamesanxiousto tread carefully.  "Dagley complained to me the other daythat he hadn't got a decent gate on his farm.  Garth hasinvented a new pattern of gate--I wish you would try it.  Oneought to use some of one's timber in that way."

"Yougo in for fancy farmingyou knowChettam" said Mr. Brookeappearing to glance over the columns of the "Trumpet.""That's your hobbyand you don't mind the expense."

"Ithought the most expensive hobby in the world was standing forParliament" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "They said thelast unsuccessful candidate at Middlemarch--Gileswasn't his name?--spent ten thousand pounds and failed because he did not bribe enough.What a bitter reflection for a man!"

"Somebodywas saying" said the Rectorlaughingly"that EastRetford was nothing to Middlemarchfor bribery."

"Nothingof the kind" said Mr. Brooke.  "The Tories bribeyouknow:  Hawley and his set bribe with treatinghot codlingsandthat sort of thing; and they bring the voters drunk to the poll. Butthey are not going to have it their own way in future-- not infutureyou know.  Middlemarch is a little backwardI admit--the freemen are a little backward.  But we shall educate them--we shall bring them onyou know.  The best people there are onour side."

"Hawleysays you have men on your side who will do you harm" remarkedSir James.  "He says Bulstrode the banker will do youharm."

"Andthat if you got pelted" interposed Mrs. Cadwallader"halfthe rotten eggs would mean hatred of your committee-man. Goodheavens! Think what it must be to be pelted for wrong opinions. And I seem to remember a story of a man they pretended to chair andlet him fall into a dust-heap on purpose!"

"Peltingis nothing to their finding holes in one's coat" said theRector.  "I confess that's what I should be afraid ofifwe parsons had to stand at the hustings for preferment. I should beafraid of their reckoning up all my fishing days. Upon my wordIthink the truth is the hardest missile one can be pelted with."

"Thefact is" said Sir James"if a man goes into public lifehe must be prepared for the consequences.  He must make himselfproof against calumny."

"Mydear Chettamthat is all very fineyou know" said Mr. Brooke."But how will you make yourself proof against calumny?  Youshould read history--look at ostracismpersecutionmartyrdomandthat kind of thing.  They always happen to the best menyouknow. But what is that in Horace?--'fiat justitiaruat . . .something or other."

"Exactly"said Sir Jameswith a little more heat than usual. "What I meanby being proof against calumny is being able to point to the fact asa contradiction."

"Andit is not martyrdom to pay bills that one has run into one's self"said Mrs. Cadwallader.

But it wasSir James's evident annoyance that most stirred Mr. Brooke. "Wellyou knowChettam" he saidrisingtaking up his hat andleaning on his stick"you and I have a different system. Youare all for outlay with your farms.  I don't want to make outthat my system is good under all circumstances--under allcircumstancesyou know."

"Thereought to be a new valuation made from time to time" said SirJames.  "Returns are very well occasionallybut I like afair valuation.  What do you sayCadwallader?"

"Iagree with you.  If I were BrookeI would choke the `Trumpet'at once by getting Garth to make a new valuation of the farmsandgiving him carte blanche about gates and repairs: that's my view ofthe political situation" said the Rectorbroadening himself bysticking his thumbs in his armholesand laughing towards Mr. Brooke.

"That'sa showy sort of thing to doyou know" said Mr. Brooke. "ButI should like you to tell me of another landlord who has distressedhis tenants for arrears as little as I have.  I let the oldtenants stay on.  I'm uncommonly easylet me tell youuncommonly easy.  I have my own ideasand I take my stand onthemyou know.  A man who does that is always charged witheccentricityinconsistencyand that kind of thing.  When Ichange my line of actionI shall follow my own ideas."

AfterthatMr. Brooke remembered that there was a packet which he hadomitted to send off from the Grangeand he bade everybody hurriedlygood-by.

"Ididn't want to take a liberty with Brooke" said Sir James; "Isee he is nettled.  But as to what he says about old tenantsinpoint of fact no new tenant would take the farms on the presentterms."

"Ihave a notion that he will be brought round in time" said theRector.  "But you were pulling one wayElinorand we werepulling another.  You wanted to frighten him away from expenseand we want to frighten him into it.  Better let him try to bepopular and see that his character as a landlord stands in his way. Idon't think it signifies two straws about the `Pioneer' or Ladislawor Brooke's speechifying to the Middlemarchers. But it does signifyabout the parishioners in Tipton being comfortable."

"Excusemeit is you two who are on the wrong tack" said Mrs.Cadwallader.  "You should have proved to him that he losesmoney by bad managementand then we should all have pulled together.If you put him a-horseback on politicsI warn you of theconsequences. It was all very well to ride on sticks at home and callthem ideas."

CHAPTERXXXIX

  "Ifas I haveyou also doe
   Vertue attired inwoman see
   And dare love thatand say so too
  And forget the He and She;

  And if this lovethough placed so
   From prophane menyou hide
   Which will no faith on this bestow
  Orif they doederide:

  Then you have done a braver thing
   Than all theWorthies did
   And a braver thence will spring
  Which isto keep that hid."
   --DR. DONNE.

Sir JamesChettam's mind was not fruitful ill devicesbut his growing anxietyto "act on Brooke" once brought close to his constantbelief in Dorothea's capacity for influencebecame formativeandissued in a little plan; namelyto plead Celia's indisposition as areason for fetching Dorothea by herself to the Halland to leave herat the Grange with the carriage on the wayafter making her fullyaware of the situation concerning the management of the estate.

In thisway it happened that one day near four o'clockwhen Mr. Brooke andLadislaw were seated in the librarythe door opened and Mrs.Casaubon was announced.

Willthemoment beforehad been low in the depths of boredomandobliged tohelp Mr. Brooke in arranging "documents" about hangingsheep-stealerswas exemplifying the power our minds have of ridingseveral horses at once by inwardly arranging measures towards gettinga lodging for himself in Middlemarch and cutting short his constantresidence at the Grange; while there flitted through all thesesteadier images a tickling vision of a sheep-stealing epic writtenwith Homeric particularity.  When Mrs. Casaubon was announced hestarted up as from an electric shockand felt a tingling at hisfinger-ends. Any one observing him would have seen a change in hiscomplexionin the adjustment of his facial musclesin the vividnessof his glancewhich might have made them imagine that every moleculein his body had passed the message of a magic touch.  And so ithad. For effective magic is transcendent nature; and who shallmeasure the subtlety of those touches which convey the quality ofsoul as well as bodyand make a man's passion for one woman differfrom his passion for another as joy in the morning light over valleyand river and white mountain-top differs from joy among Chineselanterns and glass panels?  Willtoowas made of veryimpressible stuff. The bow of a violin drawn near him cleverlywouldat one stroke change the aspect of the world for himand his pointof view shifted-- as easily as his mood.  Dorothea's entrancewas the freshness of morning.

"Wellmy dearthis is pleasantnow" said Mr. Brookemeeting andkissing her.  "You have left Casaubon with his booksIsuppose. That's right.  We must not have you getting too learnedfor a womanyou know."

"Thereis no fear of thatuncle" said Dorotheaturning to Will andshaking hands with open cheerfulnesswhile she made no other form ofgreetingbut went on answering her uncle.  "I am veryslow. When I want to be busy with booksI am often playing truantamong my thoughts.  I find it is not so easy to be learned as toplan cottages."

She seatedherself beside her uncle opposite to Willand was evidentlypreoccupied with something that made her almost unmindful of him. Hewas ridiculously disappointedas if he had imagined that her cominghad anything to do with him.

"Whyyesmy dearit was quite your hobby to draw plans. But it was goodto break that off a little.  Hobbies are apt to ran away withusyou know; it doesn't do to be run away with. We must keep thereins.  I have never let myself be run away with; I alwayspulled up.  That is what I tell Ladislaw.  He and I arealikeyou know:  he likes to go into everything.  We areworking at capital punishment.  We shall do a great dealtogetherLadislaw and I."

"Yes"said Dorotheawith characteristic directness"Sir James hasbeen telling me that he is in hope of seeing a great change made soonin your management of the estate--that you are thinking of having thefarms valuedand repairs madeand the cottages improvedso thatTipton may look quite another place.  Ohhow happy!"-- shewent onclasping her handswith a return to that more childlikeimpetuous mannerwhich had been subdued since her marriage. "IfI were at home stillI should take to riding againthat I might goabout with you and see all that!  And you are going to engageMr. Garthwho praised my cottagesSir James says."

"Chettamis a little hastymy dear" said Mr. Brookecoloring slightly;"a little hastyyou know.  I never said I should doanything of the kind.  I never said I should NOT do ityouknow."

"Heonly feels confident that you will do it" said Dorotheain avoice as clear and unhesitating as that of a young chorister chantinga credo"because you mean to enter Parliament as a member whocares for the improvement of the peopleand one of the first thingsto be made better is the state of the land and the laborers. Think ofKit Downesunclewho lives with his wife and seven children in ahouse with one sitting room and one bedroom hardly larger than thistable!--and those poor Dagleysin their tumble-down farmhousewherethey live in the back kitchen and leave the other rooms to the rats! That is one reason why I did not like the pictures heredearuncle--which you think me stupid about.  I used to come from thevillage with all that dirt and coarse ugliness like a pain within meand the simpering pictures in the drawing-room seemed to me like awicked attempt to find delight in what is falsewhile we don't mindhow hard the truth is for the neighbors outside our walls. I think wehave no right to come forward and urge wider changes for gooduntilwe have tried to alter the evils which lie under our own hands."

Dorotheahad gathered emotion as she went onand had forgotten everythingexcept the relief of pouring forth her feelingsunchecked: anexperience once habitual with herbut hardly ever present since hermarriagewhich had been a perpetual struggle of energy with fear.For the momentWill's admiration was accompanied with a chillingsense of remoteness.  A man is seldom ashamed of feeling that hecannot love a woman so well when he sees a certain greatness in her:nature having intended greatness for men.  But nature hassometimes made sad oversights in carrying out her intention; as inthe case of good Mr. Brookewhose masculine consciousness was atthis moment in rather a stammering condition under the eloquence ofhis niece. He could not immediately find any other mode of expressinghimself than that of risingfixing his eye-glassand fingering thepapers before him.  At last he said--

"Thereis something in what you saymy dearsomething in what you say--butnot everything--ehLadislaw?  You and I don't like our picturesand statues being found fault with. Young ladies are a little ardentyou know--a little one-sidedmy dear.  Fine artpoetrythatkind of thingelevates a nation-- emollit mores--you understand alittle Latin now.  But--eh? what?"

Theseinterrogatives were addressed to the footman who had come in to saythat the keeper had found one of Dagley's boys with a leveret in hishand just killed.

"I'llcomeI'll come.  I shall let him off easilyyou know"said Mr. Brooke aside to Dorotheashuffling away very cheerfully.

"Ihope you feel how right this change is that I--that Sir James wishesfor" said Dorothea to Willas soon as her uncle was gone.

"Idonow I have heard you speak about it.  I shall not forgetwhat you have said.  But can you think of something else at thismoment? I may not have another opportunity of speaking to you aboutwhat has occurred" said Willrising with a movement ofimpatienceand holding the back of his chair with both hands.

"Praytell me what it is" said Dorotheaanxiouslyalso rising andgoing to the open windowwhere Monk was looking inpanting andwagging his tail.  She leaned her back against the window-frameand laid her hand on the dog's head; for thoughas we knowshe wasnot fond of pets that must be held in the hands or trodden onshewas always attentive to the feelings of dogsand very polite if shehad to decline their advances.

Willfollowed her only with his eyes and said"I presume you knowthat Mr. Casaubon has forbidden me to go to his house."

"NoI did not" said Dorotheaafter a moment's pause.  She wasevidently much moved.  "I am veryvery sorry" sheaddedmournfully. She was thinking of what Will had no knowledgeof--the conversation between her and her husband in the darkness; andshe was anew smitten with hopelessness that she could influence Mr.Casaubon's action. But the marked expression of her sorrow convincedWill that it was not all given to him personallyand that Dorotheahad not been visited by the idea that Mr. Casaubon's dislike andjealousy of him turned upon herself.  He felt an odd mixture ofdelight and vexation: of delight that he could dwell and be cherishedin her thought as in a pure homewithout suspicion and withoutstint--of vexation because he was of too little account with herwasnot formidable enoughwas treated with an unhesitating benevolencewhich did not flatter him. But his dread of any change in Dorotheawas stronger than his discontentand he began to speak again in atone of mere explanation.

"Mr.Casaubon's reason ishis displeasure at my taking a position herewhich he considers unsuited to my rank as his cousin. I have told himthat I cannot give way on this point.  It is a little too hardon me to expect that my course in life is to be hampered byprejudices which I think ridiculous.  Obligation may bestretched till it is no better than a brand of slavery stamped on uswhen we were too young to know its meaning.  I would not haveaccepted the position if I had not meant to make it useful andhonorable. I am not bound to regard family dignity in any otherlight."

Dorotheafelt wretched.  She thought her husband altogether in the wrongon more grounds than Will had mentioned.

"Itis better for us not to speak on the subject" she saidwith atremulousness not common in her voice"since you and Mr.Casaubon disagree.  You intend to remain?"  She waslooking out on the lawnwith melancholy meditation.

"Yes;but I shall hardly ever see you now" said Willin a tone ofalmost boyish complaint.

"No"said Dorotheaturning her eyes full upon him"hardly ever. ButI shall hear of you.  I shall know what you are doing for myuncle."

"Ishall know hardly anything about you" said Will.  "Noone will tell me anything."

"Ohmy life is very simple" said Dorotheaher lips curling with anexquisite smilewhich irradiated her melancholy. "I am alwaysat Lowick."

"Thatis a dreadful imprisonment" said Willimpetuously.

"Nodon't think that" said Dorothea.  "I have nolongings."

He did notspeakbut she replied to some change in his expression. "Imeanfor myself.  Except that I should like not to have so muchmore than my share without doing anything for others.  But Ihave a belief of my ownand it comforts me."

"Whatis that?" said Willrather jealous of the belief.

"Thatby desiring what is perfectly goodeven when we don't quite knowwhat it is and cannot do what we wouldwe are part of the divinepower against evil--widening the skirts of light and making thestruggle with darkness narrower."

"Thatis a beautiful mysticism--it is a--"

"Pleasenot to call it by any name" said Dorotheaputting out herhands entreatingly.  "You will say it is Persianorsomething else geographical.  It is my life.  I have foundit outand cannot part with it.  I have always been finding outmy religion since I was a little girl.  I used to pray somuch--now I hardly ever pray. I try not to have desires merely formyselfbecause they may not be good for othersand I have too muchalready.  I only told youthat you might know quite well how mydays go at Lowick."

"Godbless you for telling me!" said Willardentlyand ratherwondering at himself.  They were looking at each other like twofond children who were talking confidentially of birds.

"Whatis YOUR religion?" said Dorothea.  "I mean--not whatyou know about religionbut the belief that helps you most?"

"Tolove what is good and beautiful when I see it" said Will. "ButI am a rebel:  I don't feel boundas you doto submit to whatI don't like."

"Butif you like what is goodthat comes to the same thing" saidDorotheasmiling.

"Nowyou are subtle" said Will.

"Yes;Mr. Casaubon often says I am too subtle.  I don't feel as if Iwere subtle" said Dorotheaplayfully.  "But how longmy uncle is! I must go and look for him.  I must really go on tothe Hall. Celia is expecting me."

Willoffered to tell Mr. Brookewho presently came and said that he wouldstep into the carriage and go with Dorothea as far as Dagley'stospeak about the small delinquent who had been caught with theIeveret.  Dorothea renewed the subject of the estate as theydrove alongbut Mr. Brookenot being taken unawaresgot the talkunder his own control.

"Chettamnow" he replied; "he finds fault with memy dear; but Ishould not preserve my game if it were not for Chettamand he can'tsay that that expense is for the sake of the tenantsyou know. It's a little against my feeling:--poachingnowif you come to lookinto it--I have often thought of getting up the subject. Not longagoFlavellthe Methodist preacherwas brought up for knockingdown a hare that came across his path when he and his wife werewalking out together.  He was pretty quickand knocked it onthe neck."

"Thatwas very brutalI think" said Dorothea

"Wellnowit seemed rather black to meI confessin a Methodistpreacheryou know.  And Johnson said`You may judge what ahypoCRITE he is.'  And upon my wordI thought Flavell lookedvery little like `the highest style of man'-- as somebody calls theChristian--Youngthe poet YoungI think-- you know Young? WellnowFlavell in his shabby black gaiterspleading that hethought the Lord had sent him and his wife a good dinnerand he hada right to knock it downthough not a mighty hunter before the Lordas Nimrod was--I assure you it was rather comic: Fielding would havemade something of it--or Scottnow--Scott might have worked it up. But reallywhen I came to think of itI couldn't help liking thatthe fellow should have a bit of hare to say grace over.  It'sall a matter of prejudice--prejudice with the law on its sideyouknow--about the stick and the gaitersand so on.  Howeveritdoesn't do to reason about things; and law is law.  But I gotJohnson to be quietand I hushed the matter up. I doubt whetherChettam would not have been more severeand yet he comes down on meas if I were the hardest man in the county. But here we are atDagley's."

Mr. Brookegot down at a farmyard-gateand Dorothea drove on. It is wonderfulhow much uglier things will look when we only suspect that we areblamed for them.  Even our own persons in the glass are apt tochange their aspect for us after we have heard some frank remark ontheir less admirable points; and on the other hand it is astonishinghow pleasantly conscience takes our encroachments on those who nevercomplain or have nobody to complain for them. Dagley's homesteadnever before looked so dismal to Mr. Brooke as it did todaywith hismind thus sore about the fault-finding of the "Trumpet"echoed by Sir James.

It is truethat an observerunder that softening influence of the fine artswhich makes other people's hardships picturesquemight have beendelighted with this homestead called Freeman's End: the old house haddormer-windows in the dark red rooftwo of the chimneys were chokedwith ivythe large porch was blocked up with bundles of sticksandhalf the windows were closed with gray worm-eaten shutters aboutwhich the jasmine-boughs grew in wild luxuriance; the moulderinggarden wall with hollyhocks peeping over it was a perfect study ofhighly mingled subdued colorand there was an aged goat (keptdoubtless on interesting superstitious grounds) lying against theopen back-kitchen door. The mossy thatch of the cow-shedthe brokengray barn-doorsthe pauper laborers in ragged breeches who hadnearly finished unloading a wagon of corn into the barn ready forearly thrashing; the scanty dairy of cows being tethered for milkingand leaving one half of the shed in brown emptiness; the very pigsand white ducks seeming to wander about the uneven neglected yard asif in low spirits from feeding on a too meagre quality of rinsings--all these objects under the quiet light of a sky marbled with highclouds would have made a sort of picture which we have all pausedover as a "charming bit" touching other sensibilities thanthose which are stirred by the depression of the agriculturalinterestwith the sad lack of farming capitalas seen constantly inthe newspapers of that time.  But these troublesome associationswere just now strongly present to Mr. Brookeand spoiled the scenefor him.  Mr. Dagley himself made a figure in the landscapecarrying a pitchfork and wearing his milking-hat--a very old beaverflattened in front.  His coat and breeches were the best he hadand he would not have been wearing them on this weekday occasion ifhe had not been to market and returned later than usualhaving givenhimself the rare treat of dining at the public table of the BlueBull.  How he came to fall into this extravagance would perhapsbe matter of wonderment to himself on the morrow; but before dinnersomething in the state of the countrya slight pause in the harvestbefore the Far Dips were cutthe stories about the new King and thenumerous handbills on the wallshad seemed to warrant a littlerecklessness.  It was a maxim about Middlemarchand regarded asself-evidentthat good meat should have good drinkwhich lastDagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well followed up byrum-and-water. These liquors have so far truth in them that they werenot false enough to make poor Dagley seem merry: they only made hisdiscontent less tongue-tied than usual. He had also taken too much inthe shape of muddy political talka stimulant dangerously disturbingto his farming conservatismwhich consisted in holding that whateverisis badand any change is likely to be worse.  He wasflushedand his eyes had a decidedly quarrelsome stare as he stoodstill grasping his pitchforkwhile the landlord approached with hiseasy shuffling walkone hand in his trouser-pocket and the otherswinging round a thin walking-stick.

"Dagleymy good fellow" began Mr. Brookeconscious that he was goingto be very friendly about the boy.

"OhayI'm a good felleram I?  Thank yesirthank ye"said Dagleywith a loud snarling irony which made Fag the sheep-dogstir from his seat and prick his ears; but seeing Monk enter the yardafter some outside loiteringFag seated himself again in an attitudeof observation.  "I'm glad to hear I'm a good feller."

Mr. Brookereflected that it was market-dayand that his worthy tenant hadprobably been diningbut saw no reason why he should not go onsince he could take the precaution of repeating what he had to say toMrs. Dagley.

"Yourlittle lad Jacob has been caught killing a leveretDagley: I havetold Johnson to lock him up in the empty stable an hour or twojustto frighten himyou know.  But he will be brought homeby-and-bybefore night:  and you'll just look after himwillyouand give him a reprimandyou know?"

"NoI woon't: I'll be dee'd if I'll leather my boy to please you oranybody elsenot if you was twenty landlords istid o' oneand thata bad un."

Dagley'swords were loud enough to summon his wife to the back-kitchendoor--the only entrance ever usedand one always open except in badweather--and Mr. Brookesaying soothingly"WellwellI'llspeak to your wife--I didn't mean beatingyou know" turned towalk to the house.  But Dagleyonly the more inclined to "havehis say" with a gentleman who walked away from himfollowed atoncewith Fag slouching at his heels and sullenly evading some smalland probably charitable advances on the part of Monk.

"Howdo you doMrs. Dagley?" said Mr. Brookemaking some haste. "Icame to tell you about your boy:  I don't want you to give himthe stickyou know."  He was careful to speak quiteplainly this time.

OverworkedMrs. Dagley--a thinworn womanfrom whose life pleasure had soentirely vanished that she had not even any Sunday clothes whichcould give her satisfaction in preparing for church-- had already hada misunderstanding with her husband since he had come homeand wasin low spiritsexpecting the worst. But her husband was beforehandin answering.

"Nonor he woon't hev the stickwhether you want it or no" pursuedDagleythrowing out his voiceas if he wanted it to hit hard."You've got no call to come an' talk about sticks o' theseprimisesas you woon't give a stick tow'rt mending.  Go toMiddlemarch to ax for YOUR charrickter."

"You'dfar better hold your tongueDagley" said the wife"andnot kick your own trough over.  When a man as is father of afamily has been an' spent money at market and made himself the worsefor liquorhe's done enough mischief for one day. But I should liketo know what my boy's donesir."

"Niverdo you mind what he's done" said Dagleymore fiercely"it'smy business to speakan' not yourn.  An' I wull speaktoo.I'll hev my say--supper or no.  An' what I say isas I've livedupo' your ground from my father and grandfather afore mean' hevdropped our money into'tan' me an' my children might lie an' rot onthe ground for top-dressin' as we can't find the money to buyif theKing wasn't to put a stop."

"Mygood fellowyou're drunkyou know" said Mr. Brookeconfidentially but not judiciously.  "Another dayanotherday" he addedturning as if to go.

But Dagleyimmediately fronted himand Fag at his heels growled lowas hismaster's voice grew louder and more insultingwhile Monk also drewclose in silent dignified watch.  The laborers on the wagon werepausing to listenand it seemed wiser to be quite passive than toattempt a ridiculous flight pursued by a bawling man.

"I'mno more drunk nor you arenor so much" said Dagley. "Ican carry my liquoran' I know what I meean.  An' I meean asthe King 'ull put a stop to 'tfor them say it as knows itasthere's to be a Rinformand them landlords as never done the rightthing by their tenants 'ull be treated i' that way as they'll hev toscuttle off.  An' there's them i' Middlemarch knows what theRinform is--an' as knows who'll hev to scuttle.  Says they`Iknow who YOUR landlord is.'  An' says I`I hope you're thebetter for knowin' himI arn't.' Says they`He's a close-fistedun.' `Ay ay' says I. `He's a man for the Rinform' says they. That'swhat they says.  An' I made out what the Rinform were-- an' itwere to send you an' your likes a-scuttlin' an' wi' prettystrong-smellin' things too.  An' you may do as you like nowforI'm none afeard on you.  An' you'd better let my boy aloanan'look to yoursenafore the Rinform has got upo' your back. That's what I'n got to say" concluded Mr. Dagleystriking hisfork into the ground with a firmness which proved inconvenient as hetried to draw it up again.

At thislast action Monk began to bark loudlyand it was a moment for Mr.Brooke to escape.  He walked out of the yard as quickly as hecouldin some amazement at the novelty of his situation. He hadnever been insulted on his own land beforeand had been inclined toregard himself as a general favorite (we are all apt to do sowhenwe think of our own amiability more than of what other people arelikely to want of us). When he had quarrelled with Caleb Garth twelveyears before he had thought that the tenants would be pleased at thelandlord's taking everything into his own hands.

Some whofollow the narrative of his experience may wonder at the midnightdarkness of Mr. Dagley; but nothing was easier in those times thanfor an hereditary farmer of his grade to be ignorantin spitesomehow of having a rector in the twin parish who was a gentleman tothe backbonea curate nearer at hand who preached more learnedlythan the rectora landlord who had gone into everythingespeciallyfine art and social improvementand all the lights of Middlemarchonly three miles off.  As to the facility with which mortalsescape knowledgetry an average acquaintance in the intellectualblaze of Londonand consider what that eligible person for adinner-party would have been if he had learned scant skill in"summing" from the parish-clerk of Tiptonand read achapter in the Bible with immense difficultybecause such names asIsaiah or Apollos remained unmanageable after twice spelling. PoorDagley read a few verses sometimes on a Sunday eveningand the worldwas at least not darker to him than it had been before. Some thingshe knew thoroughlynamelythe slovenly habits of farmingand theawkwardness of weatherstock and cropsat Freeman's End-- so calledapparently by way of sarcasmto imply that a man was free to quit itif he chosebut that there was no earthly "beyond" open tohim.

CHAPTERXL

  Wise in his daily work was he:
   To fruits ofdiligence
   And not to faiths or polity
  He plied his utmost sense.
   These perfect in theirlittle parts
   Whose work is all their prize--
  Without them how could lawsor arts

 

   Or towered cities rise?

Inwatching effectsif only of an electric batteryit is oftennecessary to change our place and examine a particular mixture orgroup at some distance from the point where the movement we areinterested in was set up.  The group I am moving towards is atCaleb Garth's breakfast-table in the large parlor where the maps anddesk were:  fathermotherand five of the children. Mary wasjust now at home waiting for a situationwhile Christythe boy nextto herwas getting cheap learning and cheap fare in Scotlandhavingto his father's disappointment taken to books instead of that sacredcalling "business."

Theletters had come--nine costly lettersfor which the postman had beenpaid three and twopenceand Mr. Garth was forgetting his tea andtoast while he read his letters and laid them open one above theothersometimes swaying his head slowlysometimes screwing up hismouth in inward debatebut not forgetting to cut off a large redseal unbrokenwhich Letty snatched up like an eager terrier.

The talkamong the rest went on unrestrainedlyfor nothing disturbed Caleb'sabsorption except shaking the table when he was writing.

Twoletters of the nine had been for Mary.  After reading themshehad passed them to her motherand sat playing with her tea-spoonabsentlytill with a sudden recollection she returned to her sewingwhich she had kept on her lap during breakfast.

"Ohdon't sewMary!" said Benpulling her arm down.  "Makeme a peacock with this bread-crumb." He had been kneading asmall mass for the purpose.

"NonoMischief!" said Marygood-humoredlywhile she pricked hishand lightly with her needle.  "Try and mould it yourself:you have seen me do it often enough.  I must get this sewingdone. It is for Rosamond Vincy:  she is to be married next weekand she can't be married without this handkerchief."  Maryended merrilyamused with the last notion.

"Whycan't sheMary?" said Lettyseriously interested in thismysteryand pushing her head so close to her sister that Mary nowturned the threatening needle towards Letty's nose.

"Becausethis is one of a dozenand without it there would only be eleven"said Marywith a grave air of explanationso that Letty sank backwith a sense of knowledge.

"Haveyou made up your mindmy dear?" said Mrs. Garthlaying theletters down.

"Ishall go to the school at York" said Mary.  "I amless unfit to teach in a school than in a family.  I like toteach classes best. Andyou seeI must teach:  there isnothing else to be done."

"Teachingseems to me the most delightful work in the world" said Mrs.Garthwith a touch of rebuke in her tone.  "I couldunderstand your objection to it if you had not knowledge enoughMaryor if you disliked children."

"Isuppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we likemother" said Maryrather curtly.  "I am not fond ofa schoolroom:  I like the outside world better. It is a veryinconvenient fault of mine."

"Itmust be very stupid to be always in a girls' school" saidAlfred. "Such a set of nincompoopslike Mrs. Ballard's pupilswalking two and two."

"Andthey have no games worth playing at" said Jim.  "Theycan neither throw nor leap.  I don't wonder at Mary's not likingit."

"Whatis that Mary doesn't likeeh?" said the fatherlooking overhis spectacles and pausing before he opened his next letter.

"Beingamong a lot of nincompoop girls" said Alfred.

"Isit the situation you had heard ofMary?" said Calebgentlylooking at his daughter.

"Yesfather:  the school at York.  I have determined to take it.It is quite the best.  Thirty-five pounds a-yearand extra payfor teaching the smallest strummers at the piano."

"Poorchild!  I wish she could stay at home with usSusan" saidCaleblooking plaintively at his wife.

"Marywould not be happy without doing her duty" said Mrs. Garthmagisteriallyconscious of having done her own.

"Itwouldn't make me happy to do such a nasty duty as that" saidAlfred--at which Mary and her father laughed silentlybut Mrs. Garthsaidgravely--

"Dofind a fitter word than nastymy dear Alfredfor everything thatyou think disagreeable.  And suppose that Mary could help you togo to Mr. Hanmer's with the money she gets?"

"Thatseems to me a great shame.  But she's an old brick" saidAlfredrising from his chairand pulling Mary's head backward tokiss her.

Marycolored and laughedbut could not conceal that the tears werecoming.  Caleblooking on over his spectacleswith the anglesof his eyebrows fallinghad an expression of mingled delight andsorrow as he returned to the opening of his letter; and even Mrs.Garthher lips curling with a calm contentmentallowed thatinappropriate language to pass without correctionalthough Benimmediately took it upand sang"She's an old brickoldbrickold brick!" to a cantering measurewhich he beat outwith his fist on Mary's arm.

But Mrs.Garth's eyes were now drawn towards her husbandwho was already deepin the letter he was reading.  His face had an expression ofgrave surprisewhich alarmed her a littlebut he did not like to bequestioned while he was readingand she remained anxiously watchingtill she saw him suddenly shaken by a little joyous laugh as heturned back to the beginning of the letterand looking at her abovehis spectaclessaidin a low tone"What do you thinkSusan?"

She wentand stood behind himputting her hand on his shoulderwhile theyread the letter together.  It was from Sir James Chettamoffering to Mr. Garth the management of the family estates atFreshitt and elsewhereand adding that Sir James had been requestedby Mr. Brooke of Tipton to ascertain whether Mr. Garth would bedisposed at the same time to resume the agency of the Tiptonproperty. The Baronet added in very obliging words that he himselfwas particularly desirous of seeing the Freshitt and Tipton estatesunder the same managementand he hoped to be able to show that thedouble agency might be held on terms agreeable to Mr. Garthwhom hewould be glad to see at the Hall at twelve o'clock on the followingday.

"Hewrites handsomelydoesn't heSusan?" said Calebturning hiseyes upward to his wifewho raised her hand from his shoulder to hisearwhile she rested her chin on his head.  "Brooke didn'tlike to ask me himselfI can see" he continuedlaughingsilently.

"Hereis an honor to your fatherchildren" said Mrs. Garthlookinground at the five pair of eyesall fixed on the parents. "He isasked to take a post again by those who dismissed him long ago. Thatshows that he did his work wellso that they feel the want of him."

"LikeCincinnatus--hooray!" said Benriding on his chairwith apleasant confidence that discipline was relaxed.

"Willthey come to fetch himmother?" said Lettythinking of theMayor and Corporation in their robes.

Mrs. Garthpatted Letty's head and smiledbut seeing that her husband wasgathering up his letters and likely soon to be out of reach in thatsanctuary "business" she pressed his shoulder and saidemphatically--

"Nowmind you ask fair payCaleb."

"Ohyes" said Calebin a deep voice of assentas if it would beunreasonable to suppose anything else of him.  "It'll cometo between four and five hundredthe two together."  Thenwith a little start of remembrance he said"Marywrite andgive up that school. Stay and help your mother.  I'm as pleasedas Punchnow I've thought of that."

No mannercould have been less like that of Punch triumphant than Caleb'sbuthis talents did not lie in finding phrasesthough he was veryparticular about his letter-writingand regarded his wife as atreasury of correct language.

There wasalmost an uproar among the children nowand Mary held up the cambricembroidery towards her mother entreatinglythat it might be put outof reach while the boys dragged her into a dance. Mrs. Garthinplacid joybegan to put the cups and plates togetherwhile Calebpushing his chair from the tableas if he were going to move to thedeskstill sat holding his letters in his hand and looking on theground meditativelystretching out the fingers of his left handaccording to a mute language of his own.  At last he said--

"It'sa thousand pities Christy didn't take to businessSusan. I shallwant help by-and-by. And Alfred must go off to the engineering-- I'vemade up my mind to that."  He fell into meditation andfinger-rhetoric again for a little whileand then continued: "Ishall make Brooke have new agreements with the tenantsand I shalldraw up a rotation of crops.  And I'll lay a wager we can getfine bricks out of the clay at Bott's corner.  I must look intothat: it would cheapen the repairs.  It's a fine bit of workSusan! A man without a family would be glad to do it for nothing."

"Mindyou don'tthough" said his wifelifting up her finger.

"Nono; but it's a fine thing to come to a man when he's seen into thenature of business:  to have the chance of getting a bit of thecountry into good fettleas they sayand putting men into the rightway with their farmingand getting a bit of good contriving andsolid building done--that those who are living and those who comeafter will be the better for.  I'd sooner have it than afortune. I hold it the most honorable work that is."  HereCaleb laid down his lettersthrust his fingers between the buttonsof his waistcoatand sat uprightbut presently proceeded with someawe in his voice and moving his head slowly aside--"It's a greatgift of GodSusan."

"Thatit isCaleb" said his wifewith answering fervor. "Andit will be a blessing to your children to have had a father who didsuch work:  a father whose good work remains though his name maybe forgotten."  She could not say any more to him thenabout the pay.

In theeveningwhen Calebrather tired with his day's workwas seated insilence with his pocket-book open on his kneewhile Mrs. Garth andMary were at their sewingand Letty in a corner was whispering adialogue with her dollMr. Farebrother came up the orchard walkdividing the bright August lights and shadows with the tufted grassand the apple-tree boughs.  We know that he was fond of hisparishioners the Garthsand had thought Mary worth mentioning toLydgate.  He used to the full the clergyman's privilege ofdisregarding the Middlemarch discrimination of ranksand always toldhis mother that Mrs. Garth was more of a lady than any matron in thetown.  Stillyou seehe spent his evenings at the Vincys'where the matronthough less of a ladypresided over a well-litdrawing-room and whist.  In those days human intercourse was notdetermined solely by respect.  But the Vicar did heartilyrespect the Garthsand a visit from him was no surprise to thatfamily. Nevertheless he accounted for it even while he was shakinghandsby saying"I come as an envoyMrs. Garth:  I havesomething to say to you and Garth on behalf of Fred Vincy.  Thefact ispoor fellow" he continuedas he seated himself andlooked round with his bright glance at the three who were listeningto him"he has taken me into his confidence."

Mary'sheart beat rather quickly:  she wondered how far Fred'sconfidence had gone.

"Wehaven't seen the lad for months" said Caleb.  "Icouldn't think what was become of him."

"Hehas been away on a visit" said the Vicar"because homewas a little too hot for himand Lydgate told his mother that thepoor fellow must not begin to study yet.  But yesterday he cameand poured himself out to me.  I am very glad he didbecause Ihave seen him grow up from a youngster of fourteenand I am so muchat home in the house that the children are like nephews and nieces tome. But it is a difficult case to advise upon.  Howeverhe hasasked me to come and tell you that he is going awayand that he isso miserable about his debt to youand his inability to paythat hecan't bear to come himself even to bid you good by."

"Tellhim it doesn't signify a farthing" said Calebwaving his hand."We've had the pinch and have got over it.  And now I'mgoing to be as rich as a Jew."

"Whichmeans" said Mrs. Garthsmiling at the Vicar"that we aregoing to have enough to bring up the boys well and to keep Mary athome."

"Whatis the treasure-trove?" said Mr. Farebrother.

"I'mgoing to be agent for two estatesFreshitt and Tipton; and perhapsfor a pretty little bit of land in Lowick besides: it's all the samefamily connectionand employment spreads like water if it's once setgoing.  It makes me very happyMr. Farebrother"-- hereCaleb threw back his head a littleand spread his arms on the elbowsof his chair--"that I've got an opportunity again with theletting of the landand carrying out a notion or two withimprovements. It's a most uncommonly cramping thingas I've oftentold Susanto sit on horseback and look over the hedges at the wrongthingand not be able to put your hand to it to make it right. What people do who go into politics I can't think:  it drives mealmost mad to see mismanagement over only a few hundred acres."

It wasseldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speechbut his happiness hadthe effect of mountain air:  his eyes were brightand the wordscame without effort.

"Icongratulate you heartilyGarth" said the Vicar.  "Thisis the best sort of news I could have had to carry to Fred Vincyforhe dwelt a good deal on the injury he had done you in causing you topart with money--robbing you of ithe said--which you wanted forother purposes.  I wish Fred were not such an idle dog; he hassome very good pointsand his father is a little hard upon him."

"Whereis he going?" said Mrs. Garthrather coldly.

"Hemeans to try again for his degreeand he is going up to study beforeterm.  I have advised him to do that.  I don't urge him toenter the Church--on the contrary.  But if he will go and workso as to passthat will be some guarantee that he has energy and awill; and he is quite at sea; he doesn't know what else to do. So far he will please his fatherand I have promised in the meantime to try and reconcile Vincy to his son's adopting some other lineof life. Fred says frankly he is not fit for a clergymanand I woulddo anything I could to hinder a man from the fatal step of choosingthe wrong profession.  He quoted to me what you saidMissGarth-- do you remember it?"  (Mr. Farebrother used to say"Mary" instead of "Miss Garth" but it was partof his delicacy to treat her with the more deference becauseaccording to Mrs. Vincy's phraseshe worked for her bread.)

Mary feltuncomfortablebutdetermined to take the matter lightlyansweredat once"I have said so many impertinent things to Fred-- weare such old playfellows."

"Yousaidaccording to himthat he would be one of those ridiculousclergymen who help to make the whole clergy ridiculous. Reallythatwas so cutting that I felt a little cut myself."

Caleblaughed.  "She gets her tongue from youSusan" hesaidwith some enjoyment.

"Notits flippancyfather" said Maryquicklyfearing that hermother would be displeased.  "It is rather too bad of Fredto repeat my flippant speeches to Mr. Farebrother."

"Itwas certainly a hasty speechmy dear" said Mrs. Garthwithwhom speaking evil of dignities was a high misdemeanor. "Weshould not value our Vicar the less because there was a ridiculouscurate in the next parish."

"There'ssomething in what she saysthough" said Calebnot disposed tohave Mary's sharpness undervalued.  "A bad workman of anysort makes his fellows mistrusted.  Things hang together"he addedlooking on the floor and moving his feet uneasily with asense that words were scantier than thoughts.

"Clearly"said the Vicaramused.  "By being contemptible we setmen's mindsto the tune of contempt.  I certainly agree withMiss Garth's view of the matterwhether I am condemned by it or not.But as to Fred Vincyit is only fair he should be excused a little:old Featherstone's delusive behavior did help to spoil him. There wassomething quite diabolical in not leaving him a farthing after all. But Fred has the good taste not to dwell on that. And what he caresmost about is having offended youMrs. Garth; he supposes you willnever think well of him again."

"Ihave been disappointed in Fred" said Mrs. Garthwith decision."But I shall be ready to think well of him again when he givesme good reason to do so."

At thispoint Mary went out of the roomtaking Letty with her.

"Ohwe must forgive young people when they're sorry" said Calebwatching Mary close the door.  "And as you sayMr.Farebrotherthere was the very devil in that old man."

Now Mary'sgone outI must tell you a thing--it's only known to Susan and meand you'll not tell it again.  The old scoundrel wanted Mary toburn one of the wills the very night he diedwhen she was sitting upwith him by herselfand he offered her a sum of money that he had inthe box by him if she would do it. But Maryyou understandcould dono such thing--would not be handling his iron chestand so on. Nowyou seethe will he wanted burnt was this lastso that if Maryhad done what he wantedFred Vincy would have had ten thousandpounds.  The old man did turn to him at the last.  Thattouches poor Mary close; she couldn't help it-- she was in the rightto do what she didbut she feelsas she saysmuch as if she hadknocked down somebody's property and broken it against her willwhenshe was rightfully defending herself.  I feel with hersomehowand if I could make any amends to the poor ladinstead of bearinghim a grudge for the harm he did usI should be glad to do it. Nowwhat is your opinionsir?  Susan doesn't agree with me. She says--tell what you saySusan."

"Marycould not have acted otherwiseeven if she had known what would bethe effect on Fred" said Mrs. Garthpausing from her workandlooking at Mr. Farebrother.

"Andshe was quite ignorant of it.  It seems to mea loss whichfalls on another because we have done right is not to lie upon ourconscience."

The Vicardid not answer immediatelyand Caleb said"It's the feeling.The child feels in that wayand I feel with her.  You don'tmean your horse to tread on a dog when you're backing out of the way;but it goes through youwhen it's done."

"I amsure Mrs. Garth would agree with you there" said Mr.Farebrotherwho for some reason seemed more inclined to ruminatethan to speak. "One could hardly say that the feeling youmention about Fred is wrong--or rathermistaken--though no man oughtto make a claim on such feeling."

"Wellwell" said Caleb"it's a secret.  You will not tellFred."

"Certainlynot.  But I shall carry the other good news--that you can affordthe loss he caused you."

Mr.Farebrother left the house soon afterand seeing Mary in the orchardwith Lettywent to say good-by to her.  They made a prettypicture in the western light which brought out the brightness of theapples on the old scant-leaved boughs--Mary in her lavender ginghamand black ribbons holding a basketwhile Letty in her well-wornnankin picked up the fallen apples.  If you want to know moreparticularly how Mary lookedten to one you will see a face likehers in the crowded street to-morrowif you are there on the watch:she will not be among those daughters of Zion who are haughtyandwalk with stretched-out necks and wanton eyesmincing as they go:let all those passand fix your eyes on some small plump brownishperson of firm but quiet carriagewho looks about herbut does notsuppose that anybody is looking at her.  If she has a broad faceand square browwell-marked eyebrows and curly dark haira certainexpression of amusement in her glance which her mouth keeps thesecret ofand for the rest features entirely insignificant-- takethat ordinary but not disagreeable person for a portrait of MaryGarth.  If you made her smileshe would show you perfect littleteeth; if you made her angryshe would not raise her voicebutwould probably say one of the bitterest things you have ever tastedthe flavor of; if you did her a kindnessshe would never forget it.Mary admired the keen-faced handsome little Vicar in his well-brushedthreadbare clothes more than any man she had had the opportunity ofknowing.  She had never heard him say a foolish thingthoughshe knew that he did unwise ones; and perhaps foolish sayings weremore objectionable to her than any of Mr. Farebrother's unwisedoings. At leastit was remarkable that the actual imperfections ofthe Vicar's clerical character never seemed to call forth the samescorn and dislike which she showed beforehand for the predictedimperfections of the clerical character sustained by Fred Vincy.These irregularities of judgmentI imagineare found even in riperminds than Mary Garth's: our impartiality is kept for abstract meritand demeritwhich none of us ever saw.  Will any one guesstowards which of those widely different men Mary had the peculiarwoman's tenderness?--the one she was most inclined to be severe onor the contrary?

"Haveyou any message for your old playfellowMiss Garth?" said theVicaras he took a fragrant apple from the basket which she heldtowards himand put it in his pocket.  "Something tosoften down that harsh judgment?  I am going straight to seehim."

"No"said Maryshaking her headand smiling.  "If I were tosay that he would not be ridiculous as a clergymanI must say thathe would be something worse than ridiculous.  But I am very gladto hear that he is going away to work."

"Onthe other handI am very glad to hear that YOU are not going away towork.  My motherI am surewill be all the happier if you willcome to see her at the vicarage:  you know she is fond of havingyoung people to talk toand she has a great deal to tell about oldtimes.  You will really be doing a kindness."

"Ishould like it very muchif I may" said Mary. "Everything seems too happy for me all at once.  I thoughtit would always be part of my life to long for homeand losing thatgrievance makes me feel rather empty:  I suppose it servedinstead of sense to fill up my mind?"

"MayI go with youMary?" whispered Letty--a most inconvenientchildwho listened to everything.  But she was made exultant byhaving her chin pinched and her cheek kissed by Mr. Farebrother-- anincident which she narrated to her mother and father.

As theVicar walked to Lowickany one watching him closely might have seenhim twice shrug his shoulders.  I think that the rare Englishmenwho have this gesture are never of the heavy type-- for fear of anylumbering instance to the contraryI will sayhardly ever; theyhave usually a fine temperament and much tolerance towards thesmaller errors of men (themselves inclusive). The Vicar was holdingan inward dialogue in which he told himself that there was probablysomething more between Fred and Mary Garth than the regard of oldplayfellowsand replied with a question whether that bit ofwomanhood were not a great deal too choice for that crude younggentleman.  The rejoinder to this was the first shrug. Then helaughed at himself for being likely to have felt jealousas if hehad been a man able to marrywhichadded heit is as clear as anybalance-sheet that I am not.  Whereupon followed the secondshrug.

What couldtwo menso different from each othersee in this "brownpatch" as Mary called herself?  It was certainly not herplainness that attracted them (and let all plain young ladies bewarned against the dangerous encouragement given them by Society toconfide in their want of beauty). A human being in this aged nationof ours is a very wonderful wholethe slow creation of longinterchanging influences:  and charm is a result of two suchwholesthe one loving and the one loved.

When Mr.and Mrs. Garth were sitting aloneCaleb said"Susanguesswhat I'm thinking of."

"Therotation of crops" said Mrs. Garthsmiling at himabove herknitting"or else the back-doors of the Tipton cottages."

"No"said Calebgravely; "I am thinking that I could do a great turnfor Fred Vincy.  Christy's goneAlfred will be gone soonandit will be five years before Jim is ready to take to business. Ishall want helpand Fred might come in and learn the nature ofthings and act under meand it might be the making of him into auseful manif he gives up being a parson.  What do you think?"

"Ithinkthere is hardly anything honest that his family would objectto more" said Mrs. Garthdecidedly.

"Whatcare I about their objecting?" said Calebwith a sturdinesswhich he was apt to show when he had an opinion.  "The ladis of age and must get his bread.  He has sense enough andquickness enough; he likes being on the landand it's my belief thathe could learn business well if he gave his mind to it."

"Butwould he?  His father and mother wanted him to be a finegentlemanand I think he has the same sort of feeling himself. Theyall think us beneath them.  And if the proposal came from youIam sure Mrs. Vincy would say that we wanted Fred for Mary."

"Lifeis a poor taleif it is to be settled by nonsense of that sort"said Calebwith disgust.

"Yesbut there is a certain pride which is properCaleb."

"Icall it improper pride to let fools' notions hinder you from doing agood action.  There's no sort of work" said Calebwithfervorputting out his hand and moving it up and down to mark hisemphasis"that could ever be done wellif you minded whatfools say. You must have it inside you that your plan is rightandthat plan you must follow."

"Iwill not oppose any plan you have set your mind onCaleb" saidMrs. Garthwho was a firm womanbut knew that there were somepoints on which her mild husband was yet firmer. "Stillitseems to be fixed that Fred is to go back to college: will it not bebetter to wait and see what he will choose to do after that?  Itis not easy to keep people against their will. And you are not yetquite sure enough of your own positionor what you will want."

"Wellit may be better to wait a bit.  But as to my getting plenty ofwork for twoI'm pretty sure of that.  I've always had my handsfull with scattered thingsand there's always something freshturning up.  Whyonly yesterday--bless meI don't think I toldyou!--it was rather odd that two men should have been at me ondifferent sides to do the same bit of valuing.  And who do youthink they were?" said Calebtaking a pinch of snuff andholding it up between his fingersas if it were a part of hisexposition. He was fond of a pinch when it occurred to himbut heusually forgot that this indulgence was at his command.

His wifeheld down her knitting and looked attentive.

"Whythat Riggor Rigg Featherstonewas one.  But Bulstrode wasbefore himso I'm going to do it for Bulstrode.  Whether it'smortgage or purchase they're going forI can't tell yet."

"Canthat man be going to sell the land just left him--which he has takenthe name for?" said Mrs. Garth.

"Deuceknows" said Calebwho never referred the knowledge ofdiscreditable doings to any higher power than the deuce. "ButBulstrode has long been wanting to get a handsome bit of land underhis fingers--that I know.  And it's a difficult matter to getin this part of the country."

Calebscattered his snuff carefully instead of taking itand then added"The ins and outs of things are curious. Here is the landthey've been all along expecting for Fredwhich it seems the old mannever meant to leave him a foot ofbut left it to this side-slip ofa son that he kept in the darkand thought of his sticking there andvexing everybody as well as he could have vexed 'em himself if hecould have kept alive.  I sayit would be curious if it gotinto Bulstrode's hands after all. The old man hated himand neverwould bank with him."

"Whatreason could the miserable creature have for hating a man whom he hadnothing to do with?" said Mrs. Garth.

"Pooh!where's the use of asking for such fellows' reasons?  The soulof man" said Calebwith the deep tone and grave shake of thehead which always came when he used this phrase--"The soul ofmanwhen it gets fairly rottenwill bear you all sorts of poisonoustoad-stoolsand no eye can see whence came the seed thereof."

It was oneof Caleb's quaintnessesthat in his difficulty of finding speech forhis thoughthe caughtas it weresnatches of diction which heassociated with various points of view or states of mind; andwhenever he had a feeling of awehe was haunted by a sense ofBiblical phraseologythough he could hardly have given a strictquotation.

CHAPTERXLI

  "By swaggering could I never thrive
   For therain it raineth every day.
   --Twelfth Night

Thetransactions referred to by Caleb Garth as having gone forwardbetween Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone concerning theland attached to Stone Courthad occasioned the interchange of aletter or two between these personages.

Who shalltell what may be the effect of writing?  If it happens to havebeen cut in stonethough it lie face down-most for ages on aforsaken beachor "rest quietly under the drums and tramplingsof many conquests" it may end by letting us into the secret ofusurpations and other scandals gossiped about long empires ago:--this world being apparently a huge whispering-gallery. Suchconditions are often minutely represented in our petty lifetimes. As the stone which has been kicked by generations of clowns may comeby curious little links of effect under the eyes of a scholarthrough whose labors it may at last fix the date of invasions andunlock religionsso a bit of ink and paper which has long been aninnocent wrapping or stop-gap may at last be laid open under the onepair of eyes which have knowledge enough to turn it into the openingof a catastrophe. To Uriel watching the progress of planetary historyfrom the sunthe one result would be just as much of a coincidenceas the other.

Havingmade this rather lofty comparison I am less uneasy in callingattention to the existence of low people by whose interferencehowever little we may like itthe course of the world is very muchdetermined.  It would be wellcertainlyif we could help toreduce their numberand something might perhaps be done by notlightly giving occasion to their existence.  Socially speakingJoshua Rigg would have been generally pronounced a superfluity. Butthose who like Peter Featherstone never had a copy of themselvesdemandedare the very last to wait for such a request either inprose or verse.  The copy in this case bore more of outsideresemblance to the motherin whose sex frog-featuresaccompaniedwith fresh-colored cheeks and a well-rounded figureare compatiblewith much charm for a certain order of admirers. The result issometimes a frog-faced maledesirablesurelyto no order ofintelligent beings.  Especially when he is suddenly brought intoevidence to frustrate other people's expectations-- the very lowestaspect in which a social superfluity can present himself.

But Mr.Rigg Featherstone's low characteristics were all of the soberwater-drinking kind.  From the earliest to the latest hour ofthe day he was always as sleekneatand cool as the frog heresembledand old Peter had secretly chuckled over an offshootalmost more calculatingand far more imperturbablethan himself. I will add that his finger-nails were scrupulously attended toandthat he meant to marry a well-educated young lady (as yetunspecified) whose person was goodand whose connectionsin a solidmiddle-class waywere undeniable.  Thus his nails and modestywere comparable to those of most gentlemen; though his ambition hadbeen educated only by the opportunities of a clerk and accountant inthe smaller commercial houses of a seaport.  He thought therural Featherstones very simple absurd peopleand they in their turnregarded his "bringing up" in a seaport town as anexaggeration of the monstrosity that their brother Peterand stillmore Peter's propertyshould have had such belongings.

The gardenand gravel approachas seen from the two windows of the wainscotedparlor at Stone Courtwere never in better trim than nowwhen Mr.Rigg Featherstone stoodwith his hands behind himlooking out onthese grounds as their master.  But it seemed doubtful whetherhe looked out for the sake of contemplation or of turning his back toa person who stood in the middle of the roomwith his legsconsiderably apart and his hands in his trouser-pockets: a person inall respects a contrast to the sleek and cool Rigg.  He was aman obviously on the way towards sixtyvery florid and hairywithmuch gray in his bushy whiskers and thick curly haira stoutish bodywhich showed to disadvantage the somewhat worn joinings of hisclothesand the air of a swaggererwho would aim at beingnoticeable even at a show of fireworksregarding his own remarks onany other person's performance as likely to be more interesting thanthe performance itself.

His namewas John Rafflesand he sometimes wrote jocosely W.A.G. after hissignatureobserving when he did sothat he was once taught byLeonard Lamb of Finsbury who wrote B.A. after his nameand that heRafflesoriginated the witticism of calling that celebratedprincipal Ba-Lamb. Such were the appearance and mental flavor of Mr.Rafflesboth of which seemed to have a stale odor of travellers'rooms in the commercial hotels of that period.

"ComenowJosh" he was sayingin a full rumbling tone"lookat it in this light:  here is your poor mother going into thevale of yearsand you could afford something handsome now to makeher comfortable."

"Notwhile you live.  Nothing would make her comfortable while youlive" returned Riggin his cool high voice.  "What Igive heryou'll take."

"Youbear me a grudgeJoshthat I know.  But comenow--as betweenman and man--without humbug--a little capital might enable me to makea first-rate thing of the shop.  The tobacco trade is growing. Ishould cut my own nose off in not doing the best I could at it. Ishould stick to it like a flea to a fleece for my own sake. I shouldalways be on the spot.  And nothing would make your poor motherso happy.  I've pretty well done with my wild oats-- turnedfifty-five. I want to settle down in my chimney-corner. And if I oncebuckled to the tobacco tradeI could bring an amount of brains andexperience to bear on it that would not be found elsewhere in ahurry.  I don't want to be bothering you one time after anotherbut to get things once for all into the right channel. Consider thatJosh--as between man and man--and with your poor mother to be madeeasy for her life.  I was always fond of the old womanbyJove!"

"Haveyou done?" said Mr. Riggquietlywithout looking away from thewindow.

"YesI've done" said Rafflestaking hold of his hat which stoodbefore him on the tableand giving it a sort of oratorical push.

"Thenjust listen to me.  The more you say anythingthe less I shallbelieve it.  The more you want me to do a thingthe more reasonI shall have for never doing it.  Do you think I mean to forgetyour kicking me when I was a ladand eating all the best victualaway from me and my mother?  Do you think I forget your alwayscoming home to sell and pocket everythingand going off againleaving us in the lurch?  I should be glad to see you whipped atthe cart-tail. My mother was a fool to you:  she'd no right togive me a father-in-lawand she's been punished for it.  Sheshall have her weekly allowance paid and no more:  and thatshall be stopped if you dare to come on to these premises againorto come into this country after me again.  The next time youshow yourself inside the gates hereyou shall be driven off with thedogs and the wagoner's whip."

As Riggpronounced the last words he turned round and looked at Raffles withhis prominent frozen eyes.  The contrast was as striking as itcould have been eighteen years beforewhen Rigg was a mostunengaging kickable boyand Raffles was the rather thick-set Adonisof bar-rooms and back-parlors. But the advantage now was on the sideof Riggand auditors of this conversation might probably haveexpected that Raffles would retire with the air of a defeated dog. Not at all.  He made a grimace which was habitual with himwhenever he was "out" in a game; then subsided into alaughand drew a brandy-flask from his pocket.

"ComeJosh" he saidin a cajoling tone"give us a spoonful ofbrandyand a sovereign to pay the way backand I'll go.  Honorbright! I'll go like a bulletBY Jove!"

"Mind"said Riggdrawing out a bunch of keys"if I ever see youagainI shan't speak to you.  I don't own you any more than ifI saw a crow; and if you want to own me you'll get nothing by it buta character for being what you are--a spitefulbrassybullyingrogue."

"That'sa pitynowJosh" said Rafflesaffecting to scratch his headand wrinkle his brows upward as if he were nonplussed. "I'm veryfond of you; BY JoveI am!  There's nothing I like better thanplaguing you--you're so like your motherand I must do without it. But the brandy and the sovereign's a bargain."

He jerkedforward the flask and Rigg went to a fine old oaken bureau with hiskeys.  But Raffles had reminded himself by his movement with theflask that it had become dangerously loose from its leather coveringand catching sight of a folded paper which had fallen within thefenderhe took it up and shoved it under the leather so as to makethe glass firm.

By thattime Rigg came forward with a brandy-bottlefilled the flaskandhanded Raffles a sovereignneither looking at him nor speaking tohim.  After locking up the bureau againhe walked to the windowand gazed out as impassibly as he had done at the beginning of theinterviewwhile Raffles took a small allowance from the flaskscrewed it upand deposited it in his side-pocketwith provokingslownessmaking a grimace at his stepson's back.

"FarewellJosh--and if forever!" said Rafflesturning back his head as heopened the door.

Rigg sawhim leave the grounds and enter the lane.  The gray day hadturned to a light drizzling rainwhich freshened the hedgerows andthe grassy borders of the by-roadsand hastened the laborers whowere loading the last shocks of corn.  Raffleswalking with theuneasy gait of a town loiterer obliged to do a bit of countryjourneying on footlooked as incongruous amid this moist rural quietand industry as if he had been a baboon escaped from a menagerie. Butthere were none to stare at him except the long-weaned calvesandnone to show dislike of his appearance except the little water-ratswhich rustled away at his approach.

He wasfortunate enough when he got on to the highroad to be overtaken bythe stage-coachwhich carried him to Brassing; and there he took thenew-made railwayobserving to his fellow-passengers that heconsidered it pretty well seasoned now it had done for Huskisson. Mr.Raffles on most occasions kept up the sense of having been educatedat an academyand being ableif he choseto pass well everywhere;indeedthere was not one of his fellow-men whom he did not feelhimself in a position to ridicule and tormentconfident of theentertainment which he thus gave to all the rest of the company.

He playedthis part now with as much spirit as if his journey had been entirelysuccessfulresorting at frequent intervals to his flask. The paperwith which he had wedged it was a letter signed Nicholas Bulstrodebut Raffles was not likely to disturb it from its present usefulposition.

CHAPTERXLII

  "How muchmethinksI could despise this man
  Were I not bound in charity against it!
  --SHAKESPEARE:  Henry VIII. 

One of theprofessional calls made by Lydgate soon after his return from hiswedding-journey was to Lowick Manorin consequence of a letter whichhad requested him to fix a time for his visit.

Mr.Casaubon had never put any question concerning the nature of hisillness to Lydgatenor had he even to Dorothea betrayed any anxietyas to how far it might be likely to cut short his labors or hislife.  On this pointas on all othershe shrank from pity; andif the suspicion of being pitied for anything in his lot surmised orknown in spite of himself was embitteringthe idea of calling fortha show of compassion by frankly admitting an alarm or a sorrow wasnecessarily intolerable to him. Every proud mind knows something ofthis experienceand perhaps it is only to be overcome by a sense offellowship deep enough to make all efforts at isolation seem mean andpetty instead of exalting.

But Mr.Casaubon was now brooding over something through which the questionof his health and life haunted his silence with a more harassingimportunity even than through the autumnal unripeness of hisauthorship.  It is true that this last might be called hiscentral ambition; but there are some kinds of authorship in which byfar the largest result is the uneasy susceptibility accumulated inthe consciousness of the author one knows of the river by a fewstreaks amid a long-gathered deposit of uncomfortable mud. That wasthe way with Mr. Casaubon's hard intellectual labors. Their mostcharacteristic result was not the "Key to all Mythologies"but a morbid consciousness that others did not give him the placewhich he had not demonstrably merited--a perpetual suspiciousconjecture that the views entertained of him were not to hisadvantage-- a melancholy absence of passion in his efforts atachievementand a passionate resistance to the confession that hehad achieved nothing.

Thus hisintellectual ambition which seemed to others to have absorbed anddried himwas really no security against woundsleast of allagainst those which came from Dorothea.  And he had begun now toframe possibilities for the future which were somehow moreembittering to him than anything his mind had dwelt on before.

Againstcertain facts he was helpless:  against Will Ladislaw'sexistence his defiant stay in the neighborhood of Lowickand hisflippant state of mind with regard to the possessors of authenticwell-stamped erudition:  against Dorothea's naturealwaystaking on some new shape of ardent activityand even in submissionand silence covering fervid reasons which it was an irritation tothink of: against certain notions and likings which had takenpossession of her mind in relation to subjects that he could notpossibly discuss with her.  "There was no denying thatDorothea was as virtuous and lovely a young lady as he could haveobtained for a wife; but a young lady turned out to be something moretroublesome than he had conceived.  She nursed himshe read tohimshe anticipated his wantsand was solicitous about hisfeelings; but there had entered into the husband's mind the certaintythat she judged himand that her wifely devotedness was like apenitential expiation of unbelieving thoughts--was accompanied with apower of comparison by which himself and his doings were seen tooluminously as a part of things in general.  His discontentpassed vapor-like through all her gentle loving manifestationsandclung to that inappreciative world which she had only brought nearerto him.

Poor Mr.Casaubon!  This suffering was the harder to bear because itseemed like a betrayal:  the young creature who had worshippedhim with perfect trust had quickly turned into the critical wife; andearly instances of criticism and resentment had made an impressionwhich no tenderness and submission afterwards could remove. To hissuspicious interpretation Dorothea's silence now was a suppressedrebellion; a remark from her which he had not in any way anticipatedwas an assertion of conscious superiority; her gentle answers had anirritating cautiousness in them; and when she acquiesced it was aself-approved effort of forbearance. The tenacity with which hestrove to hide this inward drama made it the more vivid for him; aswe hear with the more keenness what we wish others not to hear.

Instead ofwondering at this result of misery in Mr. CasaubonI think it quiteordinary.  Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blotout the glory of the worldand leave only a margin by which we seethe blot?  I know no speck so troublesome as self. And whoifMr. Casaubon had chosen to expound his discontents-- his suspicionsthat he was not any longer adored without criticism-- could havedenied that they were founded on good reasons? On the contrarytherewas a strong reason to be addedwhich he had not himself takenexplicitly into account--namelythat he was not unmixedly adorable. He suspected thishoweveras he suspected other thingswithoutconfessing itand like the rest of usfelt how soothing it wouldhave been to have a co pan ion who would never find it out.

This soresusceptibility in relation to Dorothea was thoroughly prepared beforeWill Ladislaw had returned to Lowickand what had occurred sincethen had brought Mr. Casaubon's power of suspicious construction intoexasperated activity.  To all the facts which he knewhe addedimaginary facts both present and future which become more real to himthan those because they called up a stronger dislikea morepredominating bitterness.  Suspicion and jealousy of WillLadislaw's intentionssuspicion and jealousy of Dorothea'simpressionswere constantly at their weaving work.  It would bequite unjust to him to suppose that he could have entered into anycoarse misinterpretation of Dorothea:  his own habits of mindand conductquite as much as the open elevation of her naturesavedhim from any such mistake.  What he was jealous of was heropinionthe sway that might be given to her ardent mind in itsjudgmentsand the future possibilities to which these might leadher. As to Willthough until his last defiant letter he had nothingdefinite which he would choose formally to allege against himhefelt himself warranted in believing that he was capable of any designwhich could fascinate a rebellious temper and an undisciplinedimpulsiveness. He was quite sure that Dorothea was the cause ofWill's return from Romeand his determination to settle in theneighborhood; and he was penetrating enough to imagine that Dorotheahad innocently encouraged this course.  It was as clear aspossible that she was ready to be attached to Will and to be pliantto his suggestions: they had never had a tete-a-tete without herbringing away from it some new troublesome impressionand the lastinterview that Mr. Casaubon was aware of (Dorotheaon returning fromFreshitt Hallhad for the first time been silent about having seenWill) had led to a scene which roused an angrier feeling against themboth than he had ever known before.  Dorothea's outpouring ofher notions about moneyin the darkness of the nighthad donenothing but bring a mixture of more odious foreboding into herhusband's mind.

And therewas the shock lately given to his health always sadly present withhim.  He was certainly much revived; he had recovered all hisusual power of work:  the illness might have been mere fatigueand there might still be twenty years of achievement before himwhich would justify the thirty years of preparation.  Thatprospect was made the sweeter by a flavor of vengeance against thehasty sneers of Carp & Company; for even when Mr. Casaubon wascarrying his taper among the tombs of the pastthose modern figurescame athwart the dim lightand interrupted his diligent exploration.To convince Carp of his mistakeso that he would have to eat his ownwords with a good deal of indigestionwould be an agreeable accidentof triumphant authorshipwhich the prospect of living to future ageson earth and to all eternity in heaven could not exclude fromcontemplation.  Sincethusthe prevision of his own unendingbliss could not nullify the bitter savors of irritated jealousy andvindictivenessit is the less surprising that the probability of atransient earthly bliss for other personswhen he himself shouldhave entered into gloryhad not a potently sweetening effect. If thetruth should be that some undermining disease was at work within himthere might be large opportunity for some people to be the happierwhen he was gone; and if one of those people should be Will LadislawMr. Casaubon objected so strongly that it seemed as if the annoyancewould make part of his disembodied existence.

This is avery bare and therefore a very incomplete way of putting the case. The human soul moves in many channelsand Mr. Casaubonwe knowhada sense of rectitude and an honorable pride in satisfying therequirements of honorwhich compelled him to find other reasons forhis conduct than those of jealousy and vindictiveness. The way inwhich Mr. Casaubon put the case was this:--"In marrying DorotheaBrooke I had to care for her well-being in case of my death. Butwell-being is not to be secured by ampleindependent possession ofproperty; on the contraryoccasions might arise in which suchpossession might expose her to the more danger.  She is readyprey to any man who knows how to play adroitly either on heraffectionate ardor or her Quixotic enthusiasm; and a man stands bywith that very intention in his mind--a man with no other principlethan transient capriceand who has a personal animosity towards me--I am sure of it--an animosity which is fed by the consciousness ofhis ingratitudeand which he has constantly vented in ridicule ofwhich I am as well assured as if I had heard it.  Even if I liveI shall not be without uneasiness as to what he may attempt throughindirect influence.  This man has gained Dorothea's ear: he hasfascinated her attention; he has evidently tried to impress her mindwith the notion that he has claims beyond anything I have done forhim.  If I die--and he is waiting here on the watch for that--he will persuade her to marry him.  That would be calamity forher and success for him.  SHE would not think it calamity: hewould make her believe anything; she has a tendency to immoderateattachment which she inwardly reproaches me for not responding toand already her mind is occupied with his fortunes. He thinks of aneasy conquest and of entering into my nest. That I will hinder! Sucha marriage would be fatal to Dorothea. Has he ever persisted inanything except from contradiction? In knowledge he has always triedto be showy at small cost. In religion he could beas long as itsuited himthe facile echo of Dorothea's vagaries.  When wassciolism ever dissociated from laxity? I utterly distrust his moralsand it is my duty to hinder to the utmost the fulfilment of hisdesigns."

Thearrangements made by Mr. Casaubon on his marriage left strongmeasures open to himbut in ruminating on them his mind inevitablydwelt so much on the probabilities of his own life that the longingto get the nearest possible calculation had at last overcome hisproud reticenceand had determined him to ask Lydgate's opinion asto the nature of his illness.

He hadmentioned to Dorothea that Lydgate was coming by appointment athalf-past threeand in answer to her anxious questionwhether hehad felt illreplied--"NoI merely wish to have his opinionconcerning some habitual symptoms.  You need not see himmydear. I shall give orders that he may be sent to me in the Yew-treeWalkwhere I shall be taking my usual exercise."

WhenLydgate entered the Yew-tree Walk he saw Mr. Casaubon slowly recedingwith his hands behind him according to his habitand his head bentforward.  It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves from the loftylimes were falling silently across the sombre evergreenswhile thelights and shadows slept side by side: there was no sound but thecawing of the rookswhich to the accustomed ear is a lullabyorthat last solemn lullabya dirge. Lydgateconscious of an energeticframe in its primefelt some compassion when the figure which he waslikely soon to overtake turned roundand in advancing towards himshowed more markedly than ever the signs of premature age--thestudent's bent shouldersthe emaciated limbsand the melancholylines of the mouth. "Poor fellow" he thought"somemen with his years are like lions; one can tell nothing of their ageexcept that they are full grown."

"Mr.Lydgate" said Mr. Casaubonwith his invariably po lite air"Iam exceedingly obliged to you for your punctuality.  We willifyou pleasecarry on our conversation in walking to and fro."

"Ihope your wish to see me is not due to the return of unpleasantsymptoms" said Lydgatefilling up a pause.

"Notimmediately--no.  In order to account for that wish I mustmention-- what it were otherwise needless to refer to--that my lifeon all collateral accounts insignificantderives a possibleimportance from the incompleteness of labors which have extendedthrough all its best years.  In shortI have long had on hand awork which I would fain leave behind me in such a stateat leastthat it might be committed to the press by--others.  Were Iassured that this is the utmost I can reasonably expectthatassurance would be a useful circumscription of my attemptsand aguide in both the positive and negative determination of my course."

Here Mr.Casaubon pausedremoved one hand from his back and thrust it betweenthe buttons of his single-breasted coat.  To a mind largelyinstructed in the human destiny hardly anything could be moreinteresting than the inward conflict implied in his formal measuredaddressdelivered with the usual sing-song and motion of the head. Nayare there many situations more sublimely tragic than thestruggle of the soul with the demand to renounce a work which hasbeen all the significance of its life--a significance which is tovanish as the waters which come and go where no man has need ofthem?  But there was nothing to strike others as sublime aboutMr. Casaubonand Lydgatewho had some contempt at hand for futilescholarshipfelt a little amusement mingling with his pity. He wasat present too ill acquainted with disaster to enter into the pathosof a lot where everything is below the level of tragedy except thepassionate egoism of the sufferer.

"Yourefer to the possible hindrances from want of health?" he saidwishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon's purposewhich seemed to beclogged by some hesitation.

"Ido.  You have not implied to me that the symptoms which-- I ambound to testify--you watched with scrupulous carewere those of afatal disease.  But were it soMr. LydgateI should desire toknow the truth without reservationand I appeal to you for an exactstatement of your conclusions: I request it as a friendly service. If you can tell me that my life is not threatened by anything elsethan ordinary casualtiesI shall rejoiceon grounds which I havealready indicated. If notknowledge of the truth is even moreimportant to me."

"ThenI can no longer hesitate as to my course" said Lydgate; "butthe first thing I must impress on you is that my conclusions aredoubly uncertain--uncertain not only because of my fallibilitybutbecause diseases of the heart are eminently difficult to foundpredictions on.  In any easeone can hardly increaseappreciably the tremendous uncertainty of life."

Mr.Casaubon winced perceptiblybut bowed.

"Ibelieve that you are suffering from what is called fatty degenerationof the hearta disease which was first divined and explored byLaennecthe man who gave us the stethoscopenot so very many yearsago.  A good deal of experience--a more lengthenedobservation--is wanting on the subject.  But after what you havesaidit is my duty to tell you that death from this disease is oftensudden.  At the same timeno such result can be predicted. Your condition may be consistent with a tolerably comfortable lifefor another fifteen yearsor even more.  I could add noinformation to this beyond anatomical or medical detailswhich wouldleave expectation at precisely the same point." Lydgate'sinstinct was fine enough to tell him that plain speechquite freefrom ostentatious cautionwould be felt by Mr. Casaubon as a tributeof respect.

"Ithank youMr. Lydgate" said Mr. Casaubonafter a moment'spause. "One thing more I have still to ask:  did youcommunicate what you have now told me to Mrs. Casaubon?"

"Partly--Imeanas to the possible issues."  Lydgate was going toexplain why he had told Dorotheabut Mr. Casaubonwith anunmistakable desire to end the conversationwaved his hand slightlyand said again"I thank you" proceeding to remark on therare beauty of the day.

Lydgatecertain that his patient wished to be alonesoon left him; and theblack figure with hands behind and head bent forward continued topace the walk where the dark yew-trees gave him a mute companionshipin melancholyand the little shadows of bird or leaf that fleetedacross the isles of sunlightstole along in silence as in thepresence of a sorrow.  Here was a man who now for the first timefound himself looking into the eyes of death-- who was passingthrough one of those rare moments of experience when we feel thetruth of a commonplacewhich is as different from what we callknowing itas the vision of waters upon the earth is different fromthe delirious vision of the water which cannot be had to cool theburning tongue.  When the commonplace "We must all die"transforms itself suddenly into the acute consciousness "I mustdie-- and soon" then death grapples usand his fingers arecruel; afterwardshe may come to fold us in his arms as our motherdidand our last moment of dim earthly discerning may be like thefirst. To Mr. Casaubon nowit was as if he suddenly found himself onthe dark river-brink and heard the plash of the oncoming oarnotdiscerning the formsbut expecting the summons.  In such anhour the mind does not change its lifelong biasbut carries itonward in imagination to the other side of deathgazing backward--perhaps with the divine calm of beneficenceperhaps with the pettyanxieties of self-assertion. What was Mr. Casaubon's bias his actswill give us a clew to.  He held himself to bewith someprivate scholarly reservationsa believing Christianas toestimates of the present and hopes of the future.  But what westrive to gratifythough we may call it a distant hopeis animmediate desire: the future estate for which men drudge up cityalleys exists already in their imagination and love.  And Mr.Casaubon's immediate desire was not for divine communion and lightdivested of earthly conditions; his passionate longingspoor manclung low and mist-like in very shady places.

Dorotheahad been aware when Lydgate had ridden awayand she had stepped intothe gardenwith the impulse to go at once to her husband. But shehesitatedfearing to offend him by obtruding herself; for her ardorcontinually repulsedservedwith her intense memoryto heightenher dreadas thwarted energy subsides into a shudder; and shewandered slowly round the nearer clumps of trees until she saw himadvancing.  Then she went towards himand might haverepresented a heaven-sent angel coming with a promise that the shorthours remaining should yet be filled with that faithful love whichclings the closer to a comprehended grief.  His glance in replyto hers was so chill that she felt her timidity increased; yet sheturned and passed her hand through his arm.

Mr.Casaubon kept his hands behind him and allowed her pliant arm tocling with difficulty against his rigid arm.

There wassomething horrible to Dorothea in the sensation which thisunresponsive hardness inflicted on her.  That is a strong wordbut not too strong:  it is in these acts called trivialitiesthat the seeds of joy are forever wasteduntil men and women lookround with haggard faces at the devastation their own waste has madeand saythe earth bears no harvest of sweetness--calling theirdenial knowledge.  You may ask whyin the name of manlinessMr. Casaubon should have behaved in that way.  Consider that hiswas a mind which shrank from pity:  have you ever watched insuch a mind the effect of a suspicion that what is pressing it as agrief may be really a source of contentmenteither actual or futureto the being who already offends by pitying?  Besideshe knewlittle of Dorothea's sensationsand had not reflected that on suchan occasion as the present they were comparable in strength to hisown sensibilities about Carp's criticisms.

Dorotheadid not withdraw her armbut she could not venture to speak. Mr.Casaubon did not say"I wish to be alone" but he directedhis steps in silence towards the houseand as they entered by theglass door on this eastern sideDorothea withdrew her arm andlingered on the mattingthat she might leave her husband quite free.He entered the library and shut himself inalone with his sorrow.

She wentup to her boudoir.  The open bow-window let in the serene gloryof the afternoon lying in the avenuewhere the lime-trees east longshadows.  But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threwherself on a chairnot heeding that she was in the dazzlingsun-rays: if there were discomfort in thathow could she tell thatit was not part of her inward misery?

She was inthe reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had feltsince her marriage.  Instead of tears there came words:--

"Whathave I done--what am I--that he should treat me so? He never knowswhat is in my mind--he never cares.  What is the use of anythingI do?  He wishes he had never married me."

She beganto hear herselfand was checked into stillness.  Like one whohas lost his way and is wearyshe sat and saw as in one glance allthe paths of her young hope which she should never find again. Andjust as clearly in the miserable light she saw her own and herhusband's solitude--how they walked apart so that she was obliged tosurvey him.  If he had drawn her towards himshe would neverhave surveyed him--never have said"Is he worth living for?"but would have felt him simply a part of her own life.  Now shesaid bitterly"It is his faultnot mine."  In thejar of her whole beingPity was overthrown.  Was it her faultthat she had believed in him-- had believed in his worthiness?--Andwhatexactlywas he?-- She was able enough to estimate him--she whowaited on his glances with tremblingand shut her best soul inprisonpaying it only hidden visitsthat she might be petty enoughto please him. In such a crisis as thissome women begin to hate.

The sunwas low when Dorothea was thinking that she would not go down againbut would send a message to her husband saying that she was not welland preferred remaining up-stairs. She had never deliberately allowedher resentment to govern her in this way beforebut she believed nowthat she could not see him again without telling him the truth abouther feelingand she must wait till she could do it withoutinterruption.  He might wonder and be hurt at her message. It was good that he should wonder and be hurt. Her anger saidasanger is apt to saythat God was with her-- that all heaventhoughit were crowded with spirits watching themmust be on her side. She had determined to ring her bellwhen there came a rap at thedoor.

Mr.Casaubon had sent to say that he would have his dinner in thelibrary.  He wished to be quite alone this eveningbeing muchoccupied.

"Ishall not dinethenTantripp."

"Ohmadamlet me bring you a little something?"

"No;I am not well.  Get everything ready in my dressing roombutpray do not disturb me again."

Dorotheasat almost motionless in her meditative strugglewhile the eveningslowly deepened into night.  But the struggle changedcontinuallyas that of a man who begins with a movement towardsstriking and ends with conquering his desire to strike. The energythat would animate a crime is not more than is wanted to inspire aresolvedsubmissionwhen the noble habit of the soul reassertsitself.  That thought with which Dorothea had gone out to meether husband--her conviction that he had been asking about thepossible arrest of all his workand that the answer must have wrunghis heartcould not be long without rising beside the image of himlike a shadowy monitor looking at her anger with sad remonstrance. It cost her a litany of pictured sorrows and of silent cries that shemight be the mercy for those sorrows-- but the resolved submissiondid come; and when the house was stilland she knew that it was nearthe time when Mr. Casaubon habitually went to restshe opened herdoor gently and stood outside in the darkness waiting for his comingup-stairs with a light in his hand. If he did not come soon shethought that she would go down and even risk incurring another pang. She would never again expect anything else. But she did hear thelibrary door openand slowly the light advanced up the staircasewithout noise from the footsteps on the carpet. When her husbandstood opposite to hershe saw that his face was more haggard. He started slightly on seeing herand she looked up at himbeseechinglywithout speaking.

"Dorothea!"he saidwith a gentle surprise in his tone.  "Were youwaiting for me?"

"YesI did not like to disturb you."

"Comemy dearcome.  You are youngand need not to extend your lifeby watching."

When thekind quiet melancholy of that speech fell on Dorothea's earsshefelt something like the thankfulness that might well up in us if wehad narrowly escaped hurting a lamed creature. She put her hand intoher husband'sand they went along the broad corridor together.

BOOK V

THE DEADHAND

CHAPTERXLIII

  “This figure hath high price:  't was wrought with love
  Ages ago in finest ivory;
   Nought modish in itpureand noble lines
   Of generous womanhood that fits alltime
   That too is costly ware; majolica
  Of deft designto please a lordly eye:
   The smileyou seeis perfect--wonderful
   As mere Faience! atable ornament
   To suit the richest mounting."

Dorotheaseldom left home without her husbandbut she did occasionally driveinto Middlemarch aloneon little errands of shopping or charity suchas occur to every lady of any wealth when she lives within threemiles of a town.  Two days after that scene in the Yew-treeWalkshe determined to use such an opportunity in order if possibleto see Lydgateand learn from him whether her husband had reallyfelt any depressing change of symptoms which he was concealing fromherand whether he had insisted on knowing the utmost about himself.She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him fromanotherbut the dread of being without it--the dread of thatignorance which would make her unjust or hard--overcame everyscruple. That there had been some crisis in her husband's mind shewas certain: he had the very next day begun a new method of arranginghis notesand had associated her quite newly in carrying out hisplan. Poor Dorothea needed to lay up stores of patience.

It wasabout four o'clock when she drove to Lydgate's house in Lowick Gatewishingin her immediate doubt of finding him at homethat she hadwritten beforehand.  And he was not at home.

"IsMrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorotheawho had neverthat sheknew ofseen Rosamondbut now remembered the fact of the marriage.YesMrs. Lydgate was at home.

"Iwill go in and speak to herif she will allow me.  Will you askher if she can see me--see Mrs. Casaubonfor a few minutes?"

When theservant had gone to deliver that messageDorothea could hear soundsof music through an open window--a few notes from a man's voice andthen a piano bursting into roulades. But the roulades broke offsuddenlyand then the servant came back saying that Mrs. Lydgatewould be happy to see Mrs. Casaubon.

When thedrawing-room door opened and Dorothea enteredthere was a sort ofcontrast not infrequent in country life when the habits of thedifferent ranks were less blent than now.  Let those who knowtell us exactly what stuff it was that Dorothea wore in those days ofmild autumn--that thin white woollen stuff soft to the touch and softto the eye.  It always seemed to have been lately washedand tosmell of the sweet hedges--was always in the shape of a pelisse withsleeves hanging all out of the fashion.  Yet if she had enteredbefore a still audience as Imogene or Cato's daughterthe dressmight have seemed right enough:  the grace and dignity were inher limbs and neck; and about her simply parted hair and candid eyesthe large round poke which was then in the fate of womenseemed nomore odd as a head-dress than the gold trencher we call a halo. By the present audience of two personsno dramatic heroine couldhave been expected with more interest than Mrs. Casaubon. To Rosamondshe was one of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarchmortalitywhose slightest marks of manner or appearance were worthyof her study; moreoverRosamond was not without satisfaction thatMrs. Casaubon should have an opportunity of studying HER. What is theuse of being exquisite if you are not seen by the best judges? andsince Rosamond had received the highest compliments at Sir GodwinLydgate'sshe felt quite confident of the impression she must makeon people of good birth.  Dorothea put out her hand with herusual simple kindnessand looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovelybride--aware that there was a gentleman standing at a distancebutseeing him merely as a coated figure at a wide angle. The gentlemanwas too much occupied with the presence of the one woman to reflecton the contrast between the two--a contrast that would certainly havebeen striking to a calm observer.  They were both tallandtheir eyes were on a level; but imagine Rosamond's infantineblondness and wondrous crown of hair-plaitswith her pale-blue dressof a fit and fashion so perfect that no dressmaker could look at itwithout emotiona large embroidered collar which it was to be hopedall beholders would know the price ofher small hands duly set offwith ringsand that controlled self-consciousness of manner which isthe expensive substitute for simplicity.

"Thankyou very much for allowing me to interrupt you" said Dorotheaimmediately.  "I am anxious to see Mr. Lydgateifpossiblebefore I go homeand I hoped that you might possibly tellme where I could find himor even allow me to wait for himif youexpect him soon."

"Heis at the New Hospital" said Rosamond; "I am not sure howsoon he will come home.  But I can send for him"

"Willyou let me go and fetch him?" said Will Ladislawcomingforward. He had already taken up his hat before Dorothea entered. Shecolored with surprisebut put out her hand with a smile ofunmistakable pleasuresaying--

"Idid not know it was you:  I had no thought of seeing you here."

"MayI go to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate that you wish to see him?"said Will.

"Itwould be quicker to send the carriage for him" said Dorothea"if you will be kind enough to give the message to thecoachman."

Will wasmoving to the door when Dorotheawhose mind had flashed in aninstant over many connected memoriesturned quickly and said"Iwill go myselfthank you.  I wish to lose no time beforegetting home again.  I will drive to the Hospital and see Mr.Lydgate there. Pray excuse meMrs. Lydgate.  I am very muchobliged to you."

Her mindwas evidently arrested by some sudden thoughtand she left the roomhardly conscious of what was immediately around her-- hardlyconscious that Will opened the door for her and offered her his armto lead her to the carriage.  She took the arm but said nothing.Will was feeling rather vexed and miserableand found nothing to sayon his side.  He handed her into the carriage in silencetheysaid good-byand Dorothea drove away.

In thefive minutes' drive to the Hospital she had time for some reflectionsthat were quite new to her.  Her decision to goand herpreoccupation in leaving the roomhad come from the sudden sensethat there would be a sort of deception in her voluntarily allowingany further intercourse between herself and Will which she was unableto mention to her husbandand already her errand in seeking Lydgatewas a matter of concealment.  That was all that had beenexplicitly in her mind; but she had been urged also by a vaguediscomfort. Now that she was alone in her driveshe heard the notesof the man's voice and the accompanying pianowhich she had notnoted much at the timereturning on her inward sense; and she foundherself thinking with some wonder that Will Ladislaw was passing histime with Mrs. Lydgate in her husband's absence.  And then shecould not help remembering that he had passed some time with herunder like circumstancesso why should there be any unfitness in thefact? But Will was Mr. Casaubon's relativeand one towards whom shewas bound to show kindness.  Still there had been signs whichperhaps she ought to have understood as implying that Mr. Casaubondid not like his cousin's visits during his own absence. "Perhaps I have been mistaken in many things" said poorDorothea to herselfwhile the tears came rolling and she had to drythem quickly. She felt confusedly unhappyand the image of Willwhich had been so clear to her before was mysteriously spoiled. But the carriage stopped at the gate of the Hospital.  She wassoon walking round the grass plots with Lydgateand her feelingsrecovered the strong bent which had made her seek for this interview.

WillLadislawmeanwhilewas mortifiedand knew the reason of it clearlyenough.  His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and here forthe first time there had come a chance which had set him at adisadvantage.  It was not onlyas it had been hithertothatshe was not supremely occupied with himbut that she had seen himunder circumstances in which he might appear not to be supremelyoccupied with her.  He felt thrust to a new distance from heramongst the circles of Middlemarchers who made no part of her life.But that was not his fault:  of coursesince he had taken hislodgings in the townhe had been making as many acquaintances as hecouldhis position requiring that he should know everybody andeverything. Lydgate was really better worth knowing than any one elsein the neighborhoodand he happened to have a wife who was musicaland altogether worth calling upon.  Here was the whole historyof the situation in which Diana had descended too unexpectedly on herworshipper.  It was mortifying.  Will was conscious that heshould not have been at Middlemarch but for Dorothea; and yet hisposition there was threatening to divide him from her with thosebarriers of habitual sentiment which are more fatal to thepersistence of mutual interest than all the distance between Rome andBritain. Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to defy inthe form of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but prejudiceslike odorous bodieshave a double existence both solid and subtle--solid as the pyramidssubtle as the twentieth echo of an echoor asthe memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. And Will wasof a temperament to feel keenly the presence of subtleties:  aman of clumsier perceptions would not have feltas he didthat forthe first time some sense of unfitness in perfect freedom with himhad sprung up in Dorothea's mindand that their silenceas heconducted her to the carriagehad had a chill in it.  PerhapsCasaubonin his hatred and jealousyhad been insisting to Dorotheathat Will had slid below her socially. Confound Casaubon!

Willre-entered the drawing-roomtook up his hatand looking irritatedas he advanced towards Mrs. Lydgatewho had seated herself at herwork-tablesaid--

"Itis always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted.  May I comeanother day and just finish about the rendering of `Lungi dal carobene'?"

"Ishall be happy to be taught" said Rosamond.  "But Iam sure you admit that the interruption was a very beautiful one. I quite envy your acquaintance with Mrs. Casaubon.  Is she veryclever? She looks as if she were."

"ReallyI never thought about it" said Willsulkily.

"Thatis just the answer Tertius gave mewhen I first asked him if shewere handsome.  What is it that you gentlemen are thinking ofwhen you are with Mrs. Casaubon?"

"Herself"said Willnot indisposed to provoke the charming Mrs. Lydgate. "When one sees a perfect womanone never thinks of herattributes--one is conscious of her presence."

"Ishall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick" said Rosamonddimplingand speaking with aery lightness.  "He will comeback and think nothing of me."

"Thatdoes not seem to have been the effect on Lydgate hitherto. Mrs.Casaubon is too unlike other women for them to be compared with her."

"Youare a devout worshipperI perceive.  You often see herIsuppose."

"No"said Willalmost pettishly.  "Worship is usually a matterof theory rather than of practice.  But I am practising it toexcess just at this moment--I must really tear myself away.

"Praycome again some evening:  Mr. Lydgate will like to hear themusicand I cannot enjoy it so well without him."

When herhusband was at home againRosamond saidstanding in front of himand holding his coat-collar with both her hands"Mr. Ladislawwas here singing with me when Mrs. Casaubon came in. He seemedvexed.  Do you think he disliked her seeing him at our house?Surely your position is more than equal to his--whatever may be hisrelation to the Casaubons."

"Nono; it must be something else if he were really vexedLadislaw is asort of gypsy; he thinks nothing of leather and prunella."

"Musicaparthe is not always very agreeable.  Do you like him?"

"Yes: I think he is a good fellow:  rather miscellaneous andbric-a-bracbut likable."

"Doyou knowI think he adores Mrs. Casaubon."

"Poordevil!" said Lydgatesmiling and pinching his wife's ears.

Rosamondfelt herself beginning to know a great deal of the worldespeciallyin discovering what when she was in her unmarried girlhood had beeninconceivable to her except as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes--that womeneven after marriagemight make conquests and enslavemen. At that time young ladies in the countryeven when educated atMrs. Lemon'sread little French literature later than Racineandpublic prints had not cast their present magnificent illuminationover the scandals of life.  Stillvanitywith a woman's wholemind and day to work incan construct abundantly on slight hintsespecially on such a hint as the possibility of indefinite conquests.How delightful to make captives from the throne of marriage with ahusband as crown-prince by your side--himself in fact a subject--while the captives look up forever hopelesslosing their restprobablyand if their appetite tooso much the better!  ButRosamond's romance turned at present chiefly on her crown-princeandit was enough to enjoy his assured subjection.  When he said"Poor devil I" she askedwith playful curiosity--

"Whyso?"

"Whywhat can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids? Heonly neglects his work and runs up bills."

"I amsure you do not neglect your work.  You are always at theHospitalor seeing poor patientsor thinking about some doctor'squarrel; and then at home you always want to pore over yourmicroscope and phials.  Confess you like those things betterthan me."

"Haven'tyou ambition enough to wish that your husband should be somethingbetter than a Middlemarch doctor?" said Lydgateletting hishands fall on to his wife's shouldersand looking at her withaffectionate gravity.  "I shall make you learn my favoritebit from an old poet--      `Why should ourpride make such a stir to be    And be forgot? What good is like to this    To do worthy thewritingand to write    Worthy the reading and theworlds delight?'

What IwantRosyis to do worthy the writing--and to write out myselfwhat I have done.  A man must workto do thatmy pet."

"OfcourseI wish you to make discoveries:  no one could more wishyou to attain a high position in some better place than Middlemarch.You cannot say that I have ever tried to hinder you from working. Butwe cannot live like hermits.  You are not discontented with meTertius?"

"Nodearno.  I am too entirely contented."

"Butwhat did Mrs. Casaubon want to say to you?"

"Merelyto ask about her husband's health.  But I think she is going tobe splendid to our New Hospital:  I think she will give us twohundred a-year."

CHAPTERXLIV

  I would not creep along the coast but steer
   Out inmid-seaby guidance of the stars.

WhenDorotheawalking round the laurel-planted plots of the New Hospitalwith Lydgatehad learned from him that there were no signs of changein Mr. Casaubon's bodily condition beyond the mental sign of anxietyto know the truth about his illnessshe was silent for a fewmomentswondering whether she had said or done anything to rousethis new anxiety.  Lydgatenot willing to let slip anopportunity of furthering a favorite purposeventured to say--

"Idon't know whether your or Mr.--Casaubon's attention has been drawnto the needs of our New Hospital.  Circumstances have made itseem rather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not myfault: it is because there is a fight being made against it by theother medical men.  I think you are generally interested in suchthingsfor I remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeingyou at Tipton Grange before your marriageyou were asking me somequestions about the way in which the health of the poor was affectedby their miserable housing."

"Yesindeed" said Dorotheabrightening.  "I shall bequite grateful to you if you will tell me how I can help to makethings a little better.  Everything of that sort has slippedaway from me since I have been married.  I mean" she saidafter a moment's hesitation"that the people in our village aretolerably comfortableand my mind has been too much taken up for meto inquire further. But here--in such a place as Middlemarch--theremust be a great deal to be done."

"Thereis everything to be done" said Lydgatewith abrupt energy."And this Hospital is a capital piece of workdue entirely toMr. Bulstrode's exertionsand in a great degree to his money. Butone man can't do everything in a scheme of this sort.  Of coursehe looked forward to help.  And now there's a meanpetty feudset up against the thing in the townby certain persons who want tomake it a failure."

"Whatcan be their reasons?" said Dorotheawith naive surprise.

"ChieflyMr. Bulstrode's unpopularityto begin with.  Half the townwould almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him. In thisstupid world most people never consider that a thing is good to bedone unless it is done by their own set.  I had no connectionwith Bulstrode before I came here.  I look at him quiteimpartiallyand I see that he has some notions--that he has setthings on foot-- which I can turn to good public purpose.  If afair number of the better educated men went to work with the beliefthat their observations might contribute to the reform of medicaldoctrine and practicewe should soon see a change for the better. That's my point of view. I hold that by refusing to work with Mr.Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity of making myprofession more generally serviceable."

"Iquite agree with you" said Dorotheaat once fascinated by thesituation sketched in Lydgate's words.  "But what is thereagainst Mr. Bulstrode?  I know that my uncle is friendly withhim."

"Peopledon't like his religious tone" said Lydgatebreaking offthere.

"Thatis all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition"said Dorothealooking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light ofthe great persecutions.

"Toput the matter quite fairlythey have other objections to him:-- heis masterful and rather unsociableand he is concerned with tradewhich has complaints of its own that I know nothing about. But whathas that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thingto establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in thecounty?  The immediate motive to the oppositionhoweveris thefact that Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands. Of course I am glad of that.  It gives me an opportunity ofdoing some good work--and I am aware that I have to justify hischoice of me.  But the consequence isthat the whole professionin Middlemarch have set themselves tooth and nail against theHospitaland not only refuse to cooperate themselvesbut try toblacken the whole affair and hinder subscriptions."

"Howvery petty!" exclaimed Dorotheaindignantly.

"Isuppose one must expect to fight one's way:  there is hardlyanything to be done without it.  And the ignorance of peopleabout here is stupendous.  I don't lay claim to anything elsethan having used some opportunities which have not come withineverybody's reach; but there is no stifling the offence of beingyoungand a new-comerand happening to know something more than theold inhabitants. Stillif I believe that I can set going a bettermethod of treatment-- if I believe that I can pursue certainobservations and inquiries which may be a lasting benefit to medicalpracticeI should be a base truckler if I allowed any considerationof personal comfort to hinder me.  And the course is all theclearer from there being no salary in question to put my persistencein an equivocal light."

"I amglad you have told me thisMr. Lydgate" said Dorotheacordially. "I feel sure I can help a little.  I have somemoneyand don't know what to do with it--that is often anuncomfortable thought to me. I am sure I can spare two hundred a-yearfor a grand purpose like this. How happy you must beto know thingsthat you feel sure will do great good!  I wish I could awakewith that knowledge every morning. There seems to be so much troubletaken that one can hardly see the good of!"

There wasa melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as she spoke these lastwords.  But she presently addedmore cheerfully"Praycome to Lowick and tell us more of this.  I will mention thesubject to Mr. Casaubon.  I must hasten home now."

She didmention it that eveningand said that she should like to subscribetwo hundred a-year--she had seven hundred a-year as the equivalent ofher own fortunesettled on her at her marriage. Mr. Casaubon made noobjection beyond a passing remark that the sum might bedisproportionate in relation to other good objectsbut when Dorotheain her ignorance resisted that suggestionhe acquiesced.  Hedid not care himself about spending moneyand was not reluctant togive it.  If he ever felt keenly any question of money it wasthrough the medium of another passion than the love of materialproperty.

Dorotheatold him that she had seen Lydgateand recited the gist of herconversation with him about the Hospital.  Mr. Casaubon did notquestion her furtherbut he felt sure that she had wished to knowwhat had passed between Lydgate and himself "She knows that Iknow" said the ever-restless voice within; but that increase oftacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them.He distrusted her affection; and what loneliness is more lonely thandistrust?

CHAPTERXLV

Itis the humor of many heads to extol the days of their forefathers

anddeclaim against the wickedness of times present.  Which

notwithstandingthey cannot handsomely dowithout the borrowed help

andsatire of times past; condemning the vices of their own times

bythe expressions of vices in times which they commendwhich cannot

butargue the community of vice in both.  HoracethereforeJuvenal

andPersiuswere no prophetsalthough their lines did seem toindigitate

andpoint at our times.--SIR THOMAS BROWNE:  PseudodoxiaEpidemica.

Thatopposition to the New Fever Hospital which Lydgate had sketched toDorothea waslike other oppositionsto be viewed in many differentlights.  He regarded it as a mixture of jealousy anddunderheaded prejudice.  Mr. Bulstrode saw in it not onlymedical jealousy but a determination to thwart himselfpromptedmainly by a hatred of that vital religion of which he had striven tobe an effectual lay representative--a hatred which certainly foundpretexts apart from religion such as were only too easy to find inthe entanglements of human action.  These might be called theministerial views.  But oppositions have the illimitable rangeof objections at commandwhich need never stop short at the boundaryof knowledgebut can draw forever on the vasts of ignorance. Whatthe opposition in Middlemarch said about the New Hospital and itsadministration had certainly a great deal of echo in itfor heavenhas taken care that everybody shall not be an originator; but therewere differences which represented every social shade between thepolished moderation of Dr. Minchin and the trenchant assertion ofMrs. Dollopthe landlady of the Tankard in Slaughter Lane.

Mrs.Dollop became more and more convinced by her own asseverationthatDr. Lydgate meant to let the people die in the Hospitalif not topoison themfor the sake of cutting them up without saying by yourleave or with your leave; for it was a known "fac" that hehad wanted to cut up Mrs. Gobyas respectable a woman as any inParley Streetwho had money in trust before her marriage-- a poortale for a doctorwho if he was good for anything should know whatwas the matter with you before you diedand not want to pry intoyour inside after you were gone.  If that was not reasonMrs.Dollop wished to know what was; but there was a prevalent feeling inher audience that her opinion was a bulwarkand that if it wereoverthrown there would be no limits to the cutting-up of bodiesashad been well seen in Burke and Hare with their pitch-plaisters--such a hanging business as that was not wanted in Middlemarch!

And let itnot be supposed that opinion at the Tankard in Slaughter Lane wasunimportant to the medical profession:  that old authenticpublic-house--the original Tankardknown by the name of Dollop's--was the resort of a great Benefit Clubwhich had some months beforeput to the vote whether its long-standing medical man"DoctorGambit" should not be cashiered in favor of "this DoctorLydgate" who was capable of performing the most astonishingcuresand rescuing people altogether given up by otherpractitioners.  But the balance had been turned against Lydgateby two memberswho for some private reasons held that this power ofresuscitating persons as good as dead was an equivocalrecommendationand might interfere with providential favors. In thecourse of the yearhoweverthere had been a change in the publicsentimentof which the unanimity at Dollop's was an index

A gooddeal more than a year agobefore anything was known of Lydgate'sskillthe judgments on it had naturally been divideddepending on asense of likelihoodsituated perhaps in the pit of the stomach or inthe pineal glandand differing in its verdictsbut not the lessvaluable as a guide in the total deficit of evidence. Patients whohad chronic diseases or whose lives had long been worn threadbarelike old Featherstone'shad been at once inclined to try him; alsomany who did not like paying their doctor's billsthought agreeablyof opening an account with a new doctor and sending for him withoutstint if the children's temper wanted a doseoccasions when the oldpractitioners were often crusty; and all persons thus inclined toemploy Lydgate held it likely that he was clever.  Someconsidered that he might do more than others "where there wasliver;"--at least there would be no harm in getting a fewbottles of "stuff" from himsince if these proved uselessit would still be possible to return to the Purifying Pillswhichkept you alive if they did not remove the yellowness. But these werepeople of minor importance.  Good Middlemarch families were ofcourse not going to change their doctor without reason shown; andeverybody who had employed Mr. Peacock did not feel obliged to accepta new man merely in the character of his successorobjecting that hewas "not likely to be equal to Peacock."

ButLydgate had not been long in the town before there were particularsenough reported of him to breed much more specific expectations andto intensify differences into partisanship; some of the particularsbeing of that impressive order of which the significance is entirelyhiddenlike a statistical amount without a standard of comparisonbut with a note of exclamation at the end. The cubic feet of oxygenyearly swallowed by a full-grown man-- what a shudder they might havecreated in some Middlemarch circles! "Oxygen! nobody knows whatthat may be--is it any wonder the cholera has got to Dantzic? And yet there are people who say quarantine is no good!"

One of thefacts quickly rumored was that Lydgate did not dispense drugs. Thiswas offensive both to the physicians whose exclusive distinctionseemed infringed onand to the surgeon-apothecaries with whom heranged himself; and only a little while beforethey might havecounted on having the law on their side against a man who withoutcalling himself a London-made M.D. dared to ask for pay except as acharge on drugs.  But Lydgate had not been experienced enough toforesee that his new course would be even more offensive to thelaity; and to Mr. Mawmseyan important grocer in the Top Marketwhothough not one of his patientsquestioned him in an affablemanner on the subjecthe was injudicious enough to give a hastypopular explanation of his reasonspointing out to Mr. Mawmsey thatit must lower the character of practitionersand be a constantinjury to the publicif their only mode of getting paid for theirwork was by their making out long bills for draughtsbolusesandmixtures.

"Itis in that way that hard-working medical men may come to be almost asmischievous as quacks" said Lydgaterather thoughtlessly. "Toget their own bread they must overdose the king's lieges; and that'sa bad sort of treasonMr. Mawmsey--undermines the constitution in afatal way."

Mr.Mawmsey was not only an overseer (it was about a question of outdoorpay that he was having an interview with Lydgate)he was alsoasthmatic and had an increasing family:  thusfrom a medicalpoint of viewas well as from his ownhe was an important man;indeedan exceptional grocerwhose hair was arranged in aflame-like pyramidand whose retail deference was of the cordialencouraging kind--jocosely complimentaryand with a certainconsiderate abstinence from letting out the full force of his mind.It was Mr. Mawmsey's friendly jocoseness in questioning him which hadset the tone of Lydgate's reply.  But let the wise be warnedagainst too great readiness at explanation:  it multiplies thesources of mistakelengthening the sum for reckoners sure to gowrong.

Lydgatesmiled as he ended his speechputting his foot into the stirrupandMr. Mawmsey laughed more than he would have done if he had known whothe king's lieges weregiving his "Good morningsirgood-morningsir" with the air of one who saw everythingclearly enough.  But in truth his views were perturbed. Foryears he had been paying bills with strictly made itemsso that forevery half-crown and eighteen-pence he was certain somethingmeasurable had been delivered.  He had done this withsatisfactionincluding it among his responsibilities as a husbandand fatherand regarding a longer bill than usual as a dignity worthmentioning.  Moreoverin addition to the massive benefit of thedrugs to "self and family" he had enjoyed the pleasure offorming an acute judgment as to their immediate effectsso as togive an intelligent statement for the guidance of Mr. Gambit-- apractitioner just a little lower in status than Wrench or Tollerandespecially esteemed as an accoucheurof whose ability Mr. Mawmseyhad the poorest opinion on all other pointsbut in doctoringhe waswont to say in an undertonehe placed Gambit above any of them.

Here weredeeper reasons than the superficial talk of a new manwhich appearedstill flimsier in the drawing-room over the shopwhen they wererecited to Mrs. Mawmseya woman accustomed to be made much of as afertile mother--generally under attendance more or less frequentfrom Mr. Gambitand occasionally having attacks which required Dr.Minchin.

"Doesthis Mr. Lydgate mean to say there is no use in taking medicine?"said Mrs. Mawmseywho was slightly given to drawling.  "Ishould like him to tell me how I could bear up at Fair timeif Ididn't take strengthening medicine for a month beforehand. Think of what I have to provide for calling customersmydear!"--here Mrs. Mawmsey turned to an intimate female friendwho sat by--"a large veal pie-- a stuffed fillet--a round ofbeef--hamtongueet ceteraet cetera!  But what keeps me upbest is the pink mixturenot the brown.  I wonderMr. Mawmseywith your experienceyou could have patience to listen.  Ishould have told him at once that I knew a little better than that."

"Nonono" said Mr. Mawmsey; "I was not going to tell him myopinion.  Hear everything and judge for yourself is my motto.But he didn't know who he was talking to.  I was not to beturned on HIS finger.  People often pretend to tell me thingswhen they might as well say`Mawmseyyou're a fool.'  But Ismile at it: I humor everybody's weak place.  If physic had doneharm to self and familyI should have found it out by this time."

The nextday Mr. Gambit was told that Lydgate went about saying physic was ofno use.

"Indeed!"said helifting his eyebrows with cautious surprise. (He was a stouthusky man with a large ring on his fourth finger.) "How will hecure his patientsthen?"

"Thatis what I say" returned Mrs. Mawmseywho habitually gaveweight to her speech by loading her pronouns.  "Does HEsuppose that people will pay him only to come and sit with them andgo away again?"

Mrs.Mawmsey had had a great deal of sitting from Mr. Gambitincludingvery full accounts of his own habits of body and other affairs; butof course he knew there was no innuendo in her remarksince hisspare time and personal narrative had never been charged for. So herepliedhumorously--

"WellLydgate is a good-looking young fellowyou know."

"Notone that I would employ" said Mrs. Mawmsey.  "OTHERSmay do as they please."

Hence Mr.Gambit could go away from the chief grocer's without fear of rivalrybut not without a sense that Lydgate was one of those hypocrites whotry to discredit others by advertising their own honestyand that itmight be worth some people's while to show him up.  Mr. Gambithoweverhad a satisfactory practicemuch pervaded by the smells ofretail trading which suggested the reduction of cash payments to abalance.  And he did not think it worth his while to showLydgate up until he knew how. He had not indeed great resources ofeducationand had had to work his own way against a good deal ofprofessional contempt; but he made none the worse accoucheur forcalling the breathing apparatus "longs."

Othermedical men felt themselves more capable.  Mr. Toller shared thehighest practice in the town and belonged to an old Middlemarchfamily: there were Tollers in the law and everything else above theline of retail trade.  Unlike our irascible friend Wrenchhehad the easiest way in the world of taking things which might besupposed to annoy himbeing a well-bredquietly facetious manwhokept a good housewas very fond of a little sporting when he couldget itvery friendly with Mr. Hawleyand hostile to Mr. Bulstrode.It may seem odd that with such pleasant habits he should hare beengiven to the heroic treatmentbleeding and blistering and starvinghis patientswith a dispassionate disregard to his personal example;but the incongruity favored the opinion of his ability among hispatientswho commonly observed that Mr. Toller had lazy mannersbuthis treatment was as active as you could desire:  no mansaidtheycarried more seriousness into his profession:  he was alittle slow in comingbut when he camehe DID something. He was agreat favorite in his own circleand whatever he implied to anyone's disadvantage told doubly from his careless ironical tone.

Henaturally got tired of smiling and saying"Ah!" when hewas told that Mr. Peacock's successor did not mean to dispensemedicines; and Mr. Hackbutt one day mentioning it over the wine at adinner-partyMr. Toller saidlaughingly"Dibbitts will getrid of his stale drugsthen.  I'm fond of little Dibbitts--I'mglad he's in luck."

"Isee your meaningToller" said Mr. Hackbutt"and I amentirely of your opinion.  I shall take an opportunity ofexpressing myself to that effect.  A medical man should beresponsible for the quality of the drugs consumed by his patients. That is the rationale of the system of charging which has hithertoobtained; and nothing is more offensive than this ostentation ofreformwhere there is no real amelioration."

"OstentationHackbutt?" said Mr. Tollerironically.  "I don't seethat.  A man can't very well be ostentatious of what nobodybelieves in.  There's no reform in the matter:  thequestion iswhether the profit on the drugs is paid to the medicalman by the druggist or by the patientand whether there shall beextra pay under the name of attendance."

"Ahto be sure; one of your damned new versions of old humbug" saidMr. Hawleypassing the decanter to Mr. Wrench.

Mr.Wrenchgenerally abstemiousoften drank wine rather freely at apartygetting the more irritable in consequence.

"Asto humbugHawley" he said"that's a word easy to flingabout. But what I contend against is the way medical men are foulingtheir own nestand setting up a cry about the country as if ageneral practitioner who dispenses drugs couldn't be a gentleman. I throw back the imputation with scorn.  I saythe mostungentlemanly trick a man can be guilty of is to come among themembers of his profession with innovations which are a libel on theirtime-honored procedure. That is my opinionand I am ready tomaintain it against any one who contradicts me."  Mr.Wrench's voice had become exceedingly sharp.

"Ican't oblige you thereWrench" said Mr. Hawleythrusting hishands into his trouser-pockets.

"Mydear fellow" said Mr. Tollerstriking in pacifically! andlooking at Mr. Wrench"the physicians have their toes troddenon more than we have.  If you come to dignity it is a questionfor Minchin and Sprague."

"Doesmedical jurisprudence provide nothing against these infringements?"said Mr. Hackbuttwith a disinterested desire to offer his lights."How does the law standehHawley?"

"Nothingto be done there" said Mr. Hawley.  "I looked into itfor Sprague.  You'd only break your nose against a damnedjudge's decision."

"Pooh!no need of law" said Mr. Toller.  "So far as practiceis concerned the attempt is an absurdity.  No patient will likeit-- certainly not Peacock'swho have been used to depletion. Passthe wine."

Mr.Toller's prediction was partly verified.  If Mr. and Mrs.Mawmseywho had no idea of employing Lydgatewere made uneasy byhis supposed declaration against drugsit was inevitable that thosewho called him in should watch a little anxiously to see whether hedid "use all the means he might use" in the case. Even good Mr. Powderellwho in his constant charity ofinterpretation was inclined to esteem Lydgate the more for whatseemed a conscientious pursuit of a better planhad his minddisturbed with doubts during his wife's attack of erysipelasandcould not abstain from mentioning to Lydgate that Mr. Peacock on asimilar occasion had administered a series of boluses which were nototherwise definable than by their remarkable effect in bringing Mrs.Powderell round before Michaelmas from an illness which had begun ina remarkably hot August. At lastindeedin the conflict between hisdesire not to hurt Lydgate and his anxiety that no "means"should be lackinghe induced his wife privately to take Widgeon'sPurifying Billsan esteemed Middlemarch medicinewhich arrestedevery disease at the fountain by setting to work at once upon theblood. This co-operative measure was not to be mentioned to Lydgateand Mr. Powderell himself had no certain reliance on itonly hopingthat it might be attended with a blessing.

But inthis doubtful stage of Lydgate's introduction he was helped by whatwe mortals rashly call good fortune.  I suppose no doctor evercame newly to a place without making cures that surprised somebody--cures which may be called fortune's testimonialsand deserve as muchcredit as the ten or printed kind.  Various patients got wellwhile Lydgate was attending themsome even of dangerous illnesses;and it was remarked that the new doctor with his new ways had atleast the merit of bringing people back from the brink of death. Thetrash talked on such occasions was the more vexatious to Lydgatebecause it gave precisely the sort of prestige which an incompetentand unscrupulous man would desireand was sure to be imputed to himby the simmering dislike of the other medical men as an encouragementon his own part of ignorant puffing.  But even his proudoutspokenness was checked by the discernment that it was as uselessto fight against the interpretations of ignorance as to whip the fog;and "good fortune" insisted on using those interpretations.

Mrs.Larcher having just become charitably concerned about alarmingsymptoms in her charwomanwhen Dr. Minchin calledasked him to seeher then and thereand to give her a certificate for the Infirmary;whereupon after examination he wrote a statement of the case as oneof tumorand recommended the bearer Nancy Nash as an out-patient.Nancycalling at home on her way to the Infirmaryallowed the staymaker and his wifein whose attic she lodgedto read Dr. Minchin'spaperand by this means became a subject of compassionateconversation in the neighboring shops of Churchyard Lane as beingafflicted with a tumor at first declared to be as large and hard as aduck's eggbut later in the day to be about the size of "yourfist." Most hearers agreed that it would have to be cut outbutone had known of oil and another of "squitchineal" asadequate to soften and reduce any lump in the body when taken enoughof into the inside-- the oil by gradually "soopling" thesquitchineal by eating away.

Meanwhilewhen Nancy presented herself at the Infirmaryit happened to be oneof Lydgate's days there.  After questioning and examining herLydgate said to the house-surgeon in an undertone"It's nottumor: it's cramp."  He ordered her a blister and somesteel mixtureand told her to go home and restgiving her at thesame time a note to Mrs. Larcherwhoshe saidwas her bestemployerto testify that she was in need of good food.

Butby-and-by Nancyin her atticbecame portentously worsethesupposed tumor having indeed given way to the blisterbut onlywandered to another region with angrier pain.  The staymaker'swife went to fetch Lydgateand he continued for a fortnight toattend Nancy in her own homeuntil under his treatment she got quitewell and went to work again.  But the case continued to bedescribed as one of tumor in Churchyard Lane and other streets--nayby Mrs. Larcher also; for when Lydgate's remarkable cure wasmentioned to Dr. Minchinhe naturally did not like to say"Thecase was not one of tumorand I was mistaken in describing it assuch" but answered"Indeed! ah!  I saw it was asurgical casenot of a fatal kind." He had been inwardlyannoyedhoweverwhen he had asked at the Infirmary about the womanhe had recommended two days beforeto hear from the house-surgeonayoungster who was not sorry to vex Minchin with impunityexactlywhat had occurred: he privately pronounced that it was indecent in ageneral practitioner to contradict a physician's diagnosis in thatopen mannerand afterwards agreed with Wrench that Lydgate wasdisagreeably inattentive to etiquette.  Lydgate did not make theaffair a ground for valuing himself or (very particularly) despisingMinchinsuch rectification of misjudgments often happening among menof equal qualifications.  But report took up this amazing caseof tumornot clearly distinguished from cancerand considered themore awful for being of the wandering sort; till much prejudiceagainst Lydgate's method as to drugs was overcome by the proof of hismarvellous skill in the speedy restoration of Nancy Nash after shehad been rolling and rolling in agonies from the presence of a tumorboth hard and obstinatebut nevertheless compelled to yield.

How couldLydgate help himself?  It is offensive to tell a lady when sheis expressing her amazement at your skillthat she is altogethermistaken and rather foolish in her amazement.  And to haveentered into the nature of diseases would only have added to hisbreaches of medical propriety.  Thus he had to wince under apromise of success given by that ignorant praise which misses everyvalid quality.

In thecase of a more conspicuous patientMr. Borthrop TrumbullLydgatewas conscious of having shown himself something better than anevery-day doctorthough here too it was an equivocal advantage thathe won.  The eloquent auctioneer was seized with pneumoniaandhaving been a patient of Mr. Peacock'ssent for Lydgatewhom he hadexpressed his intention to patronize.  Mr Trumbull was a robustmana good subject for trying the expectant theory upon-- watchingthe course of an interesting disease when left as much as possible toitselfso that the stages might be noted for future guidance; andfrom the air with which he described his sensations Lydgate surmisedthat he would like to be taken into his medical man's confidenceandbe represented as a partner in his own cure. The auctioneer heardwithout much surprisethat his was a constitution which (always withdue watching) might be left to itselfso as to offer a beautifulexample of a disease with all its phases seen in clear delineationand that he probably had the rare strength of mind voluntarily tobecome the test of a rational procedureand thus make the disorderof his pulmonary functions a general benefit to society.

Mr.Trumbull acquiesced at onceand entered strongly into the view thatan illness of his was no ordinary occasion for medical science.

"Neverfearsir; you are not speaking to one who is altogether ignorant ofthe vis medicatrix" said hewith his usual superiority ofexpressionmade rather pathetic by difficulty of breathing. And hewent without shrinking through his abstinence from drugsmuchsustained by application of the thermometer which implied theimportance of his temperatureby the sense that he furnished objectsfor the microscopeand by learning many new words which seemedsuited to the dignity of his secretions.  For Lydgate was acuteenough to indulge him with a little technical talk.

It may beimagined that Mr. Trumbull rose from his couch with a disposition tospeak of an illness in which he had manifested the strength of hismind as well as constitution; and he was not backward in awardingcredit to the medical man who had discerned the quality of patient hehad to deal with.  The auctioneer was not an ungenerous manandliked to give others their duefeeling that he could afford it. Hehad caught the words "expectant method" and rang chimes onthis and other learned phrases to accompany the assurance thatLydgate "knew a thing or two more than the rest of thedoctors--was far better versed in the secrets of his profession thanthe majority of his compeers."

This hadhappened before the affair of Fred Vincy's illness had given to Mr.Wrench's enmity towards Lydgate more definite personal ground. Thenew-comer already threatened to be a nuisance in the shape ofrivalryand was certainly a nuisance in the shape of practicalcriticism or reflections on his hard-driven elderswho had hadsomething else to do than to busy themselves with untried notions.His practice had spread in one or two quartersand from the firstthe report of his high family had led to his being pretty generallyinvitedso that the other medical men had to meet him at dinner inthe best houses; and having to meet a man whom you dislike is notobserved always to end in a mutual attachment. There was hardly everso much unanimity among them as in the opinion that Lydgate was anarrogant young fellowand yet ready for the sake of ultimatelypredominating to show a crawling subservience to Bulstrode. That Mr. Farebrotherwhose name was a chief flag of theanti-Bulstrode partyalways defended Lydgate and made a friend ofhimwas referred to Farebrother's unaccountable way of fighting onboth sides.

Here wasplenty of preparation for the outburst of professional disgust at theannouncement of the laws Mr. Bulstrode was laying down for thedirection of the New Hospitalwhich were the more exasperatingbecause there was no present possibility of interfering with his willand pleasureeverybody except Lord Medlicote having refused helptowards the buildingon the ground that they preferred giving to theOld Infirmary.  Mr. Bulstrode met all the expensesand hadceased to be sorry that he was purchasing the right to carry out hisnotions of improvement without hindrance from prejudiced coadjutors;but he had had to spend large sumsand the building had lingered. Caleb Garth had undertaken ithad failed during its progressandbefore the interior fittings were begun had retired from themanagement of the business; and when referring to the Hospital heoften said that however Bulstrode might ring if you tried himheliked good solid carpentry and masonryand had a notion both ofdrains and chimneys.  In factthe Hospital had become an objectof intense interest to Bulstrodeand he would willingly havecontinued to spare a large yearly sum that he might rule itdictatorially without any Board; but he had another favorite objectwhich also required money for its accomplishment: he wished to baysome land in the neighborhood of Middlemarchand therefore he wishedto get considerable contributions towards maintaining the Hospital. Meanwhile he framed his plan of management. The Hospital was to bereserved for fever in all its forms; Lydgate was to be chief medicalsuperintendentthat he might have free authority to pursue allcomparative investigations which his studiesparticularly in Parishad shown him the importance ofthe other medical visitors having aconsultative influencebut no power to contravene Lydgate's ultimatedecisions; and the general management was to be lodged exclusively inthe hands of five directors associated with Mr. Bulstrodewho wereto have votes in the ratio of their contributionsthe Board itselffilling up any vacancy in its numbersand no mob of smallcontributors being admitted to a share of government.

There wasan immediate refusal on the part of every medical man in the town tobecome a visitor at the Fever Hospital.

"Verywell" said Lydgate to Mr. Bulstrode"we have a capitalhouse-surgeon and dispensera clear-headedneat-handed fellow;we'll get Webbe from Crabsleyas good a country practitioner as anyof themto come over twice a-weekand in case of any exceptionaloperationProtheroe will come from Brassing. I must work the harderthat's alland I have given up my post at the Infirmary.  Theplan will flourish in spite of themand then they'll be glad to comein.  Things can't last as they are: there must be all sorts ofreform soonand then young fellows may be glad to come and studyhere."  Lydgate was in high spirits.

"Ishall not flinchyou may depend upon itMr. Lydgate" said Mr.Bulstrode.  "While I see you carrying out high intentionswith vigoryou shall have my unfailing support.  And I havehumble confidence that the blessing which has hitherto attended myefforts against the spirit of evil in this town will not bewithdrawn. Suitable directors to assist me I have no doubt ofsecuring. Mr. Brooke of Tipton has already given me his concurrenceand a pledge to contribute yearly:  he has not specified thesum-- probably not a great one.  But he will be a useful memberof the board."

A usefulmember was perhaps to be defined as one who would originate nothingand always vote with Mr. Bulstrode.

Themedical aversion to Lydgate was hardly disguised now.  NeitherDr. Sprague nor Dr. Minchin said that he disliked Lydgate'sknowledgeor his disposition to improve treatment:  what theydisliked was his arrogancewhich nobody felt to be altogetherdeniable.  They implied that he was insolentpretentiousandgiven to that reckless innovation for the sake of noise and showwhich was the essence of the charlatan.

The wordcharlatan once thrown on the air could not be let drop. In those daysthe world was agitated about the wondrous doings of Mr. St. JohnLong"noblemen and gentlemen" attesting his extraction ofa fluid like mercury from the temples of a patient.

Mr. Tollerremarked one daysmilinglyto Mrs. Taftthat "Bulstrode hadfound a man to suit him in Lydgate; a charlatan in religion is sureto like other sorts of charlatans."

"YesindeedI can imagine" said Mrs. Taftkeeping the number ofthirty stitches carefully in her mind all the while; "there areso many of that sort.  I remember Mr. Cheshirewith his ironstrying to make people straight when the Almighty had made themcrooked."

"Nono" said Mr. Toller"Cheshire was all right--all fair andabove board.  But there's St. John Long--that's the kind offellow we call a charlatanadvertising cures in ways nobody knowsanything about:  a fellow who wants to make a noise bypretending to go deeper than other people.  The other day he waspretending to tap a man's brain and get quicksilver out of it."

"Goodgracious! what dreadful trifling with people's constitutions!"said Mrs. Taft.

Afterthisit came to be held in various quarters that Lydgate played evenwith respectable constitutions for his own purposesand how muchmore likely that in his flighty experimenting he should make sixesand sevens of hospital patients.  Especially it was to beexpectedas the landlady of the Tankard had saidthat he wouldrecklessly cut up their dead bodies.  For Lydgate havingattended Mrs. Gobywho died apparently of a heart-disease not veryclearly expressed in the symptomstoo daringly asked leave of herrelatives to open the bodyand thus gave an offence quicklyspreading beyond Parley Streetwhere that lady had long resided onan income such as made this association of her body with the victimsof Burke and Hare a flagrant insult to her memory.

Affairswere in this stage when Lydgate opened the subject of the Hospital toDorothea.  We see that be was bearing enmity and sillymisconception with much spiritaware that they were partly createdby his good share of success.

"Theywill not drive me away" he saidtalking confidentially in Mr.Farebrother's study.  "I have got a good opportunity herefor the ends I care most about; and I am pretty sure to get incomeenough for our wants.  By-and-by I shall go on as quietly aspossible:  I have no seductions now away from home and work. AndI am more and more convinced that it will be possible to demonstratethe homogeneous origin of all the tissues.  Raspail and othersare on the same trackand I have been losing time."

"Ihave no power of prophecy there" said Mr. Farebrotherwho hadbeen puffing at his pipe thoughtfully while Lydgate talked; "butas to the hostility in the townyou'll weather it if you areprudent."

"Howam I to be prudent?" said Lydgate"I just do what comesbefore me to do.  I can't help people's ignorance and spiteanymore than Vesalius could.  It isn't possible to square one'sconduct to silly conclusions which nobody can foresee."

"Quitetrue; I didn't mean that.  I meant only two things.  Oneiskeep yourself as separable from Bulstrode as you can:  ofcourseyou can go on doing good work of your own by his help; butdon't get tied.  Perhaps it seems like personal feeling in me tosay so-- and there's a good deal of thatI own--but personal feelingis not always in the wrong if you boil it down to the impressionswhich make it simply an opinion."

"Bulstrodeis nothing to me" said Lydgatecarelessly"except onpublic grounds.  As to getting very closely united to himI amnot fond enough of him for that.  But what was the other thingyou meant?" said Lydgatewho was nursing his leg as comfortablyas possibleand feeling in no great need of advice.

"Whythis.  Take care--experto crede--take care not to get hamperedabout money matters.  I knowby a word you let fall one daythat you don't like my playing at cards so much for money.  Youare right enough there.  But try and keep clear of wanting smallsums that you haven't got.  I am perhaps talking rathersuperfluously; but a man likes to assume superiority over himselfbyholding up his bad example and sermonizing on it."

Lydgatetook Mr. Farebrother's hints very cordiallythough he would hardlyhave borne them from another man.  He could not help rememberingthat he had lately made some debtsbut these had seemed inevitableand he had no intention now to do more than keep house in a simpleway.  The furniture for which he owed would not want renewing;nor even the stock of wine for a long while.

Manythoughts cheered him at that time--and justly.  A man consciousof enthusiasm for worthy aims is sustained under petty hostilities bythe memory of great workers who had to fight their way not withoutwoundsand who hover in his mind as patron saintsinvisiblyhelping.  At homethat same evening when he had been chattingwith Mr. Farebrotherhe had his long legs stretched on the sofahishead thrown backand his hands clasped behind it according to hisfavorite ruminating attitudewhile Rosamond sat at the pianoandplayed one tune after anotherof which her husband only knew (likethe emotional elephant he was!) that they fell in with his mood as ifthey had been melodious sea-breezes.

There wassomething very fine in Lydgate's look just thenand any one mighthave been encouraged to bet on his achievement. In his dark eyes andon his mouth and brow there was that placidity which comes from thefulness of contemplative thought--the mind not searchingbutbeholdingand the glance seeming to be filled with what is behindit.

PresentlyRosamond left the piano and seated herself on a chair close to thesofa and opposite her husband's face.

"Isthat enough music for youmy lord?" she saidfolding her handsbefore her and putting on a little air of meekness.

"Yesdearif you are tired" said Lydgategentlyturning his eyesand resting them on herbut not otherwise moving. Rosamond'spresence at that moment was perhaps no more than a spoonful broughtto the lakeand her woman's instinct in this matter was not dull.

"Whatis absorbing you?" she saidleaning forward and bringing herface nearer to his.

He movedhis hands and placed them gently behind her shoulders.

"I amthinking of a great fellowwho was about as old as I am threehundred years agoand had already begun a new era in anatomy."

"Ican't guess" said Rosamondshaking her head.  "Weused to play at guessing historical characters at Mrs. Lemon'sbutnot anatomists."

"I'lltell you.  His name was Vesalius.  And the only way hecould get to know anatomy as he didwas by going to snatch bodies atnightfrom graveyards and places of execution."

"Oh!"said Rosamondwith a look of disgust on her pretty face"I amvery glad you are not Vesalius.  I should have thought he mightfind some less horrible way than that."

"Nohe couldn't" said Lydgategoing on too earnestly to take muchnotice of her answer.  "He could only get a completeskeleton by snatching the whitened bones of a criminal from thegallowsand burying themand fetching them away by bits secretlyin the dead of night."

"Ihope he is not one of your great heroes" said Rosamondhalfplayfullyhalf anxiously"else I shall have you getting up inthe night to go to St. Peter's churchyard.  You know how angryyou told me the people were about Mrs. Goby.  You have enemiesenough already."

"Sohad VesaliusRosy.  No wonder the medical fogies in Middlemarchare jealouswhen some of the greatest doctors living were fierceupon Vesalius because they had believed in Galenand he showed thatGalen was wrong.  They called him a liar and a poisonousmonster. But the facts of the human frame were on his side; and so hegot the better of them."

"Andwhat happened to him afterwards?" said Rosamondwith someinterest.

"Ohhe had a good deal of fighting to the last.  And they didexasperate him enough at one time to make him burn a good deal of hiswork.  Then he got shipwrecked just as he was coming fromJerusalem to take a great chair at Padua.  He died rathermiserably."

There wasa moment's pause before Rosamond said"Do you knowTertiusIoften wish you had not been a medical man."

"NayRosydon't say that" said Lydgatedrawing her closer to him."That is like saying you wish you had married another man."

"Notat all; you are clever enough for anything:  you might easilyhave been something else.  And your cousins at Quallingham allthink that you have sunk below them in your choice of a profession."

"Thecousins at Quallingham may go to the devil!" said Lydgatewithscorn.  "It was like their impudence if they said anythingof the sort to you."

"Still"said Rosamond"I do NOT think it is a nice professiondear." We know that she had much quiet perseverance in her opinion.

"Itis the grandest profession in the worldRosamond" saidLydgategravely.  "And to say that you love me withoutloving the medical man in meis the same sort of thing as to saythat you like eating a peach but don't like its flavor.  Don'tsay that againdearit pains me."

"VerywellDoctor Grave-face" said Rosydimpling"I willdeclare in future that I dote on skeletonsand body-snatchersandbits of things in phialsand quarrels with everybodythat end inyour dying miserably."

"Nononot so bad as that" said Lydgategiving up remonstranceand petting her resignedly.

CHAPTERXLVI

Puesno podemos haber aquello que queremosqueramos aquello

quepodremos.

 

Sincewe cannot get what we likelet us like what we can get.

  --Spanish Proverb.

WhileLydgatesafely married and with the Hospital under his commandfelthimself struggling for Medical Reform against MiddlemarchMiddlemarch was becoming more and more conscious of the nationalstruggle for another kind of Reform.

By thetime that Lord John Russell's measure was being debated in the Houseof Commonsthere was a new political animation in Middlemarchand anew definition of parties which might show a decided change ofbalance if a new election came.  And there were some who alreadypredicted this eventdeclaring that a Reform Bill would never becarried by the actual Parliament. This was what Will Ladislaw dwelton to Mr. Brooke as a reason for congratulation that he had not yettried his strength at the hustings.

"Thingswill grow and ripen as if it were a comet year" said Will. "Thepublic temper will soon get to a cometary heatnow the question ofReform has set in.  There is likely to be another electionbefore longand by that time Middlemarch will have got more ideasinto its head. What we have to work at now is the `Pioneer' andpolitical meetings."

"QuiterightLadislaw; we shall make a new thing of opinion here"said Mr. Brooke.  "Only I want to keep myself independentabout Reformyou know; I don't want to go too far.  I want totake up.  Wilberforce's and Romilly's lineyou knowand workat Negro EmancipationCriminal Law--that kind of thing. But ofcourse I should support Grey."

"Ifyou go in for the principle of Reformyou must be prepared to takewhat the situation offers" said Will.  "If everybodypulled for his own bit against everybody elsethe whole questionwould go to tatters."

"YesyesI agree with you--I quite take that point of view. I should putit in that light.  I should support Greyyou know. But I don'twant to change the balance of the constitutionand I don't thinkGrey would."

"Butthat is what the country wants"-said Will.  "Elsethere would be no meaning in political unions or any other movementthat knows what it's about.  It wants to have a House of Commonswhich is not weighted with nominees of the landed classbut withrepresentatives of the other interests.  And as to contendingfor a reform short of thatit is like asking for a bit of anavalanche which has already begun to thunder."

"Thatis fineLadislaw:  that is the way to put it.  Write thatdownnow.  We must begin to get documents about the feeling ofthe countryas well as the machine-breaking and general distress."

"Asto documents" said Will"a two-inch card will holdplenty. A few rows of figures are enough to deduce misery fromand afew more will show the rate at which the political determination ofthe people is growing."

"Good: draw that out a little more at lengthLadislaw.  That is anideanow:  write it out in the `Pioneer.' Put the figures anddeduce the miseryyou know; and put the other figures and deduce--and so on.  You have a way of putting things.  Burkenow:--when I think of BurkeI can't help wishing somebody had apocket-borough to give youLadislaw.  You'd never get electedyou know. And we shall always want talent in the House:  reformas we willwe shall always want talent.  That avalanche and thethundernowwas really a little like Burke.  I want that sortof thing--not ideasyou knowbut a way of putting them."

"Pocket-boroughswould be a fine thing" said Ladislaw"if they were alwaysin the right pocketand there were always a Burke at hand."

Will wasnot displeased with that complimentary comparisoneven from Mr.Brooke; for it is a little too trying to human flesh to be consciousof expressing one's self better than others and never to have itnoticedand in the general dearth of admiration for the right thingeven a chance bray of applause falling exactly in time is ratherfortifying.  Will felt that his literary refinements wereusually beyond the limits of Middlemarch perception; neverthelesshewas beginning thoroughly to like the work of which when he began hehad said to himself rather languidly"Why not?"--and hestudied the political situation with as ardent an interest as he hadever given to poetic metres or mediaevalism. It is undeniable thatbut for the desire to be where Dorothea wasand perhaps the want ofknowing what else to doWill would not at this time have beenmeditating on the needs of the English people or criticising Englishstatesmanship:  he would probably have been rambling in Italysketching plans for several dramastrying prose and finding it toojejunetrying verse and finding it too artificialbeginning to copy"bits" from old picturesleaving off because they were "nogood" and observing thatafter allself-culture was theprincipal point; while in politics he would have been sympathizingwarmly with liberty and progress in general. Our sense of duty mustoften wait for some work which shall take the place of dilettanteismand make us feel that the quality of our action is not a matter ofindifference.

Ladislawhad now accepted his bit of workthough it was not thatindeterminate loftiest thing which he had once dreamed of as aloneworthy of continuous effort.  His nature warmed easily in thepresence of subjects which were visibly mixed with life and actionand the easily stirred rebellion in him helped the glow of publicspirit. In spite of Mr. Casaubon and the banishment from Lowickhewas rather happy; getting a great deal of fresh knowledge in a vividway and for practical purposesand making the "Pioneer"celebrated as far as Brassing (never mind the smallness of the area;the writing was not worse than much that reaches the four corners ofthe earth).

Mr. Brookewas occasionally irritating; but Will's impatience was relieved bythe division of his time between visits to the Grange and retreats tohis Middlemarch lodgingswhich gave variety to his life.

"Shiftthe pegs a little" he said to himself"and Mr. Brookemight be in the Cabinetwhile I was Under-Secretary. That is thecommon order of things:  the little waves make the large onesand are of the same pattern.  I am better here than in the sortof life Mr. Casaubon would have trained me forwhere the doing wouldbe all laid down by a precedent too rigid for me to react upon. Idon't care for prestige or high pay."

As Lydgatehad said of himhe was a sort of gypsyrather enjoying the sense ofbelonging to no class; he had a feeling of romance in his positionand a pleasant consciousness of creating a little surprise whereverhe went.  That sort of enjoyment had been disturbed when he hadfelt some new distance between himself and Dorothea in theiraccidental meeting at Lydgate'sand his irritation had gone outtowards Mr. Casaubonwho had declared beforehand that Will wouldlose caste.  "I never had any caste" he would havesaidif that prophecy had been uttered to himand the quick bloodwould have come and gone like breath in his transparent skin. But itis one thing to like defianceand another thing to like itsconsequences.

Meanwhilethe town opinion about the new editor of the "Pioneer" wastending to confirm Mr. Casaubon's view.  Will's relationship inthat distinguished quarter did notlike Lydgate's high connectionsserve as an advantageous introduction:  if it was rumored thatyoung Ladislaw was Mr. Casaubon's nephew or cousinit was alsorumored that "Mr. Casaubon would have nothing to do with him."

"Brookehas taken him up" said Mr. Hawley"because that is whatno man in his senses could have expected.  Casaubon has devilishgood reasonsyou may be surefor turning the cold shoulder on ayoung fellow whose bringing-up he paid for.  Just like Brooke--one of those fellows who would praise a cat to sell a horse."

And someoddities of Will'smore or less poeticalappeared to support Mr.Keckthe editor of the "Trumpet" in asserting thatLadislawif the truth were knownwas not only a Polish emissary butcrack-brainedwhich accounted for the preternatural quickness andglibness of his speech when he got on to a platform--as he didwhenever he had an opportunityspeaking with a facility which castreflections on solid Englishmen generally.  It was disgusting toKeck to see a strip of a fellowwith light curls round his headgetup and speechify by the hour against institutions "which hadexisted when he was in his cradle."  And in a leadingarticle of the "Trumpet" Keck characterized Ladislaw'sspeech at a Reform meeting as "the violence of an energumen--amiserable effort to shroud in the brilliancy of fireworks the daringof irresponsible statements and the poverty of a knowledge which wasof the cheapest and most recent description."

"Thatwas a rattling article yesterdayKeck" said Dr. Spraguewithsarcastic intentions.  "But what is an energumen?"

"Oha term that came up in the French Revolution" said Keck.

Thisdangerous aspect of Ladislaw was strangely contrasted with otherhabits which became matter of remark.  He had a fondnesshalfartistichalf affectionatefor little children--the smaller theywere on tolerably active legsand the funnier their clothingthebetter Will liked to surprise and please them.  We know that inRome he was given to ramble about among the poor peopleand thetaste did not quit him in Middlemarch.

He hadsomehow picked up a troop of droll childrenlittle hatless boys withtheir galligaskins much worn and scant shirting to hang outlittlegirls who tossed their hair out of their eyes to look at himandguardian brothers at the mature age of seven.  This troop he hadled out on gypsy excursions to Halsell Wood at nutting-timeandsince the cold weather had set in he had taken them on a clear day togather sticks for a bonfire in the hollow of a hillsidewhere hedrew out a small feast of gingerbread for themand improvised aPunch-and-Judy drama with some private home-made puppets. Here wasone oddity. Another wasthat in houses where he got friendlyhe wasgiven to stretch himself at full length on the rug while he talkedand was apt to be discovered in this attitude by occasional callersfor whom such an irregularity was likely to confirm the notions ofhis dangerously mixed blood and general laxity.

But Will'sarticles and speeches naturally recommended him in families which thenew strictness of party division had marked off on the side ofReform.  He was invited to Mr. Bulstrode's; but here he couldnot lie down on the rugand Mrs. Bulstrode felt that his mode oftalking about Catholic countriesas if there were any truce withAntichristillustrated the usual tendency to unsoundness inintellectual men.

At Mr.Farebrother'showeverwhom the irony of events had brought on thesame side with Bulstrode in the national movementWill became afavorite with the ladies; especially with little Miss Noblewhom itwas one of his oddities to escort when he met her in the street withher little basketgiving her his arm in the eyes of the townandinsisting on going with her to pay some call where she distributedher small filchings from her own share of sweet things.

But thehouse where he visited oftenest and lay most on the rug wasLydgate's. The two men were not at all alikebut they agreed nonethe worse.  Lydgate was abrupt but not irritabletaking littlenotice of megrims in healthy people; and Ladislaw did not usuallythrow away his susceptibilities on those who took no notice of them. With Rosamondon the other handhe pouted and was wayward--nayoften uncomplimentarymuch to her inward surprise; nevertheless hewas gradually becoming necessary to her entertainment by hiscompanionship in her musichis varied talkand his freedom from thegrave preoccupation whichwith all her husband's tenderness andindulgenceoften made his manners unsatisfactory to herandconfirmed her dislike of the medical profession.

Lydgateinclined to be sarcastic on the superstitious faith of the people inthe efficacy of "the bill" while nobody cared about thelow state of pathologysometimes assailed Will with troublesomequestions. One evening in MarchRosamond in her cherry-colored dresswith swansdown trimming about the throat sat at the tea-table;Lydgatelately come in tired from his outdoor workwas seatedsideways on an easy-chair by the fire with one leg over the elbowhis brow looking a little troubled as his eyes rambled over thecolumns of the "Pioneer" while Rosamondhaving noticedthat he was perturbedavoided looking at himand inwardly thankedheaven that she herself had not a moody disposition.  WillLadislaw was stretched on the rug contemplating the curtain-poleabstractedlyand humming very low the notes of "When first Isaw thy face;" while the house spanielalso stretched out withsmall choice of roomlooked from between his paws at the usurper ofthe rug with silent but strong objection.

Rosamondbringing Lydgate his cup of teahe threw down the paperand said toWillwho had started up and gone to the table--

"It'sno use your puffing Brooke as a reforming landlordLadislaw: theyonly pick the more holes in his coat in the `Trumpet.'"

"Nomatter; those who read the `Pioneer' don't read the `Trumpet'"said Willswallowing his tea and walking about.  "Do yousuppose the public reads with a view to its own conversion?  Weshould have a witches' brewing with a vengeance then--`MinglemingleminglemingleYou that mingle may'--and nobody would knowwhich side he was going to take."

"Farebrothersayshe doesn't believe Brooke would get elected if the opportunitycame:  the very men who profess to be for him would bringanother member out of the bag at the right moment."

"There'sno harm in trying.  It's good to have resident members."

"Why?"said Lydgatewho was much given to use that inconvenient word in acurt tone.

"Theyrepresent the local stupidity better" said Willlaughingandshaking his curls; "and they are kept on their best behavior inthe neighborhood.  Brooke is not a bad fellowbut he has donesome good things on his estate that he never would have done but forthis Parliamentary bite."

"He'snot fitted to be a public man" said Lydgatewith contemptuousdecision.  "He would disappoint everybody who counted onhim:  I can see that at the Hospital. Onlythere Bulstrodeholds the reins and drives him."

"Thatdepends on how you fix your standard of public men" said Will."He's good enough for the occasion:  when the people havemade up their mind as they are making it up nowthey don't want aman-- they only want a vote."

"Thatis the way with you political writersLadislaw--crying up a measureas if it were a universal cureand crying up men who are a part ofthe very disease that wants curing."

"Whynot?  Men may help to cure themselves off the face of the landwithout knowing it" said Willwho could find reasonsimpromptuwhen he had not thought of a question beforehand.

"Thatis no excuse for encouraging the superstitious exaggeration of hopesabout this particular measurehelping the cry to swallow it wholeand to send up voting popinjays who are good for nothing but to carryit.  You go against rottennessand there is nothing morethoroughly rotten than making people believe that society can becured by a political hocus-pocus."

"That'svery finemy dear fellow.  But your cure must begin somewhereand put it that a thousand things which debase a population can neverbe reformed without this particular reform to begin with. Look whatStanley said the other day--that the House had been tinkering longenough at small questions of briberyinquiring whether this or thatvoter has had a guinea when everybody knows that the seats have beensold wholesale.  Wait for wisdom and conscience in publicagents--fiddlestick!  The only conscience we can trust to is themassive sense of wrong in a classand the best wisdom that will workis the wisdom of balancing claims.  That's my text-- which sideis injured?  I support the man who supports their claims; notthe virtuous upholder of the wrong."

"Thatgeneral talk about a particular case is mere question beggingLadislaw.  When I sayI go in for the dose that curesitdoesn't follow that I go in for opium in a given case of gout."

"I amnot begging the question we are upon--whether we are to try fornothing till we find immaculate men to work with. Should you go onthat plan?  If there were one man who would carry you a medicalreform and another who would oppose itshould you inquire which hadthe better motives or even the better brains?"

"Ohof course" said Lydgateseeing himself checkmated by a movewhich he had often used himself"if one did not work with suchmen as are at handthings must come to a dead-lock. Suppose theworst opinion in the town about Bulstrode were a true onethat wouldnot make it less true that he has the sense and the resolution to dowhat I think ought to be done in the matters I know and care mostabout; but that is the only ground on which I go with him"Lydgate added rather proudlybearing in mind Mr. Farebrother'sremarks. "He is nothing to me otherwise; I would not cry him upon any personal ground--I would keep clear of that."

"Doyou mean that I cry up Brooke on any personal ground?" said WillLadislawnettledand turning sharp round.  For the first timehe felt offended with Lydgate; not the less soperhapsbecause hewould have declined any close inquiry into the growth of his relationto Mr. Brooke.

"Notat all" said Lydgate"I was simply explaining my ownaction. I meant that a man may work for a special end with otherswhose motives and general course are equivocalif he is quite sureof his personal independenceand that he is not working for hisprivate interest--either place or money."

"Thenwhy don't you extend your liberality to others?" said Willstill nettled.  "My personal independence is as importantto me as yours is to you.  You have no more reason to imaginethat I have personal expectations from Brookethan I have to imaginethat you have personal expectations from Bulstrode.  Motives arepoints of honorI suppose-- nobody can prove them.  But as tomoney and place in the world." Will endedtossing back hishead"I think it is pretty clear that I am not determined byconsiderations of that sort."

"Youquite mistake meLadislaw" said Lydgatesurprised.  Hehad been preoccupied with his own vindicationand had been blind towhat Ladislaw might infer on his own account.  "I beg yourpardon for unintentionally annoying you.  In factI shouldrather attribute to you a romantic disregard of your own worldlyinterests. On the political questionI referred simply tointellectual bias."

"Howvery unpleasant you both are this evening!" said Rosamond. "Icannot conceive why money should have been referred to. Polities andMedicine are sufficiently disagreeable to quarrel upon. You can bothof you go on quarrelling with all the world and with each other onthose two topics."

Rosamondlooked mildly neutral as she said thisrising to ring the bellandthen crossing to her work-table.

"PoorRosy!" said Lydgateputting out his hand to her as she waspassing him.  "Disputation is not amusing to cherubs. Havesome music.  Ask Ladislaw to sing with you."

When Willwas gone Rosamond said to her husband"What put you out oftemper this eveningTertius?"

"Me? It was Ladislaw who was out of temper.  He is like a bit oftinder."

"ButI meanbefore that.  Something had vexed you before you cameinyou looked cross.  And that made you begin to dispute withMr. Ladislaw. You hurt me very much when you look soTertius."

"DoI?  Then I am a brute" said Lydgatecaressing herpenitently.

"Whatvexed you?"

"Ohoutdoor things--business."  It was really a letterinsisting on the payment of a bill for furniture.  But Rosamondwas expecting to have a babyand Lydgate wished to save her from anyperturbation.

CHAPTERXLVII

  Was never true love loved in vain
   For truest love ishighest gain.
   No art can make it:  it mustspring
   Where elements are fostering.
  So in heaven's spot and hour
   Springs the littlenative flower
   Downward root and upward eye
  Shapen by the earth and sky.

Ithappened to be on a Saturday evening that Will Ladislaw had thatlittle discussion with Lydgate.  Its effect when he went to hisown rooms was to make him sit up half the nightthinking over againunder a new irritationall that he had before thought of his havingsettled in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Brooke.Hesitations before he had taken the step had since turned intosusceptibility to every hint that he would have been wiser not totake it; and hence came his heat towards Lydgate--a heat which stillkept him restless.  Was he not making a fool of himself?-- andat a time when he was more than ever conscious of being somethingbetter than a fool?  And for what end?

Wellforno definite end.  Truehe had dreamy visions of possibilities:there is no human being who having both passions and thoughts doesnot think in consequence of his passions--does not find images risingin his mind which soothe the passion with hope or sting it withdread. But thiswhich happens to us allhappens to some with a widedifference; and Will was not one of those whose wit "keeps theroadway:" he had his bypaths where there were little joys of hisown choosingsuch as gentlemen cantering on the highroad might havethought rather idiotic.  The way in which he made a sort ofhappiness for himself out of his feeling for Dorothea was an exampleof this. It may seem strangebut it is the factthat the ordinaryvulgar vision of which Mr. Casaubon suspected him--namelythatDorothea might become a widowand that the interest he hadestablished in her mind might turn into acceptance of him as ahusband-- had no temptingarresting power over him; he did not livein the scenery of such an eventand follow it outas we all do withthat imagined "otherwise" which is our practical heaven. Itwas not only that he was unwilling to entertain thoughts which couldbe accused of basenessand was already uneasy in the sense that hehad to justify himself from the charge of ingratitude-- the latentconsciousness of many other barriers between himself and Dorotheabesides the existence of her husbandhad helped to turn away hisimagination from speculating on what might befall Mr. Casaubon. And there were yet other reasons.  Willwe knowcould not bearthe thought of any flaw appearing in his crystal: he was at onceexasperated and delighted by the calm freedom with which Dorothealooked at him and spoke to himand there was something so exquisitein thinking of her just as she wasthat he could not long for achange which must somehow change her. Do we not shun the streetversion of a fine melody?--or shrink from the news that therarity--some bit of chiselling or engraving perhaps-- which we havedwelt on even with exultation in the trouble it has cost us to snatchglimpses of itis really not an uncommon thingand may be obtainedas an every-day possession?  Our good depends on the quality andbreadth of our emotion; and to Willa creature who cared little forwhat are called the solid things of life and greatly for its subtlerinfluencesto have within him such a feeling as he had towardsDorotheawas like the inheritance of a fortune. What others mighthave called the futility of his passionmade an additional delightfor his imagination:  he was conscious of a generous movementand of verifying in his own experience that higher love-poetry whichhad charmed his fancy.  Dorotheahe said to himselfwasforever enthroned in his soul:  no other woman could sit higherthan her footstool; and if he could have written out in immortalsyllables the effect she wrought within himhe might have boastedafter the example of old Draytonthat--

  "Queens hereafter might be glad to live    Uponthe alms of her superfluous praise."

But thisresult was questionable.  And what else could he do forDorothea?  What was his devotion worth to her?  It wasimpossible to tell.  He would not go out of her reach.  Hesaw no creature among her friends to whom he could believe that shespoke with the same simple confidence as to him.  She had oncesaid that she would like him to stay; and stay he wouldwhateverfire-breathing dragons might hiss around her.

This hadalways been the conclusion of Will's hesitations. But he was notwithout contradictoriness and rebellion even towards his ownresolve.  He had often got irritatedas he was on thisparticular nightby some outside demonstration that his publicexertions with Mr. Brooke as a chief could not seem as heroic as hewould like them to beand this was always associated with the otherground of irritation--that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignityfor Dorothea's sakehe could hardly ever see her. Whereuponnotbeing able to contradict these unpleasant factshe contradicted hisown strongest bias and said"I am a fool."

Neverthelesssince the inward debate necessarily turned on Dorotheahe endedashe had done beforeonly by getting a livelier sense of what herpresence would be to him; and suddenly reflecting that the morrowwould be Sundayhe determined to go to Lowick Church and see her. He slept upon that ideabut when he was dressing in the rationalmorning lightObjection said--

"Thatwill be a virtual defiance of Mr. Casaubon's prohibition to visitLowickand Dorothea will be displeased."

"Nonsense!"argued Inclination"it would be too monstrous for him to hinderme from going out to a pretty country church on a spring morning. And Dorothea will be glad."

"Itwill be clear to Mr. Casaubon that you have come either to annoy himor to see Dorothea."

"Itis not true that I go to annoy himand why should I not go to seeDorothea?  Is he to have everything to himself and be alwayscomfortable?  Let him smart a littleas other people areobliged to do.  I have always liked the quaintness of the churchand congregation; besidesI know the Tuckers:  I shall go intotheir pew."

Havingsilenced Objection by force of unreasonWill walked to Lowick as ifhe had been on the way to Paradisecrossing Halsell Common andskirting the woodwhere the sunlight fell broadly under the buddingboughsbringing out the beauties of moss and lichenand fresh greengrowths piercing the brown.  Everything seemed to know that itwas Sundayand to approve of his going to Lowick Church. Will easilyfelt happy when nothing crossed his humorand by this time thethought of vexing Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to himmaking his face break into its merry smilepleasant to see as thebreaking of sunshine on the water--though the occasion was notexemplary.  But most of us are apt to settle within ourselvesthat the man who blocks our way is odiousand not to mind causinghim a little of the disgust which his personality excites inourselves.  Will went along with a small book under his arm anda hand in each side-pocketnever readingbut chanting a littleashe made scenes of what would happen in church and coming out. He wasexperimenting in tunes to suit some words of his ownsometimestrying a ready-made melodysometimes improvising. The words were notexactly a hymnbut they certainly fitted his Sunday experience:--     "O meO mewhat frugal cheer   My love doth feed upon!    A toucha raythat isnot here    A shadow that is gone:     "A dream of breath that might be near   An inly-echoed tone    The thought that one maythink me dear    The place where one was known     "The tremor of a banished fear   An ill that was not done--    O meO mewhat frugal cheer    My love doth feed upon!"

Sometimeswhen he took off his hatshaking his head backwardand showing hisdelicate throat as he sanghe looked like an incarnation of thespring whose spirit filled the air--a bright creatureabundant inuncertain promises.

The bellswere still ringing when he got to Lowickand he went into thecurate's pew before any one else arrived there.  But he wasstill left alone in it when the congregation had assembled.  Thecurate's pew was opposite the rector's at the entrance of the smallchanceland Will had time to fear that Dorothea might not come whilehe looked round at the group of rural faces which made thecongregation from year to year within the white-washed walls and darkold pewshardly with more change than we see in the boughs of a treewhich breaks here and there with agebut yet has young shoots. Mr.Rigg's frog-face was something alien and unaccountablebutnotwithstanding this shock to the order of thingsthere were stillthe Waules and the rural stock of the Powderells in their pews sideby side; brother Samuel's cheek had the same purple round as everand the three generations of decent cottagers came as of old with asense of duty to their betters generally-- the smaller childrenregarding Mr. Casaubonwho wore the black gown and mounted to thehighest boxas probably the chief of all bettersand the one mostawful if offended.  Even in 1831 Lowick was at peacenot moreagitated by Reform than by the solemn tenor of the Sunday sermon. The congregation had been used to seeing Will at church in formerdaysand no one took much note of him except the choirwho expectedhim to make a figure in the singing.

Dorotheadid at last appear on this quaint backgroundwalking up the shortaisle in her white beaver bonnet and gray cloak--the same she hadworn in the Vatican.  Her face beingfrom her entrancetowardsthe chanceleven her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Willbutthere was no outward show of her feeling except a slight paleness anda grave bow as she passed him.  To his own surprise Will feltsuddenly uncomfortableand dared not look at her after they hadbowed to each other.  Two minutes laterwhen Mr. Casaubon cameout of the vestryandentering the pewseated himself in face ofDorotheaWill felt his paralysis more complete. He could looknowhere except at the choir in the little gallery over thevestry-door: Dorothea was perhaps painedand he had made a wretchedblunder.  It was no longer amusing to vex Mr. Casaubonwho hadthe advantage probably of watching him and seeing that he dared notturn his head.  Why had he not imagined this beforehand?-- buthe could not expect that he should sit in that square pew aloneunrelieved by any Tuckerswho had apparently departed from Lowickaltogetherfor a new clergyman was in the desk. Still he calledhimself stupid now for not foreseeing that it would be impossible forhim to look towards Dorothea--naythat she might feel his coming animpertinence.  There was no delivering himself from his cagehowever; and Will found his places and looked at his book as if hehad been a school-mistressfeeling that the morning service hadnever been so immeasurably long beforethat he was utterlyridiculousout of temperand miserable. This was what a man got byworshipping the sight of a woman! The clerk observed with surprisethat Mr. Ladislaw did not join in the tune of Hanoverand reflectedthat he might have a cold.

Mr.Casaubon did not preach that morningand there was no change inWill's situation until the blessing had been pronounced and every onerose.  It was the fashion at Lowick for "the betters"to go out first.  With a sudden determination to break the spellthat was upon himWill looked straight at Mr. Casaubon.  Butthat gentleman's eyes were on the button of the pew-doorwhich heopenedallowing Dorothea to passand following her immediatelywithout raising his eyelids.  Will's glance had caughtDorothea's as she turned out of the pewand again she bowedbutthis time with a look of agitationas if she were repressing tears. Will walked out after thembut they went on towards the little gateleading out of the churchyard into the shrubberynever lookinground.

It wasimpossible for him to follow themand he could only walk back sadlyat mid-day along the same road which he had trodden hopefully in themorning.  The lights were all changed for him both without andwithin.

CHAPTERXLVIII

  Surely the golden hours are turning gray
   And dance nomoreand vainly strive to run:
   I see their whitelocks streaming in the wind--
   Each face is haggard asit looks at me
   Slow turning in the constant claspinground
   Storm-driven.

Dorothea'sdistress when she was leaving the church came chiefly from theperception that Mr. Casaubon was determined not to speak to hiscousinand that Will's presence at church had served to mark morestrongly the alienation between them.  Will's coming seemed toher quite excusablenayshe thought it an amiable movement in himtowards a reconciliation which she herself had been constantlywishing for.  He had probably imaginedas she hadthat if Mr.Casaubon and he could meet easilythey would shake hands andfriendly intercourse might return.  But now Dorothea felt quiterobbed of that hope.  Will was banished further than everforMr. Casaubon must have been newly embittered by this thrusting uponhim of a presence which he refused to recognize.

He had notbeen very well that morningsuffering from some difficulty inbreathingand had not preached in consequence; she was notsurprisedthereforethat he was nearly silent at luncheonstillless that he made no allusion to Will Ladislaw. For her own part shefelt that she could never again introduce that subject.  Theyusually spent apart the hours between luncheon and dinner on aSunday; Mr. Casaubon in the library dozing chieflyand Dorothea inher boudoirwhere she was wont to occupy herself with some of herfavorite books.  There was a little heap of them on the table inthe bow-window--of various sortsfrom Herodotuswhich she waslearning to read with Mr. Casaubonto her old companion PascalandKeble's "Christian Year." But to-day opened one afteranotherand could read none of them. Everything seemed dreary: the portents before the birth of Cyrus-- Jewish antiquities--ohdear!--devout epigrams--the sacred chime of favorite hymns--all alikewere as flat as tunes beaten on wood: even the spring flowers and thegrass had a dull shiver in them under the afternoon clouds that hidthe sun fitfully; even the sustaining thoughts which had becomehabits seemed to have in them the weariness of long future days inwhich she would still live with them for her sole companions. It was another or rather a fuller sort of companionship that poorDorothea was hungering forand the hunger had grown from theperpetual effort demanded by her married life.  She was alwaystrying to be what her husband wishedand never able to repose on hisdelight in what she was.  The thing that she likedthat shespontaneously cared to haveseemed to be always excluded from herlife; for if it was only granted and not shared by her husband itmight as well have been denied.  About Will Ladislaw there hadbeen a difference between them from the firstand it had endedsince Mr. Casaubon had so severely repulsed Dorothea's strong feelingabout his claims on the family propertyby her being convinced thatshe was in the right and her husband in the wrongbut that she washelpless.  This afternoon the helplessness was more wretchedlybenumbing than ever:  she longed for objects who could be dearto herand to whom she could be dear. She longed for work whichwould be directly beneficent like the sunshine and the rainand nowit appeared that she was to live more and more in a virtual tombwhere there was the apparatus of a ghastly labor producing what wouldnever see the light. Today she had stood at the door of the tomb andseen Will Ladislaw receding into the distant world of warm activityand fellowship-- turning his face towards her as he went.

Books wereof no use.  Thinking was of no use.  It was Sundayand shecould not have the carriage to go to Celiawho had lately had ababy. There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness anddiscontentand Dorothea had to bear her bad moodas she would haveborne a headache.

Afterdinnerat the hour when she usually began to read aloudMr.Casaubon proposed that they should go into the librarywherehesaidhe had ordered a fire and lights.  He seemed to haverevivedand to be thinking intently.

In thelibrary Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a row of hisnote-books on a tableand now he took up and put into her hand awell-known volumewhich was a table of contents to all the others.

"Youwill oblige memy dear" he saidseating himself"ifinstead of other reading this eveningyou will go through thisaloudpencil in handand at each point where I say `mark' willmake a cross with your pencil.  This is the first step in asifting process which I have long had in viewand as we go on Ishall be able to indicate to you certain principles of selectionwhereby you willI trusthave an intelligent participation in mypurpose."

Thisproposal was only one more sign added to many since his memorableinterview with Lydgatethat Mr. Casaubon's original reluctance tolet Dorothea work with him had given place to the contrarydispositionnamelyto demand much interest and labor from her.

After shehad read and marked for two hourshe said"We will take thevolume up-stairs--and the pencilif you please-- and in case ofreading in the nightwe can pursue this task. It is not wearisome toyouI trustDorothea?"

"Iprefer always reading what you like best to hear" saidDorotheawho told the simple truth; for what she dreaded was toexert herself in reading or anything else which left him as joylessas ever.

It was aproof of the force with which certain characteristics in Dorotheaimpressed those around herthat her husbandwith all his jealousyand suspicionhad gathered implicit trust in the integrity of herpromisesand her power of devoting herself to her idea of the rightand best.  Of late he had begun to feel that these qualitieswere a peculiar possession for himselfand he wanted to engrossthem.

Thereading in the night did come.  Dorothea in her young wearinesshad slept soon and fast:  she was awakened by a sense of lightwhich seemed to her at first like a sudden vision of sunset after shehad climbed a steep hill:  she opened her eyes and saw herhusband wrapped in his warm gown seating himself in the arm-chairnear the fire-place where the embers were still glowing. He had littwo candlesexpecting that Dorothea would awakebut not liking torouse her by more direct means.

"Areyou illEdward?" she saidrising immediately.

"Ifelt some uneasiness in a reclining posture.  I will sit herefor a time."  She threw wood on the firewrapped herselfupand said"You would like me to read to you?"

"Youwould oblige me greatly by doing soDorothea" said Mr.Casaubonwith a shade more meekness than usual in his polite manner."I am wakeful:  my mind is remarkably lucid."

"Ifear that the excitement may be too great for you" saidDorothearemembering Lydgate's cautions.

"NoI am not conscious of undue excitement.  Thought is easy."Dorothea dared not insistand she read for an hour or more on thesame plan as she had done in the eveningbut getting over the pageswith more quickness.  Mr. Casaubon's mind was more alertand heseemed to anticipate what was coming after a very slight verbalindicationsaying"That will do--mark that"--or "Passon to the next head--I omit the second excursus on Crete."Dorothea was amazed to think of the bird-like speed with which hismind was surveying the ground where it had been creeping for years.At last he said--

"Closethe book nowmy dear.  We will resume our work to-morrow. Ihave deferred it too longand would gladly see it completed. But youobserve that the principle on which my selection is madeis to giveadequateand not disproportionate illustration to each of the thesesenumerated in my introductionas at present sketched. You haveperceived that distinctlyDorothea?"

"Yes"said Dorothearather tremulously.  She felt sick at heart.

"Andnow I think that I can take some repose" said Mr. Casaubon. Helaid down again and begged her to put out the lights.  When shehad lain down tooand there was a darkness only broken by a dullglow on the hearthhe said--

"BeforeI sleepI have a request to makeDorothea."

"Whatis it?" said Dorotheawith dread in her mind.

"Itis that you will let me knowdeliberatelywhetherin case of mydeathyou will carry out my wishes:  whether you will avoiddoing what I should deprecateand apply yourself to do what I shoulddesire."

Dorotheawas not taken by surprise:  many incidents had been leading herto the conjecture of some intention on her husband's part which mightmake a new yoke for her.  She did not answer immediately.

"Yourefuse?" said Mr. Casaubonwith more edge in his tone.

"NoI do not yet refuse" said Dorotheain a clear voicethe needof freedom asserting itself within her; "but it is too solemn--I think it is not right--to make a promise when I am ignorant what itwill bind me to.  Whatever affection prompted I would do withoutpromising."

"Butyou would use your own judgment:  I ask you to obey mine; yourefuse."

"Nodearno!" said Dorotheabeseechinglycrushed by opposingfears. "But may I wait and reflect a little while?  Idesire with my whole soul to do what will comfort you; but I cannotgive any pledge suddenly-- still less a pledge to do I know notwhat."

"Youcannot then confide in the nature of my wishes?"

"Grantme till to-morrow" said Dorotheabeseechingly.

"Tillto-morrow then" said Mr. Casaubon.

Soon shecould hear that he was sleepingbut there was no more sleep forher.  While she constrained herself to lie still lest she shoulddisturb himher mind was carrying on a conflict in which imaginationranged its forces first on one side and then on the other. She had nopresentiment that the power which her husband wished to establishover her future action had relation to anything else than his work. But it was clear enough to her that he would expect her to devoteherself to sifting those mixed heaps of materialwhich were to bethe doubtful illustration of principles still more doubtful. The poor child had become altogether unbelieving as to thetrustworthiness of that Key which had made the ambition and the laborof her husband's life.  It was not wonderful thatin spite ofher small instructionher judgment in this matter was truer thanhis:  for she looked with unbiassed comparison and healthy senseat probabilities on which he had risked all his egoism. And now shepictured to herself the daysand monthsand years which she mustspend in sorting what might be called shattered mummiesandfragments of a tradition which was itself a mosaic wrought fromcrushed ruins--sorting them as food for a theory which was alreadywithered in the birth like an elfin child.  Doubtless a vigorouserror vigorously pursued has kept the embryos of truth a-breathing:the quest of gold being at the same time a questioning of substancesthe body of chemistry is prepared for its souland Lavoisier isborn. But Mr. Casaubon's theory of the elements which made the seedof all tradition was not likely to bruise itself unawares againstdiscoveries: it floated among flexible conjectures no more solid thanthose etymologies which seemed strong because of likeness in sounduntil it was shown that likeness in sound made them impossible: it was a method of interpretation which was not tested by thenecessity of forming anything which had sharper collisions than anelaborate notion of Gog and Magog:  it was as free frominterruption as a plan for threading the stars together.  AndDorothea had so often had to check her weariness and impatience overthis questionable riddle-guessingas it revealed itself to herinstead of the fellowship in high knowledge which was to make lifeworthier! She could understand well enough now why her husband hadcome to cling to heras possibly the only hope left that his laborswould ever take a shape in which they could be given to the world. Atfirst it had seemed that he wished to keep even her aloof from anyclose knowledge of what he was doing; but gradually the terriblestringency of human need--the prospect of a too speedy death--

And hereDorothea's pity turned from her own future to her husband'spast--nayto his present hard struggle with a lot which had grownout of that past:  the lonely laborthe ambition breathinghardly under the pressure of self-distrust; the goal recedingandthe heavier limbs; and now at last the sword visibly trembling abovehim!  And had she not wished to marry him that she might helphim in his life's labor?--But she had thought the work was to besomething greaterwhich she could serve in devoutly for its ownsake. Was it righteven to soothe his grief--would it be possibleeven if she promised--to work as in a treadmill fruitlessly?

And yetcould she deny him?  Could she say"I refuse to contentthis pining hunger?"  It would be refusing to do for himdeadwhat she was almost sure to do for him living.  If helived as Lydgate had said he mightfor fifteen years or moreherlife would certainly be spent in helping him and obeying him.

Stillthere was a deep difference between that devotion to the living andthat indefinite promise of devotion to the dead. While he livedhecould claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrateagainstand even to refuse.  But-- the thought passed throughher mind more than oncethough she could not believe in it--might henot mean to demand something more from her than she had been able toimaginesince he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes withouttelling her exactly what they were?  No; his heart was bound upin his work only: that was the end for which his failing life was tobe eked out by hers.

And nowif she were to say"No! if you dieI will put no finger toyour work"--it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruisedheart.

For fourhours Dorothea lay in this conflicttill she felt ill andbewilderedunable to resolvepraying mutely.  Helpless as achild which has sobbed and sought too longshe fell into a latemorning sleepand when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up.Tantripp told her that he had read prayersbreakfastedand was inthe library.

"Inever saw you look so palemadam" said Tantrippasolid-figured woman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne.

"WasI ever high-coloredTantripp?" said Dorotheasmiling faintly.

"Wellnot to say high-coloredbut with a bloom like a Chiny rose. Butalways smelling those leather bookswhat can be expected? Do rest alittle this morningmadam.  Let me say you are ill and not ableto go into that close library."

"Ohnono! let me make haste" said Dorothea.  "Mr.Casaubon wants me particularly."

When shewent down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil his wishes;but that would be later in the day--not yet.

AsDorothea entered the libraryMr. Casaubon turned round from thetable where he had been placing some booksand said--

"Iwas waiting for your appearancemy dear.  I had hoped to set towork at once this morningbut I find myself under someindispositionprobably from too much excitement yesterday. I amgoing now to take a turn in the shrubberysince the air is milder."

"I amglad to hear that" said Dorothea.  "Your mindIfearedwas too active last night."

"Iwould fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke ofDorothea.  You can nowI hopegive me an answer."

"MayI come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorotheawinning a little breathing space in that way.

"Ishall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour" said Mr.Casaubonand then he left her.

Dorotheafeeling very wearyrang and asked Tantripp to bring her some wraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutesbut not in any renewalof the former conflict:  she simply felt that she was going tosay "Yes" to her own doom:  she was too weaktoo fullof dread at the thought of inflicting a keen-edged blow on herhusbandto do anything but submit completely.  She sat stilland let Tantripp put on her bonnet and shawla passivity which wasunusual with herfor she liked to wait on herself.

"Godbless youmadam!" said Tantrippwith an irrepressible movementof love towards the beautifulgentle creature for whom she feltunable to do anything morenow that she had finished tying thebonnet.

This wastoo much for Dorothea's highly-strung feelingand she burst intotearssobbing against Tantripp's arm.  But soon she checkedherselfdried her eyesand went out at the glass door into theshrubbery.

"Iwish every book in that library was built into a caticom for yourmaster" said Tantripp to Prattthe butlerfinding him in thebreakfast-room. She had been at Romeand visited the antiquitiesaswe know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but"your master" when speaking to the other servants.

Prattlaughed.  He liked his master very wellbut he liked Tantrippbetter.

WhenDorothea was out on the gravel walksshe lingered among the nearerclumps of treeshesitatingas she had done once beforethough froma different cause.  Then she had feared lest her effort atfellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spotwhere she foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship fromwhich she shrank.  Neither law nor the world's opinion compelledher to this--only her husband's nature and her own compassiononlythe ideal and not the real yoke of marriage.  She saw clearlyenough the whole situationyet she was fettered:  she could notsmite the stricken soul that entreated hers.  If that wereweaknessDorothea was weak.  But the half-hour was passingandshe must not delay longer.  When she entered the Yew-tree Walkshe could not see her husband; but the walk had bendsand she wentexpecting to catch sight of his figure wrapped in a blue cloakwhichwith a warm velvet capwas his outer garment on chill daysfor the garden. It occurred to her that he might be resting in thesummer-housetowards which the path diverged a little.  Turningthe angleshe could see him seated on the benchclose to a stonetable. His arms were resting on the tableand his brow was boweddown on themthe blue cloak being dragged forward and screening hisface on each side.

"Heexhausted himself last night" Dorothea said to herselfthinking at first that he was asleepand that the summer-house wastoo damp a place to rest in.  But then she remembered that oflate she had seen him take that attitude when she was reading to himas if he found it easier than any other; and that he would sometimesspeakas well as listenwith his face down in that way. She wentinto the summerhouse and said"I am comeEdward; I am ready."

He took nonoticeand she thought that he must be fast asleep. She laid herhand on his shoulderand repeated"I am ready!" Still hewas motionless; and with a sudden confused fearshe leaned down tohimtook off his velvet capand leaned her cheek close to his headcrying in a distressed tone--

"Wakedearwake!  Listen to me.  I am come to answer." ButDorothea never gave her answer.

Later inthe dayLydgate was seated by her bedsideand she was talkingdeliriouslythinking aloudand recalling what had gone through hermind the night before.  She knew himand called him by hisnamebut appeared to think it right that she should explaineverything to him; and againand againbegged him to explaineverything to her husband.

"Tellhim I shall go to him soon:  I am ready to promise. Onlythinking about it was so dreadful--it has made me ill. Not very ill. I shall soon be better.  Go and tell him."

But thesilence in her husband's ear was never more to be broken.

CHAPTERXLIX

  A task too strong for wizard spells
   This squire hadbrought about;
   'T is easy dropping stones inwells
   But who shall get them out?"

"Iwish to God we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this" saidSir James Chettamwith a little frown on his browand an expressionof intense disgust about his mouth.

He wasstanding on the hearth-rug in the library at Lowick Grangeandspeaking to Mr. Brooke.  It was the day after Mr. Casaubon hadbeen buriedand Dorothea was not yet able to leave her room.

"Thatwould be difficultyou knowChettamas she is an executrixandshe likes to go into these things--propertylandthat kind ofthing.  She has her notionsyou know" said Mr. Brookesticking his eye-glasses on nervouslyand exploring the edges of afolded paper which he held in his hand; "and she would like toact-- depend upon itas an executrix Dorothea would want to act. And she was twenty-one last Decemberyou know.  I can hindernothing."

Sir Jameslooked at the carpet for a minute in silenceand then lifting hiseyes suddenly fixed them on Mr. Brookesaying"I will tell youwhat we can do.  Until Dorothea is wellall business must bekept from herand as soon as she is able to be moved she must cometo us.  Being with Celia and the baby will be the best thing inthe world for herand will pass away the time.  And meanwhileyou must get rid of Ladislaw:  you must send him out of thecountry." Here Sir James's look of disgust returned in all itsintensity.

Mr. Brookeput his hands behind himwalked to the window and straightened hisback with a little shake before he replied.

"Thatis easily saidChettameasily saidyou know."

"Mydear sir" persisted Sir Jamesrestraining his indignationwithin respectful forms"it was you who brought him hereandyou who keep him here--I mean by the occupation you give him."

"Yesbut I can't dismiss him in an instant without assigning reasonsmydear Chettam.  Ladislaw has been invaluablemost satisfactory.I consider that I have done this part of the country a service bybringing him--by bringing himyou know."  Mr. Brooke endedwith a nodturning round to give it.

"It'sa pity this part of the country didn't do without himthat's all Ihave to say about it.  At any rateas Dorothea'sbrother-in-lawI feel warranted in objecting strongly to his beingkept here by any action on the part of her friends.  You admitI hopethat I have a right to speak about what concerns the dignityof my wife's sister?"

Sir Jameswas getting warm.

"Ofcoursemy dear Chettamof course.  But you and I havedifferent ideas--different--"

"Notabout this action of Casaubon'sI should hope" interrupted SirJames.  "I say that he has most unfairly compromisedDorothea. I say that there never was a meanermore ungentlemanlyaction than this--a codicil of this sort to a will which he made atthe time of his marriage with the knowledge and reliance of herfamily-- a positive insult to Dorothea!"

"Wellyou knowCasaubon was a little twisted about Ladislaw. Ladislaw hastold me the reason--dislike of the bent he tookyou know-- Ladislawdidn't think much of Casaubon's notionsThoth and Dagon-- that sortof thing:  and I fancy that Casaubon didn't like the independentposition Ladislaw had taken up.  I saw the letters between themyou know.  Poor Casaubon was a little buried in books-- hedidn't know the world."

"It'sall very well for Ladislaw to put that color on it" said SirJames.  "But I believe Casaubon was only jealous of him onDorothea's accountand the world will suppose that she gave him somereason; and that is what makes it so abominable-- coupling her namewith this young fellow's."

"Mydear Chettamit won't lead to anythingyou know" said Mr.Brookeseating himself and sticking on his eye- glass again. "It's all of a piece with Casaubon's oddity. This papernow`Synoptical Tabulation' and so on`for the use of Mrs. Casaubon' itwas locked up in the desk with the will. I suppose he meant Dorotheato publish his researcheseh? and she'll do ityou know; she hasgone into his studies uncommonly."

"Mydear sir" said Sir Jamesimpatiently"that is neitherhere nor there.  The question iswhether you don't see with methe propriety of sending young Ladislaw away?"

"Wellnonot the urgency of the thing.  By-and-byperhapsit maycome round.  As to gossipyou knowsending him away won'thinder gossip.  People say what they like to saynot what theyhave chapter and verse for" said Mr Brookebecoming acuteabout the truths that lay on the side of his own wishes.  "Imight get rid of Ladislaw up to a certain point--take away the`Pioneer' from himand that sort of thing; but I couldn't send himout of the country if he didn't choose to go--didn't chooseyouknow."

Mr.Brookepersisting as quietly as if he were only discussing thenature of last year's weatherand nodding at the end with his usualamenitywas an exasperating form of obstinacy.

"GoodGod!" said Sir Jameswith as much passion as he ever showed"let us get him a post; let us spend money on him.  If hecould go in the suite of some Colonial Governor!  Grampus mighttake him-- and I could write to Fulke about it."

"ButLadislaw won't be shipped off like a head of cattlemy dear fellow;Ladislaw has his ideas.  It's my opinion that if he were to partfrom me to-morrowyou'd only hear the more of him in the country.With his talent for speaking and drawing up documentsthere are fewmen who could come up to him as an agitator--an agitatoryou know."

"Agitator!"said Sir Jameswith bitter emphasisfeeling that the syllables ofthis word properly repeated were a sufficient exposure of itshatefulness.

"Butbe reasonableChettam.  Dorotheanow.  As you sayshehad better go to Celia as soon as possible.  She can stay underyour roofand in the mean time things may come round quietly. Don'tlet us be firing off our guns in a hurryyou know. Standish willkeep our counseland the news will be old before it's known. Twenty things may happen to carry off Ladislaw-- without my doinganythingyou know."

"ThenI am to conclude that you decline to do anything?"

"DeclineChettam?--no--I didn't say decline.  But I really don't see whatI could do.  Ladislaw is a gentleman."

"I amglad to hear It!" said Sir Jameshis irritation making himforget himself a little.  "I am sure Casaubon was not."

"Wellit would have been worse if he had made the codicil to hinder herfrom marrying again at allyou know."

"Idon't know that" said Sir James.  "It would have beenless indelicate."

"Oneof poor Casaubon's freaks!  That attack upset his brain alittle. It all goes for nothing.  She doesn't WANT to marryLadislaw."

"Butthis codicil is framed so as to make everybody believe that she did.I don't believe anything of the sort about Dorothea" said SirJames-- then frowningly"but I suspect Ladislaw.  I tellyou franklyI suspect Ladislaw."

"Icouldn't take any immediate action on that groundChettam.  Infactif it were possible to pack him off--send him to NorfolkIsland-- that sort of thing--it would look all the worse for Dorotheato those who knew about it.  It would seem as if we distrustedher-- distrusted heryou know."

That Mr.Brooke had hit on an undeniable argumentdid not tend to soothe SirJames.  He put out his hand to reach his hatimplying that hedid not mean to contend furtherand saidstill with some heat--

"WellI can only say that I think Dorothea was sacrificed oncebecause herfriends were too careless.  I shall do what I canas herbrotherto protect her now."

"Youcan't do better than get her to Freshitt as soon as possibleChettam.  I approve that plan altogether" said Mr. Brookewell pleased that he had won the argument.  It would have beenhighly inconvenient to him to part with Ladislaw at that timewhen adissolution might happen any dayand electors were to be convincedof the course by which the interests of the country would be bestserved.  Mr. Brooke sincerely believed that this end could besecured by his own return to Parliament:  he offered the forcesof his mind honestly to the nation.

CHAPTERL

  "`This Loller here wol precilen us somewhat.'
  `Nay by my father's soule! that schal he nat'
   Saydethe Schipman`here schal he not preche
   We schal nogospel glosen here ne teche.
   We leven all in the gretGod' quod he.
   He wolden sowen some diffcultee."
  Canterbury Tales.

Dorotheahad been safe at Freshitt Hall nearly a week before she had asked anydangerous questions.  Every morning now she sat with Celia inthe prettiest of up-stairs sitting-roomsopening into a smallconservatory-- Celia all in white and lavender like a bunch of mixedvioletswatching the remarkable acts of the babywhich were sodubious to her inexperienced mind that all conversation wasinterrupted by appeals for their interpretation made to the oracularnurse. Dorothea sat by in her widow's dresswith an expression whichrather provoked Celiaas being much too sad; for not only was babyquite wellbut really when a husband had been so dull andtroublesome while he livedand besides that had--wellwell! Sir Jamesof coursehad told Celia everythingwith a strongrepresentation how important it was that Dorothea should not know itsooner than was inevitable.

But Mr.Brooke had been right in predicting that Dorothea would not longremain passive where action had been assigned to her; she knew thepurport of her husband's will made at the time of their marriageandher mindas soon as she was clearly conscious of her positionwassilently occupied with what she ought to do as the owner of LowickManor with the patronage of the living attached to it.

Onemorning when her uncle paid his usual visitthough with an unusualalacrity in his manner which he accounted for by saying that it wasnow pretty certain Parliament would be dissolved forthwithDorotheasaid--

"Uncleit is right now that I should consider who is to have the living atLowick.  After Mr. Tucker had been provided forI never heardmy husband say that he had any clergyman in his mind as a successorto himself.  I think I ought to have the keys now and go toLowick to examine all my husband's papers. There may be somethingthat would throw light on his wishes."

"Nohurrymy dear" said Mr. Brookequietly.  "By-and-byyou knowyou can goif you like.  But I cast my eyes overthings in the desks and drawers--there was nothing--nothing but deepsubjectsyou know--besides the will.  Everything can be doneby-and-by. As to the livingI have had an application for interestalready-- I should say rather good.  Mr. Tyke has been stronglyrecommended to me--I had something to do with getting him anappointment before. An apostolic manI believe--the sort of thingthat would suit youmy dear."

"Ishould like to have fuller knowledge about himuncleand judge formyselfif Mr. Casaubon has not left any expression of his wishes. Hehas perhaps made some addition to his will--there may be someinstructions for me" said Dorotheawho had all the while hadthis conjecture in her mind with relation to her husband's work.

"Nothingabout the rectorymy dear--nothing" said Mr. Brookerising togo awayand putting out his hand to his nieces: "nor about hisresearchesyou know.  Nothing in the will."

Dorothea'slip quivered.

"Comeyou must not think of these things yetmy dear. By-and-byyouknow."

"I amquite well nowuncle; I wish to exert myself."

"Wellwellwe shall see.  But I must run away now--I have no end ofwork now--it's a crisis--a political crisisyou know.  And hereis Celia and her little man--you are an auntyou knownowand I ama sort of grandfather" said Mr. Brookewith placid hurryanxious to get away and tell Chettam that it would not be his (Mr.Brooke's) fault if Dorothea insisted on looking into everything.

Dorotheasank back in her chair when her uncle had left the roomand cast hereyes down meditatively on her crossed hands.

"LookDodo! look at him!  Did you ever see anything like that?"said Celiain her comfortable staccato.

"WhatKitty?" said Dorothealifting her eyes rather absently.

"What?whyhis upper lip; see how he is drawing it downas if he meant tomake a face.  Isn't it wonderful!  He may have his littlethoughts.  I wish nurse were here.  Do look at him."

A largetear which had been for some time gatheringrolled down Dorothea'scheek as she looked up and tried to smile.

"Don'tbe sadDodo; kiss baby.  What are you brooding over so? I amsure you did everythingand a great deal too much.  You shouldbe happy now."

"Iwonder if Sir James would drive me to Lowick.  I want to lookover everything--to see if there were any words written for me."

"Youare not to go till Mr. Lydgate says you may go.  And he has notsaid so yet (here you arenurse; take baby and walk up and down thegallery). Besidesyou have got a wrong notion in your head as usualDodo--I can see that:  it vexes me."

"Wheream I wrongKitty?" said Dorotheaquite meekly.  She wasalmost ready now to think Celia wiser than herselfand was reallywondering with some fear what her wrong notion was.  Celia felther advantageand was determined to use it.  None of them knewDodo as well as she didor knew how to manage her.  SinceCelia's baby was bornshe had had a new sense of her mental solidityand calm wisdom.  It seemed clear that where there was a babythings were right enoughand that errorin generalwas a mere lackof that central poising force.

"Ican see what you are thinking of as well as can beDodo" saidCelia.  "You are wanting to find out if there is anythinguncomfortable for you to do nowonly because Mr. Casaubon wished it.As if you had not been uncomfortable enough before.  And hedoesn't deserve itand you will find that out.  He has behavedvery badly. James is as angry with him as can be.  And I hadbetter tell youto prepare you."

"Celia"said Dorotheaentreatingly"you distress me. Tell me at oncewhat you mean."  It glanced through her mind that' Mr.Casaubon had left the property away from her--which would not be sovery distressing.

"Whyhe has made a codicil to his willto say the property was all to goaway from you if you married--I mean--"

"Thatis of no consequence" said Dorotheabreaking in impetuously.

"Butif you married Mr. Ladislawnot anybody else" Celia went onwith persevering quietude.  "Of course that is of noconsequence in one way--you never WOULD marry Mr. Ladislaw; but thatonly makes it worse of Mr. Casaubon."

The bloodrushed to Dorothea's face and neck painfully.  But Celia wasadministering what she thought a sobering dose of fact. It was takingup notions that had done Dodo's health so much harm. So she went onin her neutral toneas if she had been remarking on baby's robes.

"Jamessays so.  He says it is abominableand not like a gentleman.And there never was a better judge than James.  It is as if Mr.Casaubon wanted to make people believe that you would wish to marryMr. Ladislaw--which is ridiculous.  Only James says it was tohinder Mr. Ladislaw from wanting to marry you for your money-- justas if he ever would think of making you an offer.  Mrs.Cadwallader said you might as well marry an Italian with white mice! But I must just go and look at baby" Celia addedwithout theleast change of tonethrowing a light shawl over herand trippingaway.

Dorotheaby this time had turned cold againand now threw herself backhelplessly in her chair.  She might have compared her experienceat that moment to the vaguealarmed consciousness that her life wastaking on a new form that she was undergoing a metamorphosis in whichmemory would not adjust itself to the stirring of new organs.Everything was changing its aspect:  her husband's conductherown duteous feeling towards himevery struggle between them-- andyet moreher whole relation to Will Ladislaw.  Her world was ina state of convulsive change; the only thing she could say distinctlyto herself wasthat she must wait and think anew. One changeterrified her as if it had been a sin; it was a violent shock ofrepulsion from her departed husbandwho had had hidden thoughtsperhaps perverting everything she said and did. Then again she wasconscious of another change which also made her tremulous; it was asudden strange yearning of heart towards Will Ladislaw.  It hadnever before entered her mind that he couldunder any circumstancesbe her lover:  conceive the effect of the sudden revelation thatanother had thought of him in that light-- that perhaps he himselfhad been conscious of such a possibility-- and this with thehurryingcrowding vision of unfitting conditionsand questions notsoon to be solved.

It seemeda long while--she did not know how long--before she heard Celiasaying"That will donurse; he will be quiet on my lap now.You can go to lunchand let Garratt stay in the next room.""What I thinkDodo" Celia went onobserving nothing morethan that Dorothea was leaning back in her chairand likely to bepassive"is that Mr. Casaubon was spiteful.  I never didlike himand James never did.  I think the corners of his mouthwere dreadfully spiteful. And now he has behaved in this wayI amsure religion does not require you to make yourself uncomfortableabout him.  If he has been taken awaythat is a mercyand youought to be grateful. We should not grieveshould webaby?"said Celia confidentially to that unconscious centre and poise of theworldwho had the most remarkable fists all complete even to thenailsand hair enoughreallywhen you took his cap offtomake--you didn't know what:-- in shorthe was Bouddha in a Westernform.

At thiscrisis Lydgate was announcedand one of the first things he saidwas"I fear you are not so well as you wereMrs. Casaubon;have you been agitated? allow me to feel your pulse." Dorothea's hand was of a marble coldness.

"Shewants to go to Lowickto look over papers" said Celia. "Sheought notought she?"

Lydgatedid not speak for a few moments.  Then he saidlooking atDorothea.  "I hardly know.  In my opinion Mrs.Casaubon should do what would give her the most repose of mind. Thatrepose will not always come from being forbidden to act."

"Thankyou;" said Dorotheaexerting herself"I am sure that iswise. There are so many things which I ought to attend to.  Whyshould I sit here idle?"  Thenwith an effort to recallsubjects not connected with her agitationshe addedabruptly"Youknow every one in MiddlemarchI thinkMr. Lydgate.  I shallask you to tell me a great deal. I have serious things to do now. I have a living to give away. You know Mr. Tyke and all the--"But Dorothea's effort was too much for her; she broke off and burstinto sobs.  Lydgate made her drink a dose of sal volatile.

"LetMrs. Casaubon do as she likes" he said to Sir Jameswhom heasked to see before quitting the house.  "She wants perfectfreedomI thinkmore than any other prescription."

Hisattendance on Dorothea while her brain was excitedhad enabled himto form some true conclusions concerning the trials of her life. Hefelt sure that she had been suffering from the strain and conflict ofself-repression; and that she was likely now to feel herself only inanother sort of pinfold than that from which she had been released.

Lydgate'sadvice was all the easier for Sir James to follow when he found thatCelia had already told Dorothea the unpleasant fact about the will. There was no help for it now--no reason for any further delay in theexecution of necessary business. And the next day Sir James compliedat once with her request that he would drive her to Lowick.

"Ihave no wish to stay there at present" said Dorothea; "Icould hardly bear it.  I am much happier at Freshitt with Celia.I shall be able to think better about what should be done at Lowickby looking at it from a distance.  And I should like to be atthe Grange a little while with my uncleand go about in all the oldwalks and among the people in the village."

"NotyetI think.  Your uncle is having political companyand youare better out of the way of such doings" said Sir Jameswhoat that moment thought of the Grange chiefly as a haunt of youngLadislaw's. But no word passed between him and Dorothea about theobjectionable part of the will; indeedboth of them felt that themention of it between them would be impossible. Sir James was shyeven with menabout disagreeable subjects; and the one thing thatDorothea would have chosen to sayif she had spoken on the matter atallwas forbidden to her at present because it seemed to be afurther exposure of her husband's injustice. Yet she did wish thatSir James could know what had passed between her and her husbandabout Will Ladislaw's moral claim on the property: it would thenshethoughtbe apparent to him as it was to herthat her husband'sstrange indelicate proviso had been chiefly urged by his bitterresistance to that idea of claimand not merely by personal feelingsmore difficult to talk about.  Alsoit must be admittedDorothea wished that this could be known for Will's sakesince herfriends seemed to think of him as simply an object of Mr. Casaubon'scharity.  Why should he be compared with an Italian carryingwhite mice?  That word quoted from Mrs. Cadwallader seemed likea mocking travesty wrought in the dark by an impish finger.

At LowickDorothea searched desk and drawer--searched all her husband's placesof deposit for private writingbut found no paper addressedespecially to herexcept that "Synoptical Tabulation"which was probably only the beginning of many intended directions forher guidance.  In carrying out this bequest of labor toDorotheaas in all elseMr. Casaubon had been slow and hesitatingoppressed in the plan of transmitting his workas he had been inexecuting itby the sense of moving heavily in a dim and cloggingmedium: distrust of Dorothea's competence to arrange what he hadprepared was subdued only by distrust of any other redactor. But he had come at last to create a trust for himself out ofDorothea's nature: she could do what she resolved to do:  and hewillingly imagined her toiling under the fetters of a promise toerect a tomb with his name upon it.  (Not that Mr. Casauboncalled the future volumes a tomb; he called them the Key to allMythologies.) But the months gained on him and left his plansbelated:  he had only had time to ask for that promise by whichhe sought to keep his cold grasp on Dorothea's life.

The grasphad slipped away.  Bound by a pledge given from the depths ofher pityshe would have been capable of undertaking a toil which herjudgment whispered was vain for all uses except that consecration offaithfulness which is a supreme use.  But now her judgmentinstead of being controlled by duteous devotionwas made active bythe imbittering discovery that in her past union there had lurked thehidden alienation of secrecy and suspicion. The livingsuffering manwas no longer before her to awaken her pity:  there remainedonly the retrospect of painful subjection to a husband whose thoughtshad been lower than she had believedwhose exorbitant claims forhimself had even blinded his scrupulous care for his own characterand made him defeat his own pride by shocking men of ordinary honor. As for the property which was the sign of that broken tieshe wouldhave been glad to be free from it and have nothing more than heroriginal fortune which had been settled on herif there had not beenduties attached to ownershipwhich she ought not to flinch from. About this property many troublous questions insisted on rising: had she not been right in thinking that the half of it ought to go toWill Ladislaw?-- but was it not impossible now for her to do that actof justice? Mr. Casaubon had taken a cruelly effective means ofhindering her: even with indignation against him in her heartanyact that seemed a triumphant eluding of his purpose revolted her.

Aftercollecting papers of business which she wished to examineshe lockedup again the desks and drawers--all empty of personal words forher--empty of any sign that in her husband's lonely brooding hisheart had gone out to her in excuse or explanation; and she went backto Freshitt with the sense that around his last hard demand and hislast injurious assertion of his powerthe silence was unbroken.

Dorotheatried now to turn her thoughts towards immediate dutiesand one ofthese was of a kind which others were determined to remind her of. Lydgate's ear had caught eagerly her mention of the livingand assoon as he couldhe reopened the subjectseeing here a possibilityof making amends for the casting-vote he had once given with anill-satisfied conscience.  "Instead of telling you anythingabout Mr. Tyke" he said"I should like to speak ofanother man-- Mr. Farebrotherthe Vicar of St. Botolph's.  Hisliving is a poor oneand gives him a stinted provision for himselfand his family. His motherauntand sister all live with himanddepend upon him. I believe he has never married because of them. I never heard such good preaching as his--such plaineasyeloquence.  He would have done to preach at St. Paul's Crossafter old Latimer.  His talk is just as good about allsubjects:  originalsimpleclear. I think him a remarkablefellow:  he ought to have done more than he has done."

"Whyhas he not done more?" said Dorotheainterested now in all whohad slipped below their own intention.

"That'sa hard question" said Lydgate.  "I find myself thatit's uncommonly difficult to make the right thing work:  thereare so many strings pulling at once.  Farebrother often hintsthat he has got into the wrong profession; he wants a wider rangethan that of a poor clergymanand I suppose he has no interest tohelp him on. He is very fond of Natural History and variousscientific mattersand he is hampered in reconciling these tasteswith his position. He has no money to spare--hardly enough to use;and that has led him into card-playing--Middlemarch is a great placefor whist. He does play for moneyand he wins a good deal.  Ofcourse that takes him into company a little beneath himand makeshim slack about some things; and yetwith all thatlooking at himas a wholeI think he is one of the most blameless men I ever knew. He has neither venom nor doubleness in himand those often go with amore correct outside."

"Iwonder whether he suffers in his conscience because of that habit"said Dorothea; "I wonder whether he wishes he could leave itoff."

"Ihave no doubt he would leave it offif he were transplanted intoplenty:  he would be glad of the time for other things."

"Myuncle says that Mr. Tyke is spoken of as an apostolic man" saidDorotheameditatively.  She was wishing it were possible torestore the times of primitive zealand yet thinking of Mr.Farebrother with a strong desire to rescue him from his chance-gottenmoney.

"Idon't pretend to say that Farebrother is apostolic" saidLydgate. "His position is not quite like that of the Apostles: he is only a parson among parishioners whose lives he has to try andmake better. Practically I find that what is called being apostolicnowis an impatience of everything in which the parson doesn't cutthe principal figure.  I see something of that in Mr. Tyke atthe Hospital:  a good deal of his doctrine is a sort of pinchinghard to make people uncomfortably--aware of him.  Besidesanapostolic man at Lowick!--he ought to thinkas St. Francis didthatit is needful to preach to the birds."

"True"said Dorothea.  "It is hard to imagine what sort of notionsour farmers and laborers get from their teaching.  I have beenlooking into a volume of sermons by Mr. Tyke:  such sermonswould be of no use at Lowick--I meanabout imputed righteousness andthe prophecies in the Apocalypse.  I have always been thinkingof the different ways in which Christianity is taughtand whenever Ifind one way that makes it a wider blessing than any otherI clingto that as the truest--I mean that which takes in the most good ofall kindsand brings in the most people as sharers in it. It issurely better to pardon too muchthan to condemn too much. But Ishould like to see Mr. Farebrother and hear him preach."

"Do"said Lydgate; "I trust to the effect of that.  He is verymuch belovedbut he has his enemies too:  there are alwayspeople who can't forgive an able man for differing from them. Andthat money-winning business is really a blot.  You don'tofcoursesee many Middlemarch people:  but Mr. Ladislawwho isconstantly seeing Mr. Brookeis a great friend of Mr. Farebrother'sold ladiesand would be glad to sing the Vicar's praises. One of theold ladies--Miss Noblethe aunt--is a wonderfully quaint picture ofself-forgetful goodnessand Ladislaw gallants her about sometimes. I met them one day in a back street: you know Ladislaw's look--a sortof Daphnis in coat and waistcoat; and this little old maid reachingup to his arm--they looked like a couple dropped out of a romanticcomedy.  But the best evidence about Farebrother is to see himand hear him."

HappilyDorothea was in her private sitting-room when this conversationoccurredand there was no one present to make Lydgate's innocentintroduction of Ladislaw painful to her.  As was usual with himin matters of personal gossipLydgate had quite forgotten Rosamond'sremark that she thought Will adored Mrs. Casaubon. At that moment hewas only caring for what would recommend the Farebrother family; andhe had purposely given emphasis to the worst that could be said aboutthe Vicarin order to forestall objections. In the weeks. since Mr. Casaubon's death he had hardly seen Ladislawand he hadheard no rumor to warn him that Mr. Brooke's confidential secretarywas a dangerous subject with Mrs. Casaubon. When he was gonehispicture of Ladislaw lingered in her mind and disputed the ground withthat question of the Lowick living. What was Will Ladislaw thinkingabout her?  Would he hear of that fact which made her cheeksburn as they never used to do? And how would he feel when he heardit?--But she could see as well as possible how he smiled down at thelittle old maid. An Italian with white mice!--on the contraryhe wasa creature who entered into every one's feelingsand could take thepressure of their thought instead of urging his own with ironresistance.

CHAPTERLI

  Party is Nature tooand you shall see
   By force ofLogic how they both agree:
   The Many in the OnetheOne in Many;
   All is not Somenor Some the same asAny:
   Genus holds speciesboth are great or small;
  One genus highestone not high at all;
   Each specieshas its differentia too
   This is not Thatand He wasnever You
   Though this and that are AYESand you andhe
   Are like as one to oneor three to three.

No gossipabout Mr. Casaubon's will had yet reached Ladislaw: the air seemed tobe filled with the dissolution of Parliament and the coming electionas the old wakes and fairs were filled with the rival clatter ofitinerant shows; and more private noises were taken little noticeof.  The famous "dry election" was at handin whichthe depths of public feeling might be measured by the low flood-markof drink.  Will Ladislaw was one of the busiest at this time;and though Dorothea's widowhood was continually in his thoughthewas so far from wishing to be spoken to on the subjectthat whenLydgate sought him out to tell him what had passed about the Lowicklivinghe answered rather waspishly--

"Whyshould you bring me into the matter?  I never see Mrs. Casaubonand am not likely to see hersince she is at Freshitt. I never gothere.  It is Tory groundwhere I and the `Pioneer' are no morewelcome than a poacher and his gun."

The factwas that Will had been made the more susceptible by observing thatMr. Brookeinstead of wishing himas beforeto come to the Grangeoftener than was quite agreeable to himselfseemed now to contrivethat he should go there as little as possible. This was a shufflingconcession of Mr. Brooke's to Sir James Chettam's indignantremonstrance; and Willawake to the slightest hint in thisdirectionconcluded that he was to be kept away from the Grange onDorothea's account.  Her friendsthenregarded him with somesuspicion?  Their fears were quite superfluous:  they werevery much mistaken if they imagined that he would put himself forwardas a needy adventurer trying to win the favor of a rich woman.

Until nowWill had never fully seen the chasm between himself andDorothea--until now that he was come to the brink of itand saw heron the other side.  He begannot without some inward ragetothink of going away from the neighborhood:  it would beimpossible for him to show any further interest in Dorothea withoutsubjecting himself to disagreeable imputations--perhaps even in hermindwhich others might try to poison.

"Weare forever divided" said Will.  "I might as well beat Rome; she would be no farther from me."  But what wecall our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope. There were plenty of reasons why he should not go--public reasons whyhe should not quit his post at this crisisleaving Mr. Brooke in thelurch when he needed "coaching" for the electionand whenthere was so much canvassingdirect and indirectto be carried on.Will could not like to leave his own chessmen in the heat of a game;and any candidate on the right sideeven if his brain and marrow hadbeen as soft as was consistent with a gentlemanly bearingmight helpto turn a majority.  To coach Mr. Brooke and keep him steadilyto the idea that he must pledge himself to vote for the actual ReformBillinstead of insisting on his independence and power of pullingup in timewas not an easy task.  Mr. Farebrother's prophecy ofa fourth candidate "in the bag" had not yet been fulfilledneither the Parliamentary Candidate Society nor any other power onthe watch to secure a reforming majority seeing a worthy nodus forinterference while there was a second reforming candidate like Mr.Brookewho might be returned at his own expense; and the fight layentirely between Pinkerton the old Tory memberBagster the new Whigmember returned at the last electionand Brooke the futureindependent memberwho was to fetter himself for this occasiononly.  Mr. Hawley and his party would bend all their forces tothe return of Pinkertonand Mr. Brooke's success must depend eitheron plumpers which would leave Bagster in the rearor on the newminting of Tory votes into reforming votes. The latter meansofcoursewould be preferable.

Thisprospect of converting votes was a dangerous distraction to Mr.Brooke:  his impression that waverers were likely to be alluredby wavering statementsand also the liability of his mind to stickafresh at opposing arguments as they turned up in his memorygaveWill Ladislaw much trouble.

"Youknow there are tactics in these things" said Mr. Brooke;"meeting people half-way--tempering your ideas--saying`Wellnowthere's something in that' and so on.  I agree with youthat this is a peculiar occasion--the country with a will of itsown-- political unions--that sort of thing--but we sometimes cut withrather too sharp a knifeLadislaw.  These ten-poundhouseholdersnow: why ten?  Draw the line somewhere--yes: but why just at ten? That's a difficult questionnowif you go intoit."

"Ofcourse it is" said Willimpatiently.  "But if youare to wait till we get a logical Billyou must put yourself forwardas a revolutionistand then Middlemarch would not elect youIfancy. As for trimmingthis is not a time for trimming."

Mr. Brookealways ended by agreeing with Ladislawwho still appeared to him asort of Burke with a leaven of Shelley; but after an interval thewisdom of his own methods reasserted itselfand he was again drawninto using them with much hopefulness. At this stage of affairs hewas in excellent spiritswhich even supported him under largeadvances of money; for his powers of convincing and persuading hadnot yet beentested by anything more difficult than a chairman'sspeech introducing other oratorsor a dialogue with a Middlemarchvoterfrom which he came away with a sense that he was a tacticianby natureand that it was a pity he had not gone earlier into thiskind of thing. He was a little conscious of defeathoweverwith Mr.Mawmseya chief representative in Middlemarch of that great socialpowerthe retail traderand naturally one of the most doubtfulvoters in the borough--willing for his own part to supply an equalquality of teas and sugars to reformer and anti-reformeras well asto agree impartially with bothand feeling like the burgesses of oldthat this necessity of electing members was a great burthen to atown; for even if there were no danger in holding out hopes to allparties beforehandthere would be the painful necessity at last ofdisappointing respectable people whose names were on his books. Hewas accustomed to receive large orders from Mr. Brooke of Tipton; butthenthere were many of Pinkerton's committee whose opinions had agreat weight of grocery on their side.  Mr. Mawmsey thinkingthat Mr. Brookeas not too "clever in his intellects" wasthe more likely to forgive a grocer who gave a hostile vote underpressurehad become confidential in his back parlor.

"Asto Reformsirput it in a family light" he saidrattling thesmall silver in his pocketand smiling affably.  "Will itsupport Mrs. Mawmseyand enable her to bring up six children when Iam no more? I put the question FICTIOUSLYknowing what must be theanswer. Very wellsir.  I ask you whatas a husband and afatherI am to do when gentlemen come to me and say`Do as youlikeMawmsey; but if you vote against usI shall get my grocerieselsewhere: when I sugar my liquor I like to feel that I am benefitingthe country by maintaining tradesmen of the right color.'  Thosevery words have been spoken to mesirin the very chair where youare now sitting. I don't mean by your honorable selfMr. Brooke."

"Nonono--that's narrowyou know.  Until my butler complains tome of your goodsMr. Mawmsey" said Mr. Brookesoothingly"until I hear that you send bad sugarsspices--that sort ofthing-- I shall never order him to go elsewhere."

"SirI am your humble servantand greatly obliged" said Mr.Mawmseyfeeling that politics were clearing up a little. "There would be some pleasure in voting for a gentleman whospeaks in that honorable manner."

"Wellyou knowMr. Mawmseyyou would find it the right thing to putyourself on our side.  This Reform will touch everybodyby-and-by-- a thoroughly popular measure--a sort of ABCyouknowthat must come first before the rest can follow.  I quiteagree with you that you've got to look at the thing in a familylight: but public spiritnow.  We're all one familyyou know--it's all one cupboard.  Such a thing as a votenow:  whyit may help to make men's fortunes at the Cape--there's no knowingwhat may be the effect of a vote" Mr. Brooke endedwith asense of being a little out at seathough finding it stillenjoyable. But Mr. Mawmsey answered in a tone of decisive check.

"Ibeg your pardonsirbut I can't afford that.  When I give avote I must know what I am doing; I must look to what will be theeffects on my till and ledgerspeaking respectfully.  PricesI'll admitare what nobody can know the merits of; and the suddenfalls after you've bought in currantswhich are a goods that willnot keep-- I've never; myself seen into the ins and outs there; whichis a rebuke to human pride.  But as to one familythere'sdebtor and creditorI hope; they're not going to reform that away;else I should vote for things staying as they are.  Few men haveless need to cry for change than I havepersonally speaking--thatisfor self and family.  I am not one of those who have nothingto lose: I mean as to respectability both in parish and privatebusinessand noways in respect of your honorable self and customwhich you was good enough to say you would not withdraw from mevoteor no votewhile the article sent in was satisfactory."

After thisconversation Mr. Mawmsey went up and boasted to his wife that he hadbeen rather too many for Brooke of Tiptonand that he didn't mind somuch now about going to the poll.

Mr. Brookeon this occasion abstained from boasting of his tactics to Ladislawwho for his part was glad enough to persuade himself that he had noconcern with any canvassing except the purely argumentative sortandthat he worked no meaner engine than knowledge. Mr. Brookenecessarilyhad his agentswho understood the nature of theMiddlemarch voter and the means of enlisting his ignorance on theside of the Bill--which were remarkably similar to the means ofenlisting it on the side against the Bill.  Will stopped hisears. Occasionally Parliamentlike the rest of our liveseven toour eating and apparelcould hardly go on if our imaginations weretoo active about processes.  There were plenty of dirty-handedmen in the world to do dirty business; and Will protested to himselfthat his share in bringing Mr. Brooke through would be quiteinnocent.

Butwhether he should succeed in that mode of contributing to themajority on the right side was very doubtful to him. He had writtenout various speeches and memoranda for speechesbut he had begun toperceive that Mr. Brooke's mindif it had the burthen of rememberingany train of thoughtwould let it droprun away in search of itand not easily come back again.  To collect documents is onemode of serving your countryand to remember the contents of adocument is another.  No! the only way in which Mr. Brooke couldbe coerced into thinking of the right arguments at the right time wasto be well plied with them till they took up all the room in hisbrain.  But here there was the difficulty of finding roomsomany things having been taken in beforehand. Mr. Brooke himselfobserved that his ideas stood rather in his way when he was speaking.

HoweverLadislaw's coaching was forthwith to be put to the testfor beforethe day of nomination Mr. Brooke was to explain himself to the worthyelectors of Middlemarch from the balcony of the White Hartwhichlooked out advantageously at an angle of the market-placecommandinga large area in front and two converging streets. It was a fine Maymorningand everything seemed hopeful: there was some prospect of anunderstanding between Bagster's committee and Brooke'sto which Mr.BulstrodeMr. Standish as a Liberal lawyerand such manufacturersas Mr. Plymdale and Mr. Vincygave a solidity which almostcounterbalanced Mr. Hawley and his associates who sat for Pinkertonat the Green Dragon. Mr. Brookeconscious of having weakened theblasts of the "Trumpet" against himby his reforms as alandlord in the last half yearand hearing himself cheered a littleas he drove into the townfelt his heart tolerably light under hisbuff-colored waistcoat. But with regard to critical occasionsitoften happens that all moments seem comfortably remote until thelast.

"Thislooks welleh?" said Mr. Brooke as the crowd gathered. "Ishall have a good audienceat any rate.  I like thisnow--this kind of public made up of one's own neighborsyou know."

Theweavers and tanners of Middlemarchunlike Mr. Mawmseyhad neverthought of Mr. Brooke as a neighborand were not more attached tohim than if he had been sent in a box from London.  But theylistened without much disturbance to the speakers who introduced thecandidateone of them--a political personage from Brassingwho cameto tell Middlemarch its duty--spoke so fullythat it was alarming tothink what the candidate could find to say after him. Meanwhile thecrowd became denserand as the political personage neared the end ofhis speechMr. Brooke felt a remarkable change in his sensationswhile he still handled his eye-glasstrifled with documents beforehimand exchanged remarks with his committeeas a man to whom themoment of summons was indifferent.

"I'lltake another glass of sherryLadislaw" he saidwith an easyairto Willwho was close behind himand presently handed him thesupposed fortifier.  It was ill-chosen; for Mr. Brooke was anabstemious manand to drink a second glass of sherry quickly at nogreat interval from the first was a surprise to his system whichtended to scatter his energies instead of collecting them Pray pityhim:  so many English gentlemen make themselves miserable byspeechifying on entirely private grounds! whereas Mr. Brooke wishedto serve his country by standing for Parliament--whichindeedmayalso be done on private groundsbut being once undertaken doesabsolutely demand some speechifying.

It was notabout the beginning of his speech that Mr. Brooke was at all anxious;thishe felt surewould be all right; he should have it quite patcut out as neatly as a set of couplets from Pope. Embarking would beeasybut the vision of open sea that might come after was alarming. "And questionsnow" hinted the demon just waking up inhis stomach"somebody may put questions about theschedules.--Ladislaw" he continuedaloud"just hand methe memorandum of the schedules."

When Mr.Brooke presented himself on the balconythe cheers were quite loudenough to counterbalance the yellsgroansbrayingsand otherexpressions of adverse theorywhich were so moderate that Mr.Standish (decidedly an old bird) observed in the ear next to him"This looks dangerousby God!  Hawley has got some deeperplan than this."  Stillthe cheers were exhilaratingandno candidate could look more amiable than Mr. Brookewith thememorandum in his breast-pockethis left hand on the rail of thebalconyand his right trifling with his eye-glass. The strikingpoints in his appearance were his buff waistcoatshort-clipped blondhairand neutral physiognomy.  He began with some confidence.

"Gentlemen--Electorsof Middlemarch!"

This wasso much the right thing that a little pause after it seemed natural.

"I'muncommonly glad to be here--I was never so proud and happy in mylife--never so happyyou know."

This was abold figure of speechbut not exactly the right thing; forunhappilythe pat opening had slipped away--even couplets from Popemay be but "fallings from usvanishings" when fearclutches usand a glass of sherry is hurrying like smoke among ourideas.  Ladislawwho stood at the window behind the speakerthought"it's all up now.  The only chance is thatsincethe best thing won't always dofloundering may answer for once." Mr. Brookemeanwhilehaving lost other clewsfell back on himselfand his qualifications--always an appropriate graceful subject for acandidate.

"I ama close neighbor of yoursmy good friends--you've known me on thebench a good while--I've always gone a good deal into publicquestions--machinerynowand machine-breaking--you're many of youconcerned with machineryand I've been going into that lately. Itwon't doyou knowbreaking machines:  everything must go on--trademanufacturescommerceinterchange of staples--that kind ofthing--since Adam Smiththat must go on.  We must look all overthe globe:--`Observation with extensive view' must look everywhere`from China to Peru' as somebody says--JohnsonI think`TheRambler' you know.  That is what I have done up to a certainpoint--not as far as Peru; but I've not always stayed at home--I sawit wouldn't do. I've been in the Levantwhere some of yourMiddlemarch goods go-- and thenagainin the Baltic.  TheBalticnow."

Plyingamong his recollections in this wayMr. Brooke might have got alongeasily to himselfand would have come back from the remotest seaswithout trouble; but a diabolical procedure had been set up by theenemy.  At one and the same moment there had risen above theshoulders of the crowdnearly opposite Mr. Brookeand within tenyards of himthe effigy of himself:  buff-colored waistcoateye-glassand neutral physiognomypainted on rag; and there hadarisenapparently in the airlike the note of the cuckooaparrot-likePunch-voiced echo of his words.  Everybody lookedup at the open windows in the houses at the opposite angles of theconverging streets; but they were either blankor filled by laughinglisteners.  The most innocent echo has an impish mockery in itwhen it follows a gravely persistent speakerand this echo was notat all innocent; if it did not follow with the precision of a naturalechoit had a wicked choice of the words it overtook. By the time itsaid"The Balticnow" the laugh which had been runningthrough the audience became a general shoutand but for the soberingeffects of party and that great public cause which the entanglementof things had identified with "Brooke of Tipton" the laughmight have caught his committee.  Mr. Bulstrode askedreprehensivelywhat the new police was doing; but a voice could notwell be collaredand an attack on the effigy of the candidate wouldhave been too equivocalsince Hawley probably meant it to be pelted.

Mr. Brookehimself was not in a position to be quickly conscious of anythingexcept a general slipping away of ideas within himself: he had even alittle singing in the earsand he was the only person who had notyet taken distinct account of the echo or discerned the image ofhimself.  Few things hold the perceptions more thoroughlycaptive than anxiety about what we have got to say.  Mr. Brookeheard the laughter; but he had expected some Tory efforts atdisturbanceand he was at this moment additionally excited by theticklingstinging sense that his lost exordium was coming back tofetch him from the Baltic.

"Thatreminds me" he went onthrusting a hand into his side-pocketwith an easy air"if I wanted a precedentyou know--but wenever want a precedent for the right thing--but there is Chathamnow; I can't say I should have supported Chathamor Pitttheyounger Pitt-- he was not a man of ideasand we want ideasyouknow."

"Blastyour ideas! we want the Bill" said a loud rough voice from thecrowd below.

Immediatelythe invisible Punchwho had hitherto followed Mr. Brookerepeated"Blast your ideas! we want the Bill." The laugh was louderthan everand for the first time Mr. Brooke being himself silentheard distinctly the mocking echo.  But it seemed to ridiculehis interrupterand in that light was encouraging; so he repliedwith amenity--

"Thereis something in what you saymy good friendand what do we meet forbut to speak our minds--freedom of opinionfreedom of the pressliberty--that kind of thing?  The Billnow--you shall have theBill"--here Mr. Brooke paused a moment to fix on his eye-glassand take the paper from his breast-pocketwith a sense of beingpractical and coming to particulars.  The invisible Punchfollowed:--

"Youshall have the BillMr. Brookeper electioneering contestand aseat outside Parliament as deliveredfive thousand poundssevenshillingsand fourpence."

Mr.Brookeamid the roars of laughterturned redlet his eye-glassfalland looking about him confusedlysaw the image of himselfwhich had come nearer.  The next moment he saw it dolorouslybespattered with eggs.  His spirit rose a littleand his voicetoo.

"Buffoonerytricksridicule the test of truth--all that is very well"--herean unpleasant egg broke on Mr. Brooke's shoulderas the echo said"All that is very well;" then came a hail of eggschieflyaimed at the imagebut occasionally hitting the originalas if bychance.  There was a stream of new men pushing among the crowd;whistlesyellsbellowingsand fifes made all the greater hubbubbecause there was shouting and struggling to put them down. No voicewould have had wing enough to rise above the uproarand Mr. Brookedisagreeably anointedstood his ground no longer. The frustrationwould have been less exasperating if it had been less gamesome andboyish:  a serious assault of which the newspaper reporter "canaver that it endangered the learned gentleman's ribs" or canrespectfully bear witness to "the soles of that gentleman'sboots having been visible above the railing" has perhaps moreconsolations attached to it.

Mr. Brookere-entered the committee-roomsayingas carelessly as he could"This is a little too badyou know.  I should have got theear of the people by-and-by--but they didn't give me time. I shouldhave gone into the Bill by-and-byyou know" he addedglancingat Ladislaw.  "Howeverthings will come all right at thenomination."

But it wasnot resolved unanimously that things would come right; on thecontrarythe committee looked rather grimand the politicalpersonage from Brassing was writing busilyas if he were brewing newdevices.

"Itwas Bowyer who did it" said Mr. Standishevasively.  "Iknow it as well as if he had been advertised.  He's uncommonlygood at ventriloquismand he did it uncommonly wellby God! Hawley has been having him to dinner lately:  there's a fund oftalent in Bowyer."

"Wellyou knowyou never mentioned him to meStandishelse I would haveinvited him to dine" said poor Mr. Brookewho had gone througha great deal of inviting for the good of his country.

"There'snot a more paltry fellow in Middlemarch than Bowyer" saidLadislawindignantly"but it seems as if the paltry fellowswere always to turn the scale."

Will wasthoroughly out of temper with himself as well as with his"principal" and he went to shut himself in his rooms witha half-formed resolve to throw up the "Pioneer" and Mr.Brooke together. Why should he stay?  If the impassable gulfbetween himself and Dorothea were ever to be filled upit mustrather be by his going away and getting into a thoroughly differentposition than by staying here and slipping into deserved contempt asan understrapper of Brooke's. Then came the young dream of wondersthat he might do-- in five yearsfor example:  politicalwritingpolitical speakingwould get a higher value now public lifewas going to be wider and more nationaland they might give him suchdistinction that he would not seem to be asking Dorothea to step downto him.  Five years:-- if he could only be sure that she caredfor him more than for others; if he could only make her aware that hestood aloof until he could tell his love without loweringhimself--then he could go away easilyand begin a career which atfive-and-twenty seemed probable enough in the inward order of thingswhere talent brings fameand fame everything else which isdelightful.  He could speak and he could write; he could masterany subject if he choseand he meant always to take the side ofreason and justiceon which he would carry all his ardor. Why shouldhe not one day be lifted above the shoulders of the crowdand feelthat he had won that eminence well?  Without doubt he wouldleave Middlemarchgo to townand make himself fit for celebrity by"eating his dinners."

But notimmediately:  not until some kind of sign had passed between himand Dorothea.  He could not be satisfied until she knew whyeven if he were the man she would choose to marryhe would not marryher.  Hence he must keep his post and bear with Mr. Brooke alittle longer.

But hesoon had reason to suspect that Mr. Brooke had anticipated him in thewish to break up their connection. Deputations without and voiceswithin had concurred in inducing that philanthropist to take astronger measure than usual for the good of mankind; namelytowithdraw in favor of another candidateto whom he left theadvantages of his canvassing machinery. He himself called this astrong measurebut observed that his health was less capable ofsustaining excitement than he had imagined.

"Ihave felt uneasy about the chest--it won't do to carry that too far"he said to Ladislaw in explaining the affair.  "I must pullup. Poor Casaubon was a warningyou know.  I've made some heavyadvancesbut I've dug a channel.  It's rather coarse work--thiselectioneeringehLadislaw? dare say you are tired of it. Howeverwe have dug a channel with the `Pioneer'--put things in atrackand so on. A more ordinary man than you might carry it onnow--more ordinaryyou know."

"Doyou wish me to give it up?" said Willthe quick color coming inhis faceas he rose from the writing-tableand took a turn of threesteps with his hands in his pockets.  "I am ready to do sowhenever you wish it."

"Asto wishingmy dear LadislawI have the highest opinion of yourpowersyou know.  But about the `Pioneer' I have beenconsulting a little with some of the men on our sideand they areinclined to take it into their hands--indemnify me to a certainextent--carry it onin fact.  And under the circumstancesyoumight like to give up-- might find a better field.  These peoplemight not take that high view of you which I have always takenas analter egoa right hand-- though I always looked forward to yourdoing something else. I think of having a run into France.  ButI'll write you any lettersyou know--to Althorpe and people of thatkind.  I've met Althorpe."

"I amexceedingly obliged to you" said Ladislawproudly. "Since you are going to part with the `Pioneer' I need nottrouble you about the steps I shall take.  I may choose tocontinue here for the present."

After Mr.Brooke had left him Will said to himself"The rest of thefamily have been urging him to get rid of meand he doesn't care nowabout my going.  I shall stay as long as I like. I shall go ofmy own movements and not because they are afraid of me."

CHAPTERLII

  "His heart
   The lowliest duties on itself didlay."
   --WORDSWORTH.

On thatJune evening when Mr. Farebrother knew that he was to have the Lowicklivingthere was joy in the old fashioned parlorand even theportraits of the great lawyers seemed to look on with satisfaction. His mother left her tea and toast untouchedbut sat with her usualpretty primnessonly showing her emotion by that flush in the cheeksand brightness in the eyes which give an old woman a touchingmomentary identity with her far-off youthful selfand sayingdecisively--

"Thegreatest comfortCamdenis that you have deserved it."

"Whena man gets a good berthmotherhalf the deserving must come after"said the sonbrimful of pleasureand not trying to conceal it. The gladness in his face was of that active kind which seems to haveenergy enough not only to flash outwardlybut to light up busyvision within:  one seemed to see thoughtsas well as delightin his glances.

"Nowaunt" he went onrubbing his hands and looking at Miss Noblewho was making tender little beaver-like noises"There shall besugar-candy always on the table for you to steal and give to thechildrenand you shall have a great many new stockings to makepresents ofand you shall darn your own more than ever!"

Miss Noblenodded at her nephew with a subdued half-frightened laughconsciousof having already dropped an additional lump of sugar into her basketon the strength of the new preferment.

"Asfor youWinny"--the Vicar went on--"I shall make nodifficulty about your marrying any Lowick bachelor--Mr. SolomonFeatherstonefor exampleas soon as I find you are in love withhim."

MissWinifredwho had been looking at her brother all the while andcrying heartilywhich was her way of rejoicingsmiled through hertears and said"You must set me the exampleCam:  YOUmust marry now."

"Withall my heart.  But who is in love with me?  I am a seedyold fellow" said the Vicarrisingpushing his chair away andlooking down at himself.  "What do you saymother?"

"Youare a handsome manCamden:  though not so fine a figure of aman as your father" said the old lady.

"Iwish you would marry Miss Garthbrother" said Miss Winifred."She would make us so lively at Lowick."

"Veryfine! You talk as if young women were tied up to be chosenlikepoultry at market; as if I had only to ask and everybody would haveme" said the Vicarnot caring to specify.

"Wedon't want everybody" said Miss Winifred.  "But YOUwould like Miss Garthmothershouldn't you?"

"Myson's choice shall be mine" said Mrs. Farebrotherwithmajestic discretion"and a wife would be most welcomeCamden. You will want your whist at home when we go to Lowickand HenriettaNoble never was a whist-player." (Mrs. Farebrother always calledher tiny old sister by that magnificent name.)

"Ishall do without whist nowmother."

"WhysoCamden?  In my time whist was thought an undeniableamusement for a good churchman" said Mrs. Farebrotherinnocentof the meaning that whist had for her sonand speaking rathersharplyas at some dangerous countenancing of new doctrine.

"Ishall be too busy for whist; I shall have two parishes" saidthe Vicarpreferring not to discuss the virtues of that game.

He hadalready said to Dorothea"I don't feel bound to give up St.Botolph's. It is protest enough against the pluralism they want toreform if I give somebody else most of the money. The stronger thingis not to give up powerbut to use it well."

"Ihave thought of that" said Dorothea.  "So far as selfis concernedI think it would be easier to give up power and moneythan to keep them. It seems very unfitting that I should have thispatronageyet I felt that I ought not to let it be used by some oneelse instead of me."

"Itis I who am bound to act so that you will not regret your power"said Mr. Farebrother.

His wasone of the natures in which conscience gets the more active when theyoke of life ceases to gall them.  He made no display ofhumility on the subjectbut in his heart he felt rather ashamed thathis conduct had shown laches which others who did not get beneficeswere free from.

"Iused often to wish I had been something else than a clergyman"he said to Lydgate"but perhaps it will be better to try andmake as good a clergyman out of myself as I can.  That is thewell-beneficed point of viewyou perceivefrom which difficultiesare much simplified" he endedsmiling.

The Vicardid feel then as if his share of duties would be easy. But Duty has atrick of behaving unexpectedly--something like a heavy friend whom wehave amiably asked to visit usand who breaks his leg within ourgates.

Hardly aweek laterDuty presented itself in his study under the disguise ofFred Vincynow returned from Omnibus College with his bachelor'sdegree.

"I amashamed to trouble youMr. Farebrother" said Fredwhose fairopen face was propitiating"but you are the only friend I canconsult.  I told you everything once beforeand you were sogood that I can't help coming to you again."

"SitdownFredI'm ready to hear and do anything I can" said theVicarwho was busy packing some small objects for removaland wenton with his work.

"Iwanted to tell you--" Fred hesitated an instant and then went onplungingly"I might go into the Church now; and reallylookwhere I mayI can't see anything else to do.  I don't like itbut I know it's uncommonly hard on my father to say soafter he hasspent a good deal of money in educating me for it." Fred pausedagain an instantand then repeated"and I can't see anythingelse to do."

"Idid talk to your father about itFredbut I made little way withhim.  He said it was too late.  But you have got over onebridge now:  what are your other difficulties?"

"Merelythat I don't like it.  I don't like divinityand preachingandfeeling obliged to look serious.  I like riding across countryand doing as other men do.  I don't mean that I want to be a badfellow in any way; but I've no taste for the sort of thing peopleexpect of a clergyman.  And yet what else am I to do? My fathercan't spare me any capitalelse I might go into farming. And he hasno room for me in his trade.  And of course I can't begin tostudy for law or physic nowwhen my father wants me to earnsomething.  It's all very well to say I'm wrong to go into theChurch; but those who say so might as well tell me to go into thebackwoods."

Fred'svoice had taken a tone of grumbling remonstranceand Mr. Farebrothermight have been inclined to smile if his mind had not been too busyin imagining more than Fred told him.

"Haveyou any difficulties about doctrines--about the Articles?" hesaidtrying hard to think of the question simply for Fred's sake.

"No;I suppose the Articles are right.  I am not prepared with anyarguments to disprove themand much bettercleverer fellows than Iam go in for them entirely.  I think it would be ratherridiculous in me to urge scruples of that sortas if I were ajudge" said Fredquite simply.

"Isupposethenit has occurred to you that you might be a fair parishpriest without being much of a divine?"

"Ofcourseif I am obliged to be a clergymanI shall try and do mydutythough I mayn't like it.  Do you think any body ought toblame me?"

"Forgoing into the Church under the circumstances?  That depends onyour conscienceFred--how far you have counted the costand seenwhat your position will require of you.  I can only tell youabout myselfthat I have always been too laxand have been uneasyin consequence."

"Butthere is another hindrance" said Fredcoloring.  "Idid not tell you beforethough perhaps I may have said things thatmade you guess it.  There is somebody I am very fond of: I haveloved her ever since we were children."

"MissGarthI suppose?" said the Vicarexamining some labels veryclosely.

"Yes. I shouldn't mind anything if she would have me.  And I know Icould be a good fellow then."

"Andyou think she returns the feeling?"

"Shenever will say so; and a good while ago she made me promise not tospeak to her about it again.  And she has set her mindespecially against my being a clergyman; I know that.  But Ican't give her up. I do think she cares about me.  I saw Mrs.Garth last nightand she said that Mary was staying at LowickRectory with Miss Farebrother."

"Yesshe is very kindly helping my sister.  Do you wish to go there?"

"NoI want to ask a great favor of you.  I am ashamed to bother youin this way; but Mary might listen to what you saidif you mentionedthe subject to her--I mean about my going into the Church."

"Thatis rather a delicate taskmy dear Fred.  I shall have topresuppose your attachment to her; and to enter on the subject as youwish me to dowill be asking her to tell me whether she returns it."

"Thatis what I want her to tell you" said Fredbluntly.  "Idon't know what to dounless I can get at her feeling."

"Youmean that you would be guided by that as to your going into theChurch?"

"IfMary said she would never have me I might as well go wrong in one wayas another."

"Thatis nonsenseFred.  Men outlive their lovebut they don'toutlive the consequences of their recklessness."

"Notmy sort of love:  I have never been without loving Mary. If Ihad to give her upit would be like beginning to live on woodenlegs."

"Willshe not be hurt at my intrusion?"

"NoI feel sure she will not.  She respects you more than any oneand she would not put you off with fun as she does me.  Ofcourse I could not have told any one elseor asked any one else tospeak to herbut you.  There is no one else who could be such afriend to both of us."  Fred paused a momentand thensaidrather complainingly"And she ought to acknowledge that Ihave worked in order to pass. She ought to believe that I would exertmyself for her sake."

There wasa moment's silence before Mr. Farebrother laid down his workandputting out his hand to Fred said--

"Verywellmy boy.  I will do what you wish."

That veryday Mr. Farebrother went to Lowick parsonage on the nag which he hadjust set up.  "Decidedly I am an old stalk" hethought"the young growths are pushing me aside."

He foundMary in the garden gathering roses and sprinkling the petals on asheet.  The sun was lowand tall trees sent their shadowsacross the grassy walks where Mary was moving without bonnet orparasol. She did not observe Mr. Farebrother's approach along thegrassand had just stooped down to lecture a small black-and-tanterrierwhich would persist in walking on the sheet and smelling atthe rose-leaves as Mary sprinkled them.  She took his fore-pawsin one handand lifted up the forefinger of the otherwhile the dogwrinkled his brows and looked embarrassed.  "FlyFlyI amashamed of you" Mary was saying in a grave contralto. "This is not becoming in a sensible dog; anybody would think youwere a silly young gentleman."

"Youare unmerciful to young gentlemenMiss Garth" said the Vicarwithin two yards of her.

Marystarted up and blushed.  "It always answers to reason withFly" she saidlaughingly.

"Butnot with young gentlemen?"

"Ohwith someI suppose; since some of them turn into excellent men."

"I amglad of that admissionbecause I want at this very moment tointerest you in a young gentleman."

"Nota silly oneI hope" said Marybeginning to pluck the rosesagainand feeling her heart beat uncomfortably.

"No;though perhaps wisdom is not his strong pointbut rather affectionand sincerity.  Howeverwisdom lies more in those two qualitiesthan people are apt to imagine. I hope you know by those marks whatyoung gentleman I mean."

"YesI think I do" said Marybravelyher face getting moreseriousand her hands cold; "it must be Fred Vincy."

"Hehas asked me to consult you about his going into the Church. I hopeyou will not think that I consented to take a liberty in promising todo so."

"Onthe contraryMr. Farebrother" said Marygiving up the rosesand folding her armsbut unable to look up"whenever you haveanything to say to me I feel honored."

"Butbefore I enter on that questionlet me just touch a point on whichyour father took me into confidence; by the wayit was that veryevening on which I once before fulfilled a mission from Fredjustafter he had gone to college.  Mr. Garth told me what happenedon the night of Featherstone's death--how you refused to burn thewill; and he said that you had some heart-prickings on that subjectbecause you had been the innocent means of hindering Fred fromgetting his ten thousand pounds.  I have kept that in mindandI have heard something that may relieve you on that score-- may showyou that no sin-offering is demanded from you there.".

Mr.Farebrother paused a moment and looked at Mary.  He meant togive Fred his full advantagebut it would be wellhe thoughttoclear her mind of any superstitionssuch as women sometimes followwhen they do a man the wrong of marrying him as an act of atonement.Mary's cheeks had begun to burn a littleand she was mute.

"Imeanthat your action made no real difference to Fred's lot. I findthat the first will would not have been legally good after theburning of the last; it would not have stood if it had been disputedand you may be sure it would have been disputed.  Soon thatscoreyou may feel your mind free."

"ThankyouMr. Farebrother" said Maryearnestly.  "I amgrateful to you for remembering my feelings."

"Wellnow I may go on.  Fredyou knowhas taken his degree. He hasworked his way so farand now the question iswhat is he to do? That question is so difficult that he is inclined to follow hisfather's wishes and enter the Churchthough you know better than Ido that he was quite set against that formerly. I have questioned himon the subjectand I confess I see no insuperable objection to hisbeing a clergymanas things go. He says that he could turn his mindto doing his best in that vocationon one condition.  If thatcondition were fulfilled I would do my utmost in helping Fred on. After a time--notof courseat first-- he might be with me as mycurateand he would have so much to do that his stipend would benearly what I used to get as vicar. But I repeat that there is acondition without which all this good cannot come to pass.  Hehas opened his heart to meMiss Garthand asked me to plead forhim.  The condition lies entirely in your feeling."

Marylooked so much movedthat he said after a moment"Let us walka little;" and when they were walking he added"To speakquite plainlyFred will not take any course which would lessen thechance that you would consent to be his wife; but with that prospecthe will try his best at anything you approve."

"Icannot possibly say that I will ever be his wifeMr. Farebrother:but I certainly never will be his wife if he becomes a clergyman.What you say is most generous and kind; I don't mean for a moment tocorrect your judgment.  It is only that I have my girlishmocking way of looking at things" said Marywith a returningsparkle of playfulness in her answer which only made its modesty morecharming.

"Hewishes me to report exactly what you think" said Mr.Farebrother.

"Icould not love a man who is ridiculous" said Marynot choosingto go deeper.  "Fred has sense and knowledge enough to makehim respectableif he likesin some good worldly businessbut Ican never imagine him preaching and exhortingand pronouncingblessingsand praying by the sickwithout feeling as if I werelooking at a caricature. His being a clergyman would be only forgentility's sakeand I think there is nothing more contemptible thansuch imbecile gentility. I used to think that of Mr. Crowsewith hisempty face and neat umbrellaand mincing little speeches.  Whatright have such men to represent Christianity--as if it were aninstitution for getting up idiots genteelly--as if--" Marychecked herself.  She had been carried along as if she had beenspeaking to Fred instead of Mr. Farebrother.

"Youngwomen are severe:  they don't feel the stress of action as mendothough perhaps I ought to make you an exception there. But youdon't put Fred Vincy on so low a level as that?"

"Noindeedhe has plenty of sensebut I think he would not show it as aclergyman.  He would be a piece of professional affectation."

"Thenthe answer is quite decided.  As a clergyman he could have nohope?"

Mary shookher head.

"Butif he braved all the difficulties of getting his bread in some otherway--will you give him the support of hope? May he count on winningyou?"

"Ithink Fred ought not to need telling again what I have already saidto him" Mary answeredwith a slight resentment in her manner."I mean that he ought not to put such questions until he hasdone something worthyinstead of saying that he could do it."

Mr.Farebrother was silent for a minute or moreand thenas they turnedand paused under the shadow of a maple at the end of a grassy walksaid"I understand that you resist any attempt to fetter youbut either your feeling for Fred Vincy excludes your entertaininganother attachmentor it does not:  either he may count on yourremaining single until he shall have earned your handor he may inany case be disappointed.  Pardon meMary--you know I used tocatechise you under that name--but when the state of a woman'saffections touches the happiness of another life--of more lives thanone--I think it would be the nobler course for her to be perfectlydirect and open."

Mary inher turn was silentwondering not at Mr. Farebrother's manner but athis tonewhich had a grave restrained emotion in it. When thestrange idea flashed across her that his words had reference tohimselfshe was incredulousand ashamed of entertaining it. She hadnever thought that any man could love her except Fredwho hadespoused her with the umbrella ringwhen she wore socks and littlestrapped shoes; still less that she could be of any importance to Mr.Farebrotherthe cleverest man in her narrow circle. She had onlytime to feel that all this was hazy and perhaps illusory; but onething was clear and determined--her answer.

"Sinceyou think it my dutyMr. FarebrotherI will tell you that I havetoo strong a feeling for Fred to give him up for any one else. I should never be quite happy if I thought he was unhappy for theloss of me.  It has taken such deep root in me-- my gratitude tohim for always loving me bestand minding so much if I hurt myselffrom the time when we were very little.  I cannot imagine anynew feeling coming to make that weaker.  I should like betterthan anything to see him worthy of every one's respect. But pleasetell him I will not promise to marry him till then: I should shameand grieve my father and mother.  He is free to choose some oneelse."

"ThenI have fulfilled my commission thoroughly" said Mr.Farebrotherputting out his hand to Mary"and I shall rideback to Middlemarch forthwith.  With this prospect before himwe shall get Fred into the right niche somehowand I hope I shalllive to join your hands.  God bless you!"

"Ohplease stayand let me give you some tea" said Mary. Her eyesfilled with tearsfor something indefinablesomething like theresolute suppression of a pain in Mr. Farebrother's mannermade herfeel suddenly miserableas she had once felt when she saw herfather's hands trembling in a moment of trouble.

"Nomy dearno.  I must get back."

In threeminutes the Vicar was on horseback againhaving gone magnanimouslythrough a duty much harder than the renunciation of whistor eventhan the writing of penitential meditations.

CHAPTERLIII

Itis but a shallow haste which concludeth insincerity from what

outsiderscall inconsistency--putting a dead mechanism of "ifs"

and"therefores" for the living myriad of hidden suckerswhereby

thebelief and the conduct are wrought into mutual sustainment.

Mr.Bulstrodewhen he was hoping to acquire a new interest in Lowickhad naturally had an especial wish that the new clergyman should beone whom he thoroughly approved; and he believed it to be achastisement and admonition directed to his own shortcomings andthose of the nation at largethat just about the time when he camein possession of the deeds which made him the proprietor of StoneCourtMr. Farebrother "read himself" into the quaintlittle church and preached his first sermon to the congregation offarmerslaborersand village artisans. It was not that Mr.Bulstrode intended to frequent Lowick Church or to reside at StoneCourt for a good while to come:  he had bought the excellentfarm and fine homestead simply as a retreat which he might graduallyenlarge as to the land and beautify as to the dwellinguntil itshould be conducive to the divine glory that he should enter on it asa residencepartially withdrawing from his present exertions in theadministration of businessand throwing more conspicuously on theside of Gospel truth the weight of local landed proprietorshipwhichProvidence might increase by unforeseen occasions of purchase. A strong leading in this direction seemed to have been given in thesurprising facility of getting Stone Courtwhen every one hadexpected that Mr. Rigg Featherstone would have clung to it as theGarden of Eden.  That was what poor old Peter himself hadexpected; having oftenin imaginationlooked up through the sodsabove himandunobstructed by. perspectiveseen his frog-facedlegatee enjoying the fine old place to the perpetual surprise anddisappointment of other survivors.

But howlittle we know what would make paradise for our neighbors! We judgefrom our own desiresand our neighbors themselves are not alwaysopen enough even to throw out a hint of theirs. The cool andjudicious Joshua Rigg had not allowed his parent to perceive thatStone Court was anything less than the chief good in his estimationand he had certainly wished to call it his own. But as WarrenHastings looked at gold and thought of buying Daylesfordso JoshuaRigg looked at Stone Court and thought of buying gold. He had a verydistinct and intense vision of his chief goodthe vigorous greedwhich he had inherited having taken a special form by dint ofcircumstance:  and his chief good was to be a moneychanger. Fromhis earliest employment as an errand-boy in a seaporthe had lookedthrough the windows of the moneychangers as other boys look throughthe windows of the pastry-cooks; the fascination had wrought itselfgradually into a deep special passion; he meantwhen he hadpropertyto do many thingsone of them being to marry a genteelyoung person; but these were all accidents and joys that imaginationcould dispense with.  The one joy after which his soul thirstedwas to have a money-changer's shop on a much-frequented quayto havelocks all round him of which he held the keysand to look sublimelycool as he handled the breeding coins of all nationswhile helplessCupidity looked at him enviously from the other side of an ironlattice.  The strength of that passion had been a power enablinghim to master all the knowledge necessary to gratify it. And whenothers were thinking that he had settled at Stone Court for lifeJoshua himself was thinking that the moment now was not far off whenhe should settle on the North Quay with the best appointments insafes and locks.

Enough. We are concerned with looking at Joshua Rigg's sale of his land fromMr. Bulstrode's point of viewand he interpreted it as a cheeringdispensation conveying perhaps a sanction to a purpose which he hadfor some time entertained without external encouragement; heinterpreted it thusbut not too confidentlyoffering up histhanksgiving in guarded phraseology.  His doubts did not arisefrom the possible relations of the event to Joshua Rigg's destinywhich belonged to the unmapped regions not taken under theprovidential governmentexcept perhaps in an imperfect colonial way;but they arose from reflecting that this dispensation too might be achastisement for himselfas Mr. Farebrother's induction to theliving clearly was.

This wasnot what Mr. Bulstrode said to any man for the sake of deceivinghim:  it was what he said to himself--it was as genuinely hismode of explaining events as any theory of yours may beif youhappen to disagree with him.  For the egoism which enters intoour theories does not affect their sincerity; ratherthe more ouregoism is satisfiedthe more robust is our belief.

Howeverwhether for sanction or for chastisementMr. Bulstrodehardlyfifteen months after the death of Peter Featherstonehad become theproprietor of Stone Courtand what Peter would say "if he wereworthy to know" had become an inexhaustible and consolatorysubject of conversation to his disappointed relatives. The tableswere now turned on that dear brother departedand to contemplate thefrustration of his cunning by the superior cunning of things ingeneral was a cud of delight to Solomon. Mrs. Waule had a melancholytriumph in the proof that it did not answer to make falseFeatherstones and cut off the genuine; and Sister Martha receivingthe news in the Chalky Flats said"Deardear! then theAlmighty could have been none so pleased with the almshouses afterall."

AffectionateMrs. Bulstrode was particularly glad of the advantage which herhusband's health was likely to get from the purchase of Stone Court. Few days passed without his riding thither and looking over some partof the farm with the bailiffand the evenings were delicious in thatquiet spotwhen the new hay-ricks lately set up were sending forthodors to mingle with the breath of the rich old garden. One eveningwhile the sun was still above the horizon and burning in golden lampsamong the great walnut boughsMr. Bulstrode was pausing on horsebackoutside the front gate waiting for Caleb Garthwho had met him byappointment to give an opinion on a question of stable drainageandwas now advising the bailiff in the rick-yard.

Mr.Bulstrode was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and morethan usually sereneunder the influence of his innocent recreation.He was doctrinally convinced that there was a total absence of meritin himself; but that doctrinal conviction may be held without painwhen the sense of demerit does not take a distinct shape in memoryand revive the tingling of shame or the pang of remorse.  Nayit may be held with intense satisfaction when the depth of oursinning is but a measure for the depth of forgivenessand aclenching proof that we are peculiar instruments of the divineintention. The memory has as many moods as the temperand shifts itsscenery like a diorama.  At this moment Mr. Bulstrode felt as ifthe sunshine were all one with that of far-off evenings when he was avery young man and used to go out preaching beyond Highbury. And hewould willingly have had that service of exhortation in prospectnow.  The texts were there stilland so was his own facility inexpounding them.  His brief reverie was interrupted by thereturn of Caleb Garthwho also was on horsebackand was justshaking his bridle before startingwhen he exclaimed--

"Blessmy heart! what's this fellow in black coming along the lane? He'slike one of those men one sees about after the races."

Mr.Bulstrode turned his horse and looked along the lanebut made noreply.  The comer was our slight acquaintance Mr. Raffleswhoseappearance presented no other change than such as was due to a suitof black and a crape hat-band. He was within three yards of thehorseman nowand they could see the flash of recognition in his faceas he whirled his stick upwardlooking all the while at Mr.Bulstrodeand at last exclaiming:--

"ByJoveNickit's you!  I couldn't be mistakenthough thefive-and-twenty years have played old Boguy with us both!  Howare youeh? you didn't expect to see ME here.  Comeshake usby the hand." To say that Mr. Raffles' manner was rather excitedwould be only one mode of saying that it was evening.  CalebGarth could see that there was a moment of struggle and hesitation inMr. Bulstrodebut it ended in his putting out his hand coldly toRaffles and saying--

"Idid not indeed expect to see you in this remote country place."

"Wellit belongs to a stepson of mine" said Rafflesadjustinghimself in a swaggering attitude.  "I came to see him herebefore.  I'm not so surprised at seeing youold fellowbecauseI picked up a letter-- what you may call a providential thing. It's uncommonly fortunate I met youthough; for I don't care aboutseeing my stepson: he's not affectionateand his poor mother's gonenow.  To tell the truthI came out of love to youNick: I came to get your addressfor--look here!"  Raffles drewa crumpled paper from his pocket.

Almost anyother man than Caleb Garth might have been tempted to linger on thespot for the sake of hearing all he could about a man whoseacquaintance with Bulstrode seemed to imply passages in the banker'slife so unlike anything that was known of him in Middlemarch thatthey must have the nature of a secret to pique curiosity. But Calebwas peculiar:  certain human tendencies which are commonlystrong were almost absent from his mind; and one of these wascuriosity about personal affairs.  Especially if there wasanything discreditable to be found out concerning another manCalebpreferred not to know it; and if he had to tell anybody under himthat his evil doings were discoveredhe was more embarrassed thanthe culprit. He now spurred his horseand saying"I wish yougood eveningMr. Bulstrode; I must be getting home" set off ata trot.

"Youdidn't put your full address to this letter" Raffles continued."That was not like the first-rate man of business you used tobe. `The Shrubs'--they may be anywhere:  you live near at handeh?-- have cut the London concern altogether--perhaps turned countrysquire-- have a rural mansion to invite me to.  Lordhow manyyears it is ago! The old lady must have been dead a pretty longwhile--gone to glory without the pain of knowing how poor herdaughter waseh?  Butby Jove! you're very pale and pastyNick.  Comeif you're going homeI'll walk by your side."

Mr.Bulstrode's usual paleness had in fact taken an almost deathly hue.Five minutes beforethe expanse of his life had been submerged inits evening sunshine which shone backward to its remembered morning:sin seemed to be a question of doctrine and inward penitencehumiliation an exercise of the closetthe bearing of his deeds amatter of private vision adjusted solely by spiritual relations andconceptions of the divine purposes.  And nowas if by somehideous magicthis loud red figure had risen before him inunmanageable solidity-- an incorporate past which had not enteredinto his imagination of chastisements.  But Mr. Bulstrode'sthought was busyand he was not a man to act or speak rashly.

"Iwas going home" he said"but I can defer my ride alittle. And you canif you pleaserest here."

"Thankyou" said Rafflesmaking a grimace.  "I don't carenow about seeing my stepson.  I'd rather go home with you."

"Yourstepsonif Mr. Rigg Featherstone was heis here no longer. I ammaster here now."

Rafflesopened wide eyesand gave a long whistle of surprisebefore hesaid"Well thenI've no objection.  I've had enoughwalking from the coach-road. I never was much of a walkeror ridereither. What I like is a smart vehicle and a spirited cob.  Iwas always a little heavy in the saddle.  What a pleasantsurprise it must be to you to see meold fellow!" he continuedas they turned towards the house.  "You don't say so; butyou never took your luck heartily-- you were always thinking ofimproving the occasion--you'd such a gift for improving your luck."

Mr.Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own witand Swung his leg in aswaggering manner which was rather too much for his companion'sjudicious patience.

"If Iremember rightly" Mr. Bulstrode observedwith chill anger"our acquaintance many years ago had not the sort of intimacywhich you are now assumingMr. Raffles.  Any services youdesire of me will be the more readily rendered if you will avoid atone of familiarity which did not lie in our former intercourseandcan hardly be warranted by more than twenty years of separation."

"Youdon't like being called Nick?  WhyI always called you Nick inmy heartand though lost to sightto memory dear. By Jove! myfeelings have ripened for you like fine old cognac. I hope you've gotsome in the house now.  Josh filled my flask well the lasttime."

Mr.Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognacwas not stronger in Raffles than the desire to tormentand that ahint of annoyance always served him as a fresh cue. But it was atleast clear that further objection was uselessand Mr. Bulstrodeingiving orders to the housekeeper for the accommodation of the guesthad a resolute air of quietude.

There wasthe comfort of thinking that this housekeeper had been in the serviceof Rigg alsoand might accept the idea that Mr. Bulstrodeentertained Raffles merely as a friend of her former master.

When therewas food and drink spread before his visitor in the wainscotedparlorand no witness in the roomMr. Bulstrode said--

"Yourhabits and mine are so differentMr. Rafflesthat we can hardlyenjoy each other's society.  The wisest plan for both of us willtherefore be to part as soon as possible.  Since you say thatyou wished to meet meyou probably considered that you had somebusiness to transact with me.  But under the circumstances Iwill invite you to remain here for the nightand I will myself rideover here early to-morrow morning--before breakfastin factwhen Ican receive any Communication you have to make to me."

"Withall my heart" said Raffles; "this is a comfortable place--a little dull for a continuance; but I can put up with it for anightwith this good liquor and the prospect of seeing you again inthe morning.  You're a much better host than my stepson was; butJosh owed me a bit of a grudge for marrying his mother; and betweenyou and me there was never anything but kindness."

Mr.Bulstrodehoping that the peculiar mixture of joviality and sneeringin Raffles' manner was a good deal the effect of drinkhaddetermined to wait till he was quite sober before he spent more wordsupon him.  But he rode home with a terribly lucid vision of thedifficulty there would be in arranging any result that could bepermanently counted on with this man. It was inevitable that heshould wish to get rid of John Rafflesthough his reappearance couldnot be regarded as lying outside the divine plan.  The spirit ofevil might have sent him to threaten Mr. Bulstrode's subversion as aninstrument of good; but the threat must have been permittedand wasa chastisement of a new kind. It was an hour of anguish for him verydifferent from the hours in which his struggle had been securelyprivateand which had ended with a sense that his secret misdeedswere pardoned and his services accepted.  Those misdeeds evenwhen committed--had they not been half sanctified by the singlenessof his desire to devote himself and all he possessed to thefurtherance of the divine scheme? And was he after all to become amere stone of stumbling and a rock of offence?  For who wouldunderstand the work within him? Who would notwhen there was thepretext of casting disgrace upon himconfound his whole life and thetruths he had espousedin one heap of obloquy?

In hisclosest meditations the life-long habit of Mr. Bulstrode's mind cladhis most egoistic terrors in doctrinal references to superhumanends.  But even while we are talking and meditating about theearth's orbit and the solar systemwhat we feel and adjust ourmovements to is the stable earth and the changing day. And now withinall the automatic succession of theoretic phrases-- distinct andinmost as the shiver and the ache of oncoming fever when we arediscussing abstract painwas the forecast of disgrace in thepresence of his neighbors and of his own wife.  For the painaswell as the public estimate of disgracedepends on the amount ofprevious profession.  To men who only aim at escaping felonynothing short of the prisoner's dock is disgrace.  But Mr.Bulstrode had aimed at being an eminent Christian.

It was notmore than half-past seven in the morning when he again reached StoneCourt.  The fine old place never looked more like a delightfulhome than at that moment; the great white lilies were in flowerthenasturtiumstheir pretty leaves all silvered with dewwere runningaway over the low stone wall; the very noises all around had a heartof peace within them.  But everything was spoiled for the owneras he walked on the gravel in front and awaited the descent of Mr.Raffleswith whom he was condemned to breakfast.

It was notlong before they were seated together in the wainscoted parlor overtheir tea and toastwhich was as much as Raffles cared to take atthat early hour.  The difference between his morning and eveningself was not so great as his companion had imagined that it might be;the delight in tormenting was perhaps even the stronger because hisspirits were rather less highly pitched. Certainly his manners seemedmore disagreeable by the morning light.

"As Ihave little time to spareMr. Raffles" said the bankerwhocould hardly do more than sip his tea and break his toast withouteating it"I shall be obliged if you will mention at once theground on which you wished to meet with me.  I presume that youhave a home elsewhere and will be glad to return to it."

"Whyif a man has got any heartdoesn't he want to see an old friendNick?--I must call you Nick--we always did call you young Nick whenwe knew you meant to marry the old widow.  Some said you had ahandsome family likeness to old Nickbut that was your mother'sfaultcalling you Nicholas.  Aren't you glad to see me again? Iexpected an invite to stay with you at some pretty place.  Myown establishment is broken up now my wife's dead.  I've noparticular attachment to any spot; I would as soon settle hereaboutas anywhere."

"MayI ask why you returned from America?  I considered that thestrong wish you expressed to go therewhen an adequate sum wasfurnishedwas tantamount to an engagement that you would remainthere for life."

"Neverknew that a wish to go to a place was the same thing as a wish tostay.  But I did stay a matter of ten years; it didn't suit meto stay any longer.  And I'm not going againNick." HereMr. Raffles winked slowly as he looked at Mr. Bulstrode.

"Doyou wish to be settled in any business?  What is your callingnow?"

"Thankyoumy calling is to enjoy myself as much as I can. I don't careabout working any more.  If I did anything it would be a littletravelling in the tobacco line--or something of that sortwhichtakes a man into agreeable company.  But not without anindependence to fall back upon.  That's what I want:  I'mnot so strong as I wasNickthough I've got more color than you. Iwant an independence."

"Thatcould be supplied to youif you would engage to keep at a distance"said Mr. Bulstrodeperhaps with a little too much eagerness in hisundertone.

"Thatmust be as it suits my convenience" said Raffles coolly. "I see no reason why I shouldn't make a few acquaintanceshereabout.  I'm not ashamed of myself as company for anybody. I dropped my portmanteau at the turnpike when I got down--change oflinen--genuine--honor bright-- more than fronts and wristbands; andwith this suit of mourningstraps and everythingI should do youcredit among the nobs here." Mr. Raffles had pushed away hitchair and looked down at himselfparticularly at his straps Hischief intention was to annoy Bulstrodebut he really thought thathis appearance now would produce a good effectand that he was notonly handsome and wittybut clad in a mourning style which impliedsolid connections.

"Ifyou intend to rely on me in any wayMr. Raffles" saidBulstrodeafter a moment's pause"you will expect to meet mywishes."

"Ahto be sure" said Raffleswith a mocking cordiality. "Didn'tI always do it?  Lordyou made a pretty thing out of meand Igot but little.  I've often thought sinceI might have donebetter by telling the old woman that I'd found her daughter and hergrandchild:  it would have suited my feelings better; I've got asoft place in my heart.  But you've buried the old lady by thistimeI suppose--it's all one to her now.  And you've got yourfortune out of that profitable business which had such a blessing onit. You've taken to being a nobbuying landbeing a country bashaw.Still in the Dissenting lineeh?  Still godly?  Or takento the Church as more genteel?"

This timeMr. Raffles' slow wink and slight protrusion of his tongue was worsethan a nightmarebecause it held the certitude that it was not anightmarebut a waking misery.  Mr. Bulstrode felt a shudderingnauseaand did not speakbut was considering diligently whether heshould not leave Raffles to do as he wouldand simply defy him as aslanderer.  The man would soon show himself disreputable enoughto make people disbelieve him. "But not when he tells anyugly-looking truth about YOU" said discerning consciousness. And again:  it seemed no wrong to keep Raffles at a distancebut Mr. Bulstrode shrank from the direct falsehood of denying truestatements.  It was one thing to look back on forgiven sinsnayto explain questionable conformity to lax customsand anotherto enter deliberately on the necessity of falsehood.

But sinceBulstrode did not speakRaffles ran onby way of using time to theutmost.

"I'venot had such fine luck as youby Jove!  Things wentconfoundedly with me in New York; those Yankees are cool handsand aman of gentlemanly feelings has no chance with them.  I marriedwhen I came back--a nice woman in the tobacco trade--very fond ofme-- but the trade was restrictedas we say.  She had beensettled there a good many years by a friend; but there was a son toomuch in the case.  Josh and I never hit it off.  HoweverImade the most of the positionand I've always taken my glass in goodcompany. It's been all on the square with me; I'm as open as the day.You won't take it ill of me that I didn't look you up before. I'vegot a complaint that makes me a little dilatory.  I thought youwere trading and praying away in London stilland didn't find youthere. But you see I was sent to youNick--perhaps for a blessing toboth of us."

Mr.Raffles ended with a jocose snuffle: no man felt his intellect moresuperior to religious cant.  And if the cunning which calculateson the meanest feelings in men could becalled intellecthe had hissharefor under the blurting rallying tone with which he spoke toBulstrodethere was an evident selection of statementsas if theyhad been so many moves at chess.  Meanwhile Bulstrode haddetermined on his moveand he saidwith gathered resolution--

"Youwill do well to reflectMr. Rafflesthat it is possible for a manto overreach himself in the effort to secure undue advantage.Although I am not in any way bound to youI am willing to supply youwith a regular annuity--in quarterly payments--so long as you fulfila promise to remain at a distance from this neighborhood. It is inyour power to choose.  If you insist on remaining hereeven fora short timeyou will get nothing from me.  I shall decline toknow you."

"Haha!" said Raffleswith an affected explosion"thatreminds me of a droll dog of a thief who declined to know theconstable."

"Yourallusions are lost on me sir" said Bulstrodewith white heat;"the law has no hold on me either through your agency or anyother."

"Youcan't understand a jokemy good fellow.  I only meant that Ishould never decline to know you.  But let us be serious. Yourquarterly payment won't quite suit me.  I like my freedom."

HereRaffles rose and stalked once or twice up and down the roomswinginghis legand assuming an air of masterly meditation. At last hestopped opposite Bulstrodeand said"I'll tell you what! Give us a couple of hundreds--comethat's modest-- and I'll goaway--honor bright!--pick up my portmanteau and go away. But I shallnot give up my Liberty for a dirty annuity.  I shall come and gowhere I like.  Perhaps it may suit me to stay awayandcorrespond with a friend; perhaps not.  Have you the money withyou?"

"NoI have one hundred" said Bulstrodefeeling the immediateriddance too great a relief to be rejected on the ground of futureuncertainties. "I will forward you the other if you will mentionan address."

"NoI'll wait here till you bring it" said Raffles.  "I'lltake a stroll and have a snackand you'll be back by that time."

Mr.Bulstrode's sickly bodyshattered by the agitations he had gonethrough since the last eveningmade him feel abjectly in the powerof this loud invulnerable man.  At that moment he snatched at atemporary repose to be won on any terms. He was rising to do whatRaffles suggestedwhen the latter saidlifting up his finger as ifwith a sudden recollection--

"Idid have another look after Sarah againthough I didn't tell you;I'd a tender conscience about that pretty young woman. I didn't findherbut I found out her husband's nameand I made a note of it. But hang itI lost my pocketbook.  Howeverif I heard itIshould know it again.  I've got my faculties as if I was in myprimebut names wear outby Jove!  Sometimes I'm no betterthan a confounded tax-paper before the names are filled in. Howeverif I hear of her and her familyyou shall knowNick. You'd like todo something for hernow she's your step-daughter."

"Doubtless"said Mr. Bulstrodewith the usual steady look of his light-grayeyes; "though that might reduce my power of assisting you."

As hewalked out of the roomRaffles winked slowly at his backand thenturned towards the window to watch the banker riding away-- virtuallyat his command.  His lips first curled with a smile and thenopened with a short triumphant laugh.

"Butwhat the deuce was the name?" he presently saidhalf aloudscratching his headand wrinkling his brows horizontally.  Hehad not really cared or thought about this point of forgetfulnessuntil it occurred to him in his invention of annoyances forBulstrode.

"Itbegan with L; it was almost all l's I fancy" he went onwith asense that he was getting hold of the slippery name. But the hold wastoo slightand he soon got tired of this mental chase; for few menwere more impatient of private occupation or more in need of makingthemselves continually heard than Mr. Raffles. He preferred using histime in pleasant conversation with the bailiff and the housekeeperfrom whom he gathered as much as he wanted to know about Mr.Bulstrode's position in Middlemarch.

After allhoweverthere was a dull space of time which needed relieving withbread and cheese and aleand when he was seated alone with theseresources in the wainscoted parlorhe suddenly slapped his kneeandexclaimed"Ladislaw!"  That action of memory which hehad tried to set goingand had abandoned in despairhad suddenlycompleted itself without conscious effort--a common experienceagreeable as a completed sneezeeven if the name remembered is of novalue. Raffles immediately took out his pocket-bookand wrote downthe namenot because he expected to use itbut merely for the sakeof not being at a loss if he ever did happen to want it.  He wasnot going to tell Bulstrode:  there was no actual good intellingand to a mind like that of Mr. Raffles there is alwaysprobable good in a secret.

He wassatisfied with his present successand by three o'clock that day hehad taken up his portmanteau at the turnpike and mounted the coachrelieving Mr. Bulstrode's eyes of an ugly black spot on the landscapeat Stone Courtbut not relieving him of the dread that the blackspot might reappear and become inseparable even from the vision ofhis hearth.

BOOK VI

THE WIDOWAND THE WIFE

CHAPTERLIV

  "Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore;
   Per chesi fa gentil eio ch'ella mira:
   Ov'ella passaogniuom ver lei si gira
   E cui saluta fa tremar lo core.

  Sicchebassando il visotutto smore
   E d'ogni suodifetto allor sospira:
   Fuggon dinanzi a lei Superbiaed Ira:
   Aiutatemidonnea farle onore.

  Ogni dolcezzaogni pensiero umile
     Naseenel core a chi parlar la sente;
   Ond' e beato chiprima la vide.
   Quel ch'ella par quand' un pocosorride
   Non si pub dicerne tener a mente
  Si e nuovo miracolo gentile."
     --DANTE: la Vita Nuova.

By thatdelightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scentingthe air quite impartiallyas if Mr. Raffles had been a guest worthyof finest incenseDorothea had again taken up her abode at LowickManor.  After three months Freshitt had become ratheroppressive:  to sit like a model for Saint Catherine lookingrapturously at Celia's baby would not do for many hours in the dayand to remain in that momentous babe's presence with persistentdisregard was a course that could not have been tolerated in achildless sister.  Dorothea would have been capable of carryingbaby joyfully for a mile if there had been needand of loving it themore tenderly for that labor; but to an aunt who does not recognizeher infant nephew as Bouddhaand has nothing to do for him but toadmirehis behavior is apt to appear monotonousand the interest ofwatching him exhaustible.  This possibility was quite hiddenfrom Celiawho felt that Dorothea's childless widowhood fell inquite prettily with the birth of little Arthur (baby was named afterMr. Brooke).

"Dodois just the creature not to mind about having anything of her own--children or anything!" said Celia to her husband.  "Andif she had had a babyit never could have been such a dear asArthur. Could itJames?

"Notif it had been like Casaubon" said Sir Jamesconscious of someindirectness in his answerand of holding a strictly private opinionas to the perfections of his first-born.

"No!just imagine!  Really it was a mercy" said Celia; "andI think it is very nice for Dodo to be a widow.  She can be justas fond of our baby as if it were her ownand she can have as manynotions of her own as she likes."

"Itis a pity she was not a queen" said the devout Sir James.

"Butwhat should we have been then?  We must have been somethingelse" said Celiaobjecting to so laborious a flight ofimagination. "I like her better as she is."

Hencewhen she found that Dorothea was making arrangements for her finaldeparture to LowickCelia raised her eyebrows with disappointmentand in her quiet unemphatic way shot a needle-arrow of sarcasm.

"Whatwill you do at LowickDodo?  You say yourself there is nothingto be done there:  everybody is so clean and well offit makesyou quite melancholy.  And here you have been so happy going allabout Tipton with Mr. Garth into the worst backyards. And now uncleis abroadyou and Mr. Garth can have it all your own way; and I amsure James does everything you tell him."

"Ishall often come hereand I shall see how baby grows all thebetter" said Dorothea.

"Butyou will never see him washed" said Celia; "and that isquite the best part of the day."  She was almost pouting: it did seem to her very hard in Dodo to go away from the baby whenshe might stay.

"DearKittyI will come and stay all night on purpose" saidDorothea; "but I want to be alone nowand in my own home. Iwish to know the Farebrothers betterand to talk to Mr. Farebrotherabout what there is to be done in Middlemarch."

Dorothea'snative strength of will was no longer all converted into resolutesubmission.  She had a great yearning to be at Lowickand wassimply determined to gonot feeling bound to tell all her reasons. But every one around her disapproved.  Sir James was muchpainedand offered that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for afew months with the sacred arkotherwise called a cradle: at thatperiod a man could hardly know what to propose if Cheltenham wererejected.

TheDowager Lady Chettamjust returned from a visit to her daughter intownwishedat leastthat Mrs. Vigo should be written toandinvited to accept the office of companion to Mrs. Casaubon: it wasnot credible that Dorothea as a young widow would think of livingalone in the house at Lowick.  Mrs. Vigo had been reader andsecretary to royal personagesand in point of knowledge andsentiments even Dorothea could have nothing to object to her.

Mrs.Cadwallader saidprivately"You will certainly go mad in thathouse alonemy dear.  You will see visions.  We have allgot to exert ourselves a little to keep saneand call things by thesame names as other people call them by.  To be sureforyounger sons and women who have no moneyit is a sort of provisionto go mad: they are taken care of then.  But you must not runinto that. I dare say you are a little bored here with our gooddowager; but think what a bore you might become yourself to yourfellow-creatures if you were always playing tragedy queen and takingthings sublimely. Sitting alone in that library at Lowick you mayfancy yourself ruling the weather; you must get a few people roundyou who wouldn't believe you if you told them.  That is a goodlowering medicine."

"Inever called everything by the same name that all the people about medid" said Dorotheastoutly.

"ButI suppose you have found out your mistakemy dear" said Mrs.Cadwallader"and that is a proof of sanity."

Dorotheawas aware of the stingbut it did not hurt her. "No" shesaid"I still think that the greater part of the world ismistaken about many things.  Surely one may be sane and yetthink sosince the greater part of the world has often had to comeround from its opinion."

Mrs.Cadwallader said no more on that point to Dorotheabut to herhusband she remarked"It will be well for her to marry again assoon as it is properif one could get her among the right people. Ofcourse the Chettams would not wish it.  But I see clearly ahusband is the best thing to keep her in order.  If we were notso poor I would invite Lord Triton.  He will be marquis somedayand there is no denying that she would make a good marchioness:she looks handsomer than ever in her mourning."

"Mydear Elinordo let the poor woman alone.  Such contrivances areof no use" said the easy Rector.

"Nouse?  How are matches madeexcept by bringing men and womentogether?  And it is a shame that her uncle should have run awayand shut up the Grange just now.  There ought to be plenty ofeligible matches invited to Freshitt and the Grange.  LordTriton is precisely the man:  full of plans for making thepeople happy in a soft-headed sort of way.  That would just suitMrs. Casaubon."

"LetMrs. Casaubon choose for herselfElinor."

"Thatis the nonsense you wise men talk!  How can she choose if shehas no variety to choose from?  A woman's choice usually meanstaking the only man she can get.  Mark my wordsHumphrey. Ifher friends don't exert themselvesthere will be a worse businessthan the Casaubon business yet."

"Forheaven's sake don't touch on that topicElinor! It is a very sorepoint with Sir James He would be deeply offended if you entered on itto him unnecessarily."

"Ihave never entered on it" said Mrs Cadwalladeropening herhands. "Celia told me all about the will at the beginningwithout any asking of mine."

"Yesyes; but they want the thing hushed upand I understand that theyoung fellow is going out of the neighborhood."

Mrs.Cadwallader said nothingbut gave her husband three significantnodswith a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes.

Dorotheaquietly persisted in spite of remonstrance and persuasion. So by theend of June the shutters were all opened at Lowick Manorand themorning gazed calmly into the libraryshining on the rows ofnote-books as it shines on the weary waste planted with huge stonesthe mute memorial of a forgotten faith; and the evening laden withroses entered silently into the blue-green boudoir where Dorotheachose oftenest to sit.  At first she walked into every roomquestioning the eighteen months of her married lifeand carrying onher thoughts as if they were a speech to be heard by her husband. Thenshe lingered in the library and could not be at rest till shehad carefully ranged all the note-books as she imagined that he wouldwish to see themin orderly sequence. The pity which had been therestraining compelling motive in her life with him still clung abouthis imageeven while she remonstrated with him in indignant thoughtand told him that he was unjust. One little act of hers may perhapsbe smiled at as superstitious. The Synoptical Tabulation for the useof Mrs. Casaubonshe carefully enclosed and sealedwriting withinthe envelope"I could not use it.  Do you not see now thatI could not submit my soul to yoursby working hopelessly at what Ihave no belief in--Dorothea?"  Then she deposited the paperin her own desk.

Thatsilent colloquy was perhaps only the more earnest because underneathand through it all there was always the deep longing which had reallydetermined her to come to Lowick.  The longing was to see WillLadislaw. She did not know any good that could come of their meeting:she was helpless; her hands had been tied from making up to him forany unfairness in his lot.  But her soul thirsted to see him.How could it be otherwise?  If a princess in the days ofenchantment had seen a four-footed creature from among those whichlive in herds come to her once and again with a human gaze whichrested upon her with choice and beseechingwhat would she think ofin her journeyingwhat would she look for when the herds passedher?  Surely for the gaze which had found herand which shewould know again. Life would be no better than candle-light tinseland daylight rubbish if our spirits were not touched by what hasbeento issues of longing and constancy.  It was true thatDorothea wanted to know the Farebrothers betterand especially totalk to the new rectorbut also true that remembering what Lydgatehad told her about Will Ladislaw and little Miss Nobleshe countedon Will's coming to Lowick to see the Farebrother family.  Thevery first SundayBEFORE she entered the churchshe saw him as shehad seen him the last time she was therealone in the clergyman'spew; but WHEN she entered his figure was gone.

In theweek-days when she went to see the ladies at the Rectoryshelistened in vain for some word that they might let fall about Will;but it seemed to her that Mrs. Farebrother talked of every one elsein the neighborhood and out of it.

"Probablysome of Mr. Farebrother's Middlemarch hearers may follow him toLowick sometimes.  Do you not think so?" said Dorothearather despising herself for having a secret motive in asking thequestion.

"Ifthey are wise they willMrs. Casaubon" said the old lady. "Isee that you set a right value on my son's preaching.  Hisgrandfather on my side was an excellent clergymanbut his father wasin the law:-- most exemplary and honest neverthelesswhich is areason for our never being rich.  They say Fortune is a womanand capricious. But sometimes she is a good woman and gives to thosewho meritwhich has been the case with youMrs. Casaubonwho havegiven a living to my son."

Mrs.Farebrother recurred to her knitting with a dignified satisfaction inher neat little effort at oratorybut this was not what Dorotheawanted to hear.  Poor thing! she did not even know whether WillLadislaw was still at Middlemarchand there was no one whom shedared to askunless it were Lydgate.  But just now she couldnot see Lydgate without sending for him or going to seek him. Perhaps Will Ladislawhaving heard of that strange ban against himleft by Mr. Casaubonhad felt it better that he and she should notmeet againand perhaps she was wrong to wish for a meeting thatothers might find many good reasons against.  Still "I dowish it" came at the end of those wise reflections as naturallyas a sob after holding the breath. And the meeting did happenbut ina formal way quite unexpected by her.

Onemorningabout elevenDorothea was seated in her boudoir with a mapof the land attached to the manor and other papers before herwhichwere to help her in making an exact statement for herself of herincome and affairs.  She had not yet applied herself to herworkbut was seated with her hands folded on her laplooking outalong the avenue of limes to the distant fields. Every leaf was atrest in the sunshinethe familiar scene was changelessand seemedto represent the prospect of her lifefull of motivelessease--motivelessif her own energy could not seek out reasons forardent action.  The widow's cap of those times made an ovalframe for the faceand had a crown standing up; the dress was anexperiment in the utmost laying on of crape; but this heavy solemnityof clothing made her face look all the youngerwith its recoveredbloomand the sweetinquiring candor of her eyes.

Herreverie was broken by Tantrippwho came to say that Mr. Ladislaw wasbelowand begged permission to see Madam if it were not too early.

"Iwill see him" said Dorothearising immediately.  "Lethim be shown into the drawing-room."

Thedrawing-room was the most neutral room in the house to her-- the oneleast associated with the trials of her married life: the damaskmatched the wood-workwhich was all white and gold; there were twotall mirrors and tables with nothing on them-- in briefit was aroom where you had no reason for sitting in one place rather than inanother.  It was below the boudoirand had also a bow-windowlooking out on the avenue.  But when Pratt showed Will Ladislawinto it the window was open; and a winged visitorbuzzing in and outnow and then without minding the furnituremade the room look lessformal and uninhabited.

"Gladto see you here againsir" said Prattlingering to adjust ablind.

"I amonly come to say good-byPratt" said Willwho wished even thebutler to know that he was too proud to hang about Mrs. Casaubon nowshe was a rich widow.

"Verysorry to hear itsir" said Prattretiring.  Of courseas a servant who was to be told nothinghe knew the fact of whichLadislaw was still ignorantand had drawn his inferences; indeedhad not differed from his betrothed Tantripp when she said"Yourmaster was as jealous as a fiend--and no reason. Madam would lookhigher than Mr. Ladislawelse I don't know her. Mrs. Cadwallader'smaid says there's a lord coming who is to marry her when themourning's over."

There werenot many moments for Will to walk about with his hat in his handbefore Dorothea entered.  The meeting was very different fromthat first meeting in Rome when Will had been embarrassed andDorothea calm.  This time he felt miserable but determinedwhile she was in a state of agitation which could not be hidden. Justoutside the door she had felt that this longed-for meeting was afterall too difficultand when she saw Will advancing towards herthedeep blush which was rare in her came with painful suddenness.Neither of them knew how it wasbut neither of them spoke. She gaveher hand for a momentand then they went to sit down near thewindowshe on one settee and he on another opposite. Will waspeculiarly uneasy:  it seemed to him not like Dorothea that themere fact of her being a widow should cause such a change in hermanner of receiving him; and he knew of no other condition whichcould have affected their previous relation to each other-- exceptthatas his imagination at once told himher friends might havebeen poisoning her mind with their suspicions of him.

"Ihope I have not presumed too much in calling" said Will; "Icould not bear to leave the neighborhood and begin a new life withoutseeing you to say good-by."

"Presumed? Surely not.  I should have thought it unkind if you had notwished to see me" said Dorotheaher habit of speaking withperfect genuineness asserting itself through all her uncertainty andagitation.  "Are you going away immediately?"

"VerysoonI think.  I intend to go to town and eat my dinners as abarristersincethey saythat is the preparation for all publicbusiness.  There will be a great deal of political work to bedone by-and-byand I mean to try and do some of it. Other men havemanaged to win an honorable position for themselves without family ormoney."

"Andthat will make it all the more honorable" said Dorotheaardently.  "Besidesyou have so many talents.  I haveheard from my uncle how well you speak in publicso that every oneis sorry when you leave offand how clearly you can explain things.And you care that justice should be done to every one.  I am soglad. When we were in RomeI thought you only cared for poetry andartand the things that adorn life for us who are well off. But nowI know you think about the rest of the world."

While shewas speaking Dorothea had lost her personal embarrassmentand hadbecome like her former self.  She looked at Will with a directglancefull of delighted confidence.

"Youapprove of my going away for yearsthenand never coming here againtill I have made myself of some mark in the world?" said Willtrying hard to reconcile the utmost pride with the utmost effort toget an expression of strong feeling from Dorothea.

She wasnot aware how long it was before she answered.  She had turnedher head and was looking out of the window on the rose-busheswhichseemed to have in them the summers of all the years when Will wouldbe away.  This was not judicious behavior.  But Dorotheanever thought of studying her manners:  she thought only ofbowing to a sad necessity which divided her from Will.  Thosefirst words of his about his intentions had seemed to make everythingclear to her: he knewshe supposedall about Mr. Casaubon's finalconduct in relation to himand it had come to him with the same sortof shock as to herself.  He had never felt more than friendshipfor her-- had never had anything in his mind to justify what she feltto be her husband's outrage on the feelings of both:  and thatfriendship he still felt.  Something which may be called aninward silent sob had gone on in Dorothea before she said with a purevoicejust trembling in the last words as if only from its liquidflexibility--

"Yesit must be right for you to do as you say.  I shall be veryhappy when I hear that you have made your value felt. But you musthave patience.  It will perhaps be a long while."

Will neverquite knew how it was that he saved himself from falling down at herfeetwhen the "long while" came forth with its gentletremor.  He used to say that the horrible hue and surface of hercrape dress was most likely the sufficient controlling force. He satstillhoweverand only said--

"Ishall never hear from you.  And you will forget all about me."

"No"said Dorothea"I shall never forget you.  I have neverforgotten any one whom I once knew.  My life has never beencrowdedand seems not likely to be so.  And I have a great dealof space for memory at Lowickhaven't I?"  She smiled.

"GoodGod!"  Will burst out passionatelyrisingwith his hatstill in his handand walking away to a marble tablewhere hesuddenly turned and leaned his back against it.  The blood hadmounted to his face and neckand he looked almost angry.  Ithad seemed to him as if they were like two creatures slowly turningto marble in each other's presencewhile their hearts were consciousand their eyes were yearning.  But there was no help for it. It should never be true of him that in this meeting to which he hadcome with bitter resolution he had ended by a confession which mightbe interpreted into asking for her fortune.  Moreoverit wasactually true that he was fearful of the effect which suchconfessions might have on Dorothea herself.

She lookedat him from that distance in some troubleimagining that there mighthate been an offence in her words.  But all the while there wasa current of thought in her about his probable want of moneyand theimpossibility of her helping him.  If her uncle had been athomesomething might have been done through him! It was thispreoccupation with the hardship of Will's wanting moneywhile shehad what ought to have been his sharewhich led her to sayseeingthat he remained silent and looked away from her--

"Iwonder whether you would like to have that miniature which hangsup-stairs--I mean that beautiful miniature OF your grandmother. I think it is not right for me to keep itif you would wish to haveit.  It is wonderfully like you."

"Youare very good" said Willirritably.  "No; I don'tmind about it.  It is not very consoling to have one's ownlikeness. It would be more consoling if others wanted to have it."

"Ithought you would like to cherish her memory--I thought-- "Dorotheabroke off an instanther imagination suddenly warning her away fromAunt Julia's history--"you would surely like to have theminiature as a family memorial."

"Whyshould I have thatwhen I have nothing else!  A man with only aportmanteau for his stowage must keep his memorials in his head."

Will spokeat random:  he was merely venting his petulance; it was a littletoo exasperating to have his grandmother's portrait offered him atthat moment.  But to Dorothea's feeling his words had a peculiarsting.  She rose and said with a touch of indignation as well ashauteur--

"Youare much the happier of us twoMr. Ladislawto have nothing."

Will wasstartled.  Whatever the words might bethe tone seemed like adismissal; and quitting his leaning posturehe walked a little waytowards her.  Their eyes metbut with a strange questioninggravity.  Something was keeping their minds aloofand each wasleft to conjecture what was in the other.  Will had really neverthought of himself as having a claim of inheritance on the propertywhich was held by Dorotheaand would have required a narrative tomake him understand her present feeling.

"Inever felt it a misfortune to have nothing till now" he said."But poverty may be as bad as leprosyif it divides us fromwhat we most care for."

The wordscut Dorothea to the heartand made her relent. She answered in atone of sad fellowship.

"Sorrowcomes in so many ways.  Two years ago I had no notion of that--I mean of the unexpected way in which trouble comesand ties ourhandsand makes us silent when we long to speak.  I used todespise women a little for not shaping their lives moreand doingbetter things. I was very fond of doing as I likedbut I have almostgiven it up" she endedsmiling playfully.

"Ihave not given up doing as I likebut I can very seldom do it"said Will.  He was standing two yards from her with his mindfull of contradictory desires and resolves--desiring someunmistakable proof that she loved himand yet dreading the positioninto which such a proof might bring him.  "The thing onemost longs for may be surrounded with conditions that would beintolerable."

At thismoment Pratt entered and said"Sir James Chettam is in thelibrarymadam."

"AskSir James to come in here" said Dorotheaimmediately.  Itwas as if the same electric shock had passed through her and Will.Each of them felt proudly resistantand neither looked at the otherwhile they awaited Sir James's entrance.

Aftershaking hands with Dorotheahe bowed as slightly as possible toLadislawwho repaid the slightness exactlyand then going towardsDorotheasaid--

"Imust say good-byMrs. Casaubon; and probably for a long while."

Dorotheaput out her hand and said her good-by cordially.  The sense thatSir James was depreciating Willand behaving rudely to himrousedher resolution and dignity-there was no touch of confusion in hermanner.  And when Will had left the roomshe looked with suchcalm self-possession at Sir Jamessaying"How is Celia?"that he was obliged to behave as if nothing had annoyed him. And whatwould be the use of behaving otherwise?  IndeedSir Jamesshrank with so much dislike from the association even in thought ofDorothea with Ladislaw as her possible loverthat he would himselfhave wished to avoid an outward show of displeasure which would haverecognized the disagreeable possibility.  If any one had askedhim why he shrank in that wayI am not sure that he would at firsthave said anything fuller or more precise than "THATLadislaw!"-- though on reflection he might have urged that Mr.Casaubon's codicilbarring Dorothea's marriage with Willexceptunder a penaltywas enough to cast unfitness over any relation atall between them. His aversion was all the stronger because he felthimself unable to interfere.

But SirJames was a power in a way unguessed by himself.  Entering atthat momenthe was an incorporation of the strongest reasons throughwhich Will's pride became a repellent forcekeeping him asunder fromDorothea

CHAPTERLV

  Hath she her faults?  I would you had them too.
  They are the fruity must of soundest wine;
   Or saythey are regenerating fire
   Such as hath turned thedense black element
   Into a crystal pathway for thesun.

If youthis the season of hopeit is often so only in the sense that ourelders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to thinkits emotionspartingsand resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems finalsimply because it is new. We are told thatthe oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by theearthquakesbut they probably see beyond each shockand reflectthat there are plenty more to come.

ToDorotheastill in that time of youth when the eyes with their longfull lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unweariedas a freshly opened passion-flowerthat morning's parting with WillLadislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations. He wasgoing away into the distance of unknown yearsand if ever he cameback he would be another man.  The actual state of his mind--his proud resolve to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that hewould play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman-- lay quite outof her imaginationand she had interpreted all his behavior easilyenough by her supposition that Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to himas it did to hera gross and cruel interdict on any activefriendship between them.  Their young delight in speaking toeach otherand saying what no one else would care to hearwasforever endedand become a treasure of the past.  For this veryreason she dwelt on it without inward check.  That uniquehappiness too was deadand in its shadowed silent chamber she mightvent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at. For thefirst time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept itbefore herliking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judgedwith the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended. Can anyone who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it a reproach to herthat she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed forit thereand leaned her cheek upon itas if that would soothe thecreatures who had suffered unjust condemnation? She did not know thenthat it was Love who had come to her brieflyas in a dream beforeawakingwith the hues of morning on his wings-- that it was Love towhom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by theblameless rigor of irresistible day.  She only felt that therewas something irrevocably amiss and lost in her lotand her thoughtsabout the future were the more readily shapen into resolve. Ardent soulsready to construct their coming livesare apt tocommit themselves to the fulfilment of their own visions.

One daythat she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all nightand seeing baby washedMrs. Cadwallader came to dinethe Rectorbeing gone on a fishing excursion.  It was a warm eveningandeven in the delightful drawing-roomwhere the fine old turf slopedfrom the open window towards a lilied pool and well-planted moundsthe heat was enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curlsreflect with pity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and closecap.  But this was not until some episodes with baby were overand had left her mind at leisure.  She had seated herself andtaken up a fan for some time before she saidin her quiet guttural--

"DearDododo throw off that cap.  I am sure your dress must make youfeel ill."

"I amso used to the cap--it has become a sort of shell" saidDorotheasmiling.  "I feel rather bare and exposed when itis off."

"Imust see you without it; it makes us all warm" said Celiathrowing down her fanand going to Dorothea.  It was a prettypicture to see this little lady in white muslin unfastening thewidow's cap from her more majestic sisterand tossing it on to achair. Just as the coils and braids of dark-brown hair had been setfreeSir James entered the room.  He looked at the releasedheadand said"Ah!" in a tone of satisfaction.

"Itwas I who did itJames" said Celia.  "Dodo need notmake such a slavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap anymore among her friends."

"Mydear Celia" said Lady Chettam"a widow must wear hermourning at least a year."

"Notif she marries again before the end of it" said Mrs.Cadwalladerwho had some pleasure in startling her good friend theDowager. Sir James was annoyedand leaned forward to play withCelia's Maltese dog.

"Thatis very rareI hope" said Lady Chettamin a tone intended toguard against such events.  "No friend of ours evercommitted herself in that way except Mrs. Beevorand it was verypainful to Lord Grinsell when she did so.  Her first husband wasobjectionablewhich made it the greater wonder.  And severelyshe was punished for it.  They said Captain Beevor dragged herabout by the hairand held up loaded pistols at her."

"Ohif she took the wrong man!" said Mrs. Cadwalladerwho was in adecidedly wicked mood.  "Marriage is always bad thenfirstor second. Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he hasgot no other. I would rather have a good second husband than anindifferent first."

"Mydearyour clever tongue runs away with you" said Lady Chettam."I am sure you would be the last woman to marry againprematurelyif our dear Rector were taken away."

"OhI make no vows; it might be a necessary economy.  It is lawfulto marry againI suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos insteadof Christians.  Of course if a woman accepts the wrong manshemust take the consequencesand one who does it twice over deservesher fate.  But if she can marry bloodbeautyand bravery-- thesooner the better."

"Ithink the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen" saidSir Jameswith a look of disgust.  "Suppose we change it."

"Noton my accountSir James" said Dorotheadetermined not to losethe opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references toexcellent matches.  "If you are speaking on my behalfIcan assure you that no question can be more indifferent andimpersonal to me than second marriage.  It is no more to me thanif you talked of women going fox-hunting: whether it is admirable inthem or notI shall not follow them.  Pray let Mrs. Cadwalladeramuse herself on that subject as much as on any other."

"Mydear Mrs. Casaubon" said Lady Chettamin her stateliest way"you do notI hopethink there was any allusion to you in mymentioning Mrs. Beevor.  It was only an instance that occurredto me. She was step-daughter to Lord Grinsell:  he married Mrs.Teveroy for his second wife.  There could be no possibleallusion to you."

"Ohno" said Celia.  "Nobody chose the subject; it allcame out of Dodo's cap.  Mrs. Cadwallader only said what wasquite true. A woman could not be married in a widow's capJames."

"Hushmy dear!" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "I will not offendagain. I will not even refer to Dido or Zenobia.  Only what arewe to talk about?  Ifor my partobject to the discussion ofHuman Naturebecause that is the nature of rectors' wives."

Later inthe eveningafter Mrs. Cadwallader was goneCelia said privately toDorothea"ReallyDodotaking your cap off made you likeyourself again in more ways than one.  You spoke up just as youused to dowhen anything was said to displease you.  But Icould hardly make out whether it was James that you thought wrongorMrs. Cadwallader."

"Neither"said Dorothea.  "James spoke out of delicacy to mebut hewas mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said. Ishould only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece ofblood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended."

"Butyou knowDodoif you ever did marryit would be all the better tohave blood and beauty" said Celiareflecting that Mr. Casaubonhad not been richly endowed with those giftsand that it would bewell to caution Dorothea in time.

"Don'tbe anxiousKitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life. I shallnever marry again" said Dorotheatouching her sister's chinand looking at her with indulgent affection.  Celia was nursingher babyand Dorothea had come to say good-night to her.

"Really--quite?"said Celia.  "Not anybody at all--if he were very wonderfulindeed?"

Dorotheashook her head slowly.  "Not anybody at all.  I havedelightful plans.  I should like to take a great deal of landand drain itand make a little colonywhere everybody should workand all the work should be done well.  I should know every oneof the people and be their friend.  I am going to have greatconsultations with Mr. Garth:  he can tell me almost everythingI want to know."

"Thenyou WILL be happyif you have a planDodo?" said Celia."Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows upandthen he can help you."

Sir Jameswas informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite setagainst marrying anybody at alland was going to take to "allsorts of plans" just like what she used to have. Sir James madeno remark.  To his secret feeling there was something repulsivein a woman's second marriageand no match would prevent him fromfeeling it a sort of desecration for Dorothea.  He was awarethat the world would regard such a sentiment as preposterousespecially in relation to a woman of one-and-twenty; the practice of"the world" being to treat of a young widow's secondmarriage as certain and probably nearand to smile with meaning ifthe widow acts accordingly.  But if Dorothea did choose toespouse her solitudehe felt that the resolution would well becomeher.

CHAPTERLVI

  "How happy is he born and taught
   That servethnot another's will;
   Whose armor is his honestthought
   And simple truth his only skill!
  .   .   .   .   .  .   .
   This man is freed from servilebands
     Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
  Lord of himself though not of lands;
   And havingnothing yet hath all."
   --SIR HENRY WOTTON.

Dorothea'sconfidence in Caleb Garth's knowledgewhich had begun on her hearingthat he approved of her cottageshad grown fast during her stay atFreshittSir James having induced her to take rides over the twoestates in company with himself and Calebwho quite returned heradmirationand told his wife that Mrs. Casaubon had a head forbusiness most uncommon in a woman.  It must be remembered thatby "business" Caleb never meant money transactionsbut theskilful application of labor.

"Mostuncommon!" repeated Caleb.  "She said a thing I oftenused to think myself when I was a lad:--`Mr. GarthI should like tofeelif I lived to be oldthat I had improved a great piece of landand built a great many good cottagesbecause the work is of ahealthy kind while it is being doneand after it is donemen arethe better for it.'  Those were the very words:  she seesinto things in that way."

"ButwomanlyI hope" said Mrs. Garthhalf suspecting that Mrs.Casaubon might not hold the true principle of subordination.

"Ohyou can't think!" said Calebshaking his head.  "Youwould like to hear her speakSusan.  She speaks in such plainwordsand a voice like music.  Bless me! it reminds me of bitsin the `Messiah'--`and straightway there appeared a multitude of theheavenly hostpraising God and saying;' it has a tone with it thatsatisfies your ear."

Caleb wasvery fond of musicand when he could afford it went to hear anoratorio that came within his reachreturning from it with aprofound reverence for this mighty structure of toneswhich made himsit meditativelylooking on the floor and throwing much unutterablelanguage into his outstretched hands.

With thisgood understanding between themit was natural that Dorothea askedMr. Garth to undertake any business connected with the three farmsand the numerous tenements attached to Lowick Manor; indeedhisexpectation of getting work for two was being fast fulfilled. As hesaid"Business breeds."  And one form of businesswhich was beginning to breed just then was the construction ofrailways. A projected line was to run through Lowick parish where thecattle had hitherto grazed in a peace unbroken by astonishment; andthus it happened that the infant struggles of the railway systementered into the affairs of Caleb Garthand determined the course ofthis history with regard to two persons who were dear to him. Thesubmarine railway may have its difficulties; but the bed of the seais not divided among various landed proprietors with claims fordamages not only measurable but sentimental.  In the hundred towhich Middlemarch belonged railways were as exciting a topic as theReform Bill or the imminent horrors of Choleraand those who heldthe most decided views on the subject were women and landholders.Women both old and young regarded travelling by steam as presumptuousand dangerousand argued against it by saying that nothing shouldinduce them to get into a railway carriage; while proprietorsdiffering from each other in their arguments as much as Mr. SolomonFeatherstone differed from Lord Medlicotewere yet unanimous in theopinion that in selling landwhether to the Enemy of mankind or to acompany obliged to purchasethese pernicious agencies must be madeto pay a very high price to landowners for permission to injuremankind.

But theslower witssuch as Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waulewho both occupiedland of their owntook a long time to arrive at this conclusiontheir minds halting at the vivid conception of what it would be tocut the Big Pasture in twoand turn it into three-cornered bitswhich would be "nohow;" while accommodation-bridges andhigh payments were remote and incredible.

"Thecows will all cast their calvesbrother" said Mrs. Waulein atone of deep melancholy"if the railway comes across the NearClose; and I shouldn't wonder at the mare tooif she was in foal.It's a poor tale if a widow's property is to be spaded awayand thelaw say nothing to it.  What's to hinder 'em from cutting rightand left if they begin?  It's well known_I_ can't fight."

"Thebest way would be to say nothingand set somebody on to send 'emaway with a flea in their earwhen they came spying and measuring"said Solomon.  "Folks did that about Brassingby what Ican understand. It's all a pretenceif the truth was knownabouttheir being forced to take one way.  Let 'em go cutting inanother parish. And I don't believe in any pay to make amends forbringing a lot of ruffians to trample your crops.  Where's acompany's pocket?"

"BrotherPeterGod forgive himgot money out of a company" said Mrs.Waule.  "But that was for the manganese.  That wasn'tfor railways to blow you to pieces right and left."

"Wellthere's this to be saidJane" Mr. Solomon concludedloweringhis voice in a cautious manner--"the more spokes we put in theirwheelthe more they'll pay us to let 'em go onif they must comewhether or not."

Thisreasoning of Mr. Solomon's was perhaps less thorough than heimaginedhis cunning bearing about the same relation to the courseof railways as the cunning of a diplomatist bears to the generalchill or catarrh of the solar system.  But he set about actingon his views in a thoroughly diplomatic mannerby stimulatingsuspicion. His side of Lowick was the most remote from the villageand the houses of the laboring people were either lone cottages orwere collected in a hamlet called Frickwhere a water-mill and somestone-pits made a little centre of slowheavy-shouldered industry.

In theabsence of any precise idea as to what railways werepublic opinionin Frick was against them; for the human mind in that grassy cornerhad not the proverbial tendency to admire the unknownholding ratherthat it was likely to be against the poor manand that suspicion wasthe only wise attitude with regard to it. Even the rumor of Reformhad not yet excited any millennial expectations in Frickthere beingno definite promise in itas of gratuitous grains to fatten HiramFord's pigor of a publican at the "Weights and Scales"who would brew beer for nothingor of an offer on the part of thethree neighboring farmers to raise wages during winter. And withoutdistinct good of this kind in its promisesReform seemed on afooting with the bragging of pedlerswhich was a hint for distrustto every knowing person.  The men of Frick were not ill-fedandwere less given to fanaticism than to a strong muscular suspicion;less inclined to believe that they were peculiarly cared for byheaventhan to regard heaven itself as rather disposed to take themin-- a disposition observable in the weather.

Thus themind of Frick was exactly of the sort for Mr. Solomon Featherstone towork uponhe having more plenteous ideas of the same orderwith asuspicion of heaven and earth which was better fed and more entirelyat leisure.  Solomon was overseer of the roads at that timeandon his slow-paced cob often took his rounds by Frick to look at theworkmen getting the stones therepausing with a mysteriousdeliberationwhich might have misled you into supposing that he hadsome other reason for staying than the mere want of impulse to move. After looking for a long while at any work that was going onhewould raise his eyes a little and look at the horizon; finally hewould shake his bridletouch his horse with the whipand get it tomove slowly onward. The hour-hand of a clock was quick by comparisonwith Mr. Solomonwho had an agreeable sense that he could afford tobe slow. He was in the habit of pausing for a cautiousvaguelydesigning chat with every hedger or ditcher on his wayand wasespecially willing to listen even to news which he had heard beforefeeling himself at an advantage over all narrators in partiallydisbelieving them. One dayhoweverhe got into a dialogue withHiram Forda wagonerin which he himself contributed information. He wished to know whether Hiram had seen fellows with staves andinstruments spying about: they called themselves railroad peoplebutthere was no telling what they were or what they meant to do. The least they pretended was that they were going to cut LowickParish into sixes and sevens.

"Whythere'll be no stirrin' from one pla-ace to another" saidHiramthinking of his wagon and horses.

"Nota bit" said Mr. Solomon.  "And cutting up fine landsuch as this parish!  Let 'em go into Tiptonsay I. But there'sno knowing what there is at the bottom of it.  Traffic is whatthey put for'ard; but it's to do harm to the land and the poor man inthe long-run."

"Whythey're Lunnon chapsI reckon" said Hiramwho had a dimnotion of London as a centre of hostility to the country.

"Ayto be sure.  And in some parts against Brassingby what I'veheard saythe folks fell on 'em when they were spyingand broketheir peep-holes as they carryand drove 'em awayso as they knewbetter than come again."

"Itwar good foonI'd be bound" said Hiramwhose fun was muchrestricted by circumstances.

"WellI wouldn't meddle with 'em myself" said Solomon. "But somesay this country's seen its best daysand the sign isas it's beingoverrun with these fellows trampling right and leftand wanting tocut it up into railways; and all for the big traffic to swallow upthe littleso as there shan't be a team left on the landnor a whipto crack."

"I'llcrack MY whip about their ear'nafore they bring it to thatthough" said Hiramwhile Mr. Solomonshaking his bridlemoved onward.

Nettle-seedneeds no digging.  The ruin of this countryside by railroads wasdiscussednot only at the "Weights and Scales" but in thehay-fieldwhere the muster of working hands gave opportunities fortalk such as were rarely had through the rural year.

Onemorningnot long after that interview between Mr. Farebrother andMary Garthin which she confessed to him her feeling for Fred Vincyit happened that her father had some business which took him toYoddrell's farm in the direction of Frick:  it was to measureand value an outlying piece of land belonging to Lowick ManorwhichCaleb expected to dispose of advantageously for Dorothea (it must beconfessed that his bias was towards getting the best possible termsfrom railroad companies). He put up his gig at Yoddrell'sand inwalking with his assistant and measuring-chain to the scene of hisworkhe encountered the party of the company's agentswho wereadjusting their spirit-level. After a little chat he left themobserving that by-and-by they would reach him again where he wasgoing to measure. It was one of those gray mornings after lightrainswhich become delicious about twelve o'clockwhen the cloudspart a littleand the scent of the earth is sweet along the lanesand by the hedgerows.

The scentwould have been sweeter to Fred Vincywho was coming along the laneson horsebackif his mind had not been worried by unsuccessfulefforts to imagine what he was to dowith his father on one sideexpecting him straightway to enter the Churchwith Mary on the otherthreatening to forsake him if he did enter itand with theworking-day world showing no eager need whatever of a young gentlemanwithout capital and generally unskilled. It was the harder to Fred'sdisposition because his fathersatisfied that he was no longerrebelliouswas in good humor with himand had sent him on thispleasant ride to see after some greyhounds. Even when he had fixed onwhat he should dothere would be the task of telling his father. But it must be admitted that the fixingwhich had to come firstwasthe more difficult task:--what secular avocation on earth was therefor a young man (whose friends could not get him an "appointment")which was at once gentlemanlylucrativeand to be followed withoutspecial knowledge? Riding along the lanes by Frick in this moodandslackening his pace while he reflected whether he should venture togo round by Lowick Parsonage to call on Maryhe could see over thehedges from one field to another.  Suddenly a noise roused hisattentionand on the far side of a field on his left hand he couldsee six or seven men in smock-frocks with hay-forks in their handsmaking an offensive approach towards the four railway agents who werefacing themwhile Caleb Garth and his assistant were hasteningacross the field to join the threatened group.  Freddelayed afew moments by having to find the gatecould not gallop up to thespot before the party in smock-frockswhose work of turning the hayhad not been too pressing after swallowing their mid-day beerweredriving the men in coats before them with their hay-forks; whileCaleb Garth's assistanta lad of seventeenwho had snatched up thespirit-level at Caleb's orderhad been knocked down and seemed to belying helpless.  The coated men had the advantage as runnersand Fred covered their retreat by getting in front of thesmock-frocks and charging them suddenly enough to throw their chaseinto confusion.  "What do you confounded fools mean?"shouted Fredpursuing the divided group in a zigzagand cuttingright and left with his whip.  "I'll swear to every one ofyou before the magistrate.  You've knocked the lad down andkilled himfor what I know.  You'll every one of you be hangedat the next assizesif you don't mind" said Fredwhoafterwards laughed heartily as he remembered his own phrases.

Thelaborers had been driven through the gate-way into their hay-fieldand Fred had checked his horsewhen Hiram Fordobserving himself ata safe challenging distanceturned back and shouted a defiance whichhe did not know to be Homeric.

"Yo'rea cowardyo are.  Yo git off your horseyoung measterandI'll have a round wi' yeI wull.  Yo daredn't come on wi'outyour hoss an' whip.  I'd soon knock the breath out on yeIwould."

"Waita minuteand I'll come back presentlyand have a round with you allin turnif you like" said Fredwho felt confidence in hispower of boxing with his dearly beloved brethren.  But just nowhe wanted to hasten back to Caleb and the prostrate youth.

The lad'sankle was strainedand he was in much pain from itbut he was nofurther hurtand Fred placed him on the horse that he might ride toYoddrell's and be taken care of there.

"Letthem put the horse in the stableand tell the surveyors they cancome back for their traps" said Fred.  "The ground isclear now."

"Nono" said Caleb"here's a breakage.  They'll have togive up for to-dayand it will be as well.  Heretake thethings before you on the horseTom.  They'll see you comingand they'll turn back."

"I'mglad I happened to be here at the right momentMr. Garth" saidFredas Tom rode away.  "No knowing what might havehappened if the cavalry had not come up in time."

"Ayayit was lucky" said Calebspeaking rather absentlyandlooking towards the spot where he had been at work at the moment ofinterruption.  "But--deuce take it--this is what comes ofmen being fools--I'm hindered of my day's work.  I can't getalong without somebody to help me with the measuring-chain. However!"He was beginning to move towards the spot with a look of vexationasif he had forgotten Fred's presencebut suddenly he turned round andsaid quickly"What have you got to do to-dayyoung fellow?"

"NothingMr. Garth.  I'll help you with pleasure--can I?" said Fredwith a sense that he should be courting Mary when he was helping herfather.

"Wellyou mustn't mind stooping and getting hot."

"Idon't mind anything.  Only I want to go first and have a roundwith that hulky fellow who turned to challenge me.  It would bea good lesson for him.  I shall not be five minutes."

"Nonsense!"said Calebwith his most peremptory intonation. "I shall go andspeak to the men myself.  It's all ignorance. Somebody has beentelling them lies.  The poor fools don't know any better."

"Ishall go with youthen" said Fred.

"Nono; stay where you are.  I don't want your young blood. I cantake care of myself."

Caleb wasa powerful man and knew little of any fear except the fear of hurtingothers and the fear of having to speechify.  But he felt it hisduty at this moment to try and give a little harangue. There was astriking mixture in him--which came from his having always been ahard-working man himself--of rigorous notions about workmen andpractical indulgence towards them.  To do a good day's work andto do it wellhe held to be part of their welfareas it was thechief part of his own happiness; but he had a strong sense offellowship with them.  When he advanced towards the laborersthey had not gone to work againbut were standing in that form ofrural grouping which consists in each turning a shoulder towards theotherat a distance of two or three yards.  They looked rathersulkily at Calebwho walked quickly with one hand in his pocket andthe other thrust between the buttons of his waistcoatand had hisevery-day mild air when he paused among them.

"Whymy ladshow's this?" he begantaking as usual to briefphraseswhich seemed pregnant to himselfbecause he had manythoughts lying under themlike the abundant roots of a plant thatjust manages to peep above the water.  "How came you tomake such a mistake as this? Somebody has been telling you lies. You thought those men up there wanted to do mischief."

"Aw!"was the answerdropped at intervals by each according to his degreeof unreadiness.

"Nonsense! No such thing!  They're looking out to see which way therailroad is to take.  Nowmy ladsyou can't hinder therailroad: it will be made whether you like it or not.  And ifyou go fighting against ityou'll get yourselves into trouble. The law gives those men leave to come here on the land.  Theowner has nothing to say against itand if you meddle with themyou'll have to do with the constable and Justice Blakesleyand withthe handcuffs and Middlemarch jail.  And you might be in for itnowif anybody informed against you."

Calebpaused hereand perhaps the greatest orator could not have choseneither his pause or his images better for the occasion.

"Butcomeyou didn't mean any harm.  Somebody told you the railroadwas a bad thing.  That was a lie.  It may do a bit of harmhere and thereto this and to that; and so does the sun in heaven.But the railway's a good thing."

"Aw!good for the big folks to make money out on" said old TimothyCooperwho had stayed behind turning his hay while the others hadbeen gone on their spree;--"I'n seen lots o' things turn up sin'I war a young un--the war an' the peaceand the canellsan' theoald King Georgean' the Regen'an' the new King Georgean' thenew un as has got a new ne-ame--an' it's been all aloike to the poormon.  What's the canells been t' him? They'n brought him neytherme-at nor be-aconnor wage to lay byif he didn't save it wi'clemmin' his own inside.  Times ha' got wusser for him sin' Iwar a young un.  An' so it'll be wi' the railroads. They'll on'y leave the poor mon furder behind. But them are fools asmeddleand so I told the chaps here. This is the big folks's worldthis is.  But yo're for the big folksMuster Garthyo are."

Timothywas a wiry old laborerof a type lingering in those times-- who hadhis savings in a stocking-footlived in a lone cottageand was notto be wrought on by any oratoryhaving as little of the feudalspiritand believing as littleas if he had not been totallyunacquainted with the Age of Reason and the Rights of Man. Caleb wasin a difficulty known to any person attempting in dark times andunassisted by miracle to reason with rustics who are in possession ofan undeniable truth which they know through a hard process offeelingand can let it fall like a giant's club on your neatlycarved argument for a social benefit which they do not feel. Calebhad no cant at commandeven if he could have chosen to use it; andhe had been accustomed to meet all such difficulties in no other waythan by doing his "business" faithfully.  Heanswered--

"Ifyou don't think well of meTimnever mind; that's neither here northere now.  Things may be bad for the poor man--bad they are;but I want the lads here not to do what will make things worse forthemselves.  The cattle may have a heavy loadbut it won't help'em to throw it over into the roadside pitwhen it's partly theirown fodder."

"Wewar on'y for a bit o' foon" said Hiramwho was beginning tosee consequences.  "That war all we war arter."

"Wellpromise me not to meddle againand I'll see that nobody informsagainst you."

"I'nne'er meddledan' I'n no call to promise" said Timothy.

"Nobut the rest.  ComeI'm as hard at work as any of you to-dayand I can't spare much time.  Say you'll be quiet without theconstable."

"Awwe wooant meddle--they may do as they loike for oos"-- were theforms in which Caleb got his pledges; and then he hastened back toFredwho had followed himand watched him in the gateway.

They wentto workand Fred helped vigorously.  His spirits had risenandhe heartily enjoyed a good slip in the moist earth under thehedgerowwhich soiled his perfect summer trousers.  Was it hissuccessful onset which had elated himor the satisfaction of helpingMary's father?  Something more.  The accidents of themorning had helped his frustrated imagination to shape an employmentfor himself which had several attractions.  I am not sure thatcertain fibres in Mr. Garth's mind had not resumed their oldvibration towards the very end which now revealed itself to Fred. For the effective accident is but the touch of fire where there isoil and tow; and it al ways appeared to Fred that the railway broughtthe needed touch. But they went on in silence except when theirbusiness demanded speech. At lastwhen they had finished and werewalking awayMr. Garth said--

"Ayoung fellow needn't be a B. A. to do this sort of workehFred?"

"Iwish I had taken to it before I had thought of being a B. A."said Fred.  He paused a momentand then addedmorehesitatingly"Do you think I am too old to learn your businessMr. Garth?"

"Mybusiness is of many sortsmy boy" said Mr. Garthsmiling. "Agood deal of what I know can only come from experience: you can'tlearn it off as you learn things out of a book. But you are youngenough to lay a foundation yet."  Caleb pronounced the lastsentence emphaticallybut paused in some uncertainty. He had beenunder the impression lately that Fred had made up his mind to enterthe Church.

"Youdo think I could do some good at itif I were to try?" saidFredmore eagerly.

"Thatdepends" said Calebturning his head on one side and loweringhis voicewith the air of a man who felt himself to be sayingsomething deeply religious.  "You must be sure of twothings: you must love your workand not be always looking over theedge of itwanting your play to begin.  And the other isyoumust not be ashamed of your workand think it would be morehonorable to you to be doing something else.  You must have apride in your own work and in learning to do it welland not bealways sayingThere's this and there's that--if I had this or thatto doI might make something of it.  No matter what a man is--Iwouldn't give twopence for him"-- here Caleb's mouth lookedbitterand he snapped his fingers-- "whether he was the primeminister or the rick-thatcherif he didn't do well what he undertookto do."

"Ican never feel that I should do that in being a clergyman" saidFredmeaning to take a step in argument.

"Thenlet it alonemy boy" said Calebabruptly"else you'llnever be easy.  Orif you ARE easyyou'll be a poor stick."

"Thatis very nearly what Mary thinks about it" said Fredcoloring."I think you must know what I feel for MaryMr. Garth:  Ihope it does not displease you that I have always loved her betterthan any one elseand that I shall never love any one as I loveher."

Theexpression of Caleb's face was visibly softening while Fred spoke.But he swung his head with a solemn slownessand said--

"Thatmakes things more seriousFredif you want to take Mary's happinessinto your keeping."

"Iknow thatMr. Garth" said Fredeagerly"and I would doanything for HER.  She says she will never have me if I go intothe Church; and I shall be the most miserable devil in the world if Ilose all hope of Mary.  Reallyif I could get some otherprofessionbusiness-- anything that I am at all fit forI wouldwork hardI would deserve your good opinion.  I should like tohave to do with outdoor things. I know a good deal about land andcattle already.  I used to believeyou know--though you willthink me rather foolish for it--that I should have land of my own. I am sure knowledge of that sort would come easily to meespeciallyif I could be under you in any way."

"Softlymy boy" said Calebhaving the image of "Susan"before his eyes.  "What have you said to your father aboutall this?"

"Nothingyet; but I must tell him.  I am only waiting to know what I cando instead of entering the Church.  I am very sorry todisappoint himbut a man ought to be allowed to judge for himselfwhen he is four-and-twenty. How could I know when I was fifteenwhatit would be right for me to do now?  My education was amistake."

"Buthearken to thisFred" said Caleb.  "Are you sureMary is fond of youor would ever have you?"

"Iasked Mr. Farebrother to talk to herbecause she had forbidden me--I didn't know what else to do" said Fredapologetically. "And he says that I have every reason to hopeif I can putmyself in an honorable position--I meanout of the Church I dare sayyou think it unwarrantable in meMr. Garthto be troubling you andobtruding my own wishes about Marybefore I have done anything atall for myself. Of course I have not the least claim--indeedI havealready a debt to you which will never be dischargedeven when Ihave beenable to pay it in the shape of money."

"Yesmy boyyou have a claim" said Calebwith much feeling in hisvoice.  "The young ones have always a claim on the old tohelp them forward.  I was young myself once and had to dowithout much help; but help would have been welcome to meif it hadbeen only for the fellow-feeling's sake.  But I must consider. Come to me to-morrow at the officeat nine o'clock. At the officemind."

Mr. Garthwould take no important step without consulting Susanbut it must beconfessed that before he reached home he had taken his resolution. With regard to a large number of matters about which other men aredecided or obstinatehe was the most easily manageable man in theworld.  He never knew what meat he would chooseand if Susanhad said that they ought to live in a four-roomed cottagein orderto savehe would have said"Let us go" without inquiringinto details.  But where Caleb's feeling and judgment stronglypronouncedhe was a ruler; and in spite of his mildness and timidityin reprovingevery one about him knew that on the exceptionaloccasions when he chosehe was absolute.  He neverindeedchose to be absolute except on some one else's behalf.  Onninety-nine points Mrs. Garth decidedbut on the hundredth she wasoften aware that she would have to perform the singularly difficulttask of carrying out her own principleand to make herselfsubordinate.

"Itis come round as I thoughtSusan" said Calebwhen they wereseated alone in the evening.  He had already narrated theadventure which had brought about Fred's sharing in his workbut hadkept back the further result.  "The children ARE fond ofeach other-- I meanFred and Mary."

Mrs. Garthlaid her work on her kneeand fixed her penetrating eyes anxiouslyon her husband.

"Afterwe'd done our workFred poured it all out to me.  He can't bearto be a clergymanand Mary says she won't have him if he is one; andthe lad would like to be under me and give his mind to business. AndI've determined to take him and make a man of him."

"Caleb!"said Mrs. Garthin a deep contraltoexpressive of resignedastonishment.

"It'sa fine thing to do" said Mr. Garthsettling himself firmlyagainst the back of his chairand grasping the elbows. "I shallhave trouble with himbut I think I shall carry it through. The lad loves Maryand a true love for a good woman is a greatthingSusan.  It shapes many a rough fellow."

"HasMary spoken to you on the subject?" said Mrs Garthsecretly alittle hurt that she had to be informed on it herself.

"Nota word.  I asked her about Fred once; I gave her a bit of awarning. But she assured me she would never marry an idleself-indulgent man-- nothing since.  But it seems Fred set onMr. Farebrother to talk to herbecause she had forbidden him tospeak himselfand Mr. Farebrother has found out that she is fond ofFredbut says he must not be a clergyman.  Fred's heart isfixed on Marythat I can see: it gives me a good opinion of thelad--and we always liked himSusan."

"Itis a pity for MaryI think" said Mrs. Garth.

"Why--apity?"

"BecauseCalebshe might have had a man who is worth twenty Fred Vincy's."

"Ah?"said Calebwith surprise.

"Ifirmly believe that Mr. Farebrother is attached to herand meant tomake her an offer; but of coursenow that Fred has used him as anenvoythere is an end to that better prospect." There was asevere precision in Mrs. Garth's utterance.  She was vexed anddisappointedbut she was bent on abstaining from useless words.

Caleb wassilent a few moments under a conflict of feelings. He looked at thefloor and moved his head and hands in accompaniment to some inwardargumentation.  At last he said--

"Thatwould have made me very proud and happySusanand I should havebeen glad for your sake.  I've always felt that your belongingshave never been on a level with you.  But you took methough Iwas a plain man."

"Itook the best and cleverest man I had ever known" said Mrs.Garthconvinced that SHE would never have loved any one who cameshort of that mark.

"Wellperhaps others thought you might have done better. But it would havebeen worse for me.  And that is what touches me close aboutFred.  The lad is good at bottomand clever enough to doifhe's put in the right way; and he loves and honors my daughter beyondanythingand she has given him a sort of promise according to whathe turns out.  I saythat young man's soul is in my hand; andI'll do the best I can for himso help me God! It's my dutySusan."

Mrs. Garthwas not given to tearsbut there was a large one rolling down herface before her husband had finished.  It came from the pressureof various feelingsin which there was much affection and somevexation.  She wiped it away quicklysaying--

"Fewmen besides you would think it a duty to add to their anxieties inthat wayCaleb."

"Thatsignifies nothing--what other men would think.  I've got a clearfeeling inside meand that I shall follow; and I hope your heartwill go with meSusanin making everything as light as can be toMarypoor child."

Calebleaning back in his chairlooked with anxious appeal towards hiswife.  She rose and kissed himsaying"God bless youCaleb! Our children have a good father."

But shewent out and had a hearty cry to make up for the suppression of herwords.  She felt sure that her husband's conduct would bemisunderstoodand about Fred she was rational and unhopeful. Whichwould turn out to have the more foresight in it--her rationality orCaleb's ardent generosity?

When Fredwent to the office the next morningthere was a test to be gonethrough which he was not prepared for.

"NowFred" said Caleb"you will have some desk-work. I havealways done a good deal of writing myselfbut I can't do withouthelpand as I want you to understand the accounts and get the valuesinto your headI mean to do without another clerk.  So you mustbuckle to. How are you at writing and arithmetic?"

Fred feltan awkward movement of the heart; he had not thought of desk-work;but he was in a resolute moodand not going to shrink. "I'm notafraid of arithmeticMr. Garth:  it always came easily to me. Ithink you know my writing."

"Letus see" said Calebtaking up a penexamining it carefully andhanding itwell dippedto Fred with a sheet of ruled paper. "Copyme a line or two of that valuationwith the figures at the end."

At thattime the opinion existed that it was beneath a gentleman to writelegiblyor with a hand in the least suitable to a clerk. Fred wrotethe lines demanded in a hand as gentlemanly as that of any viscountor bishop of the day:  the vowels were all alike and theconsonants only distinguishable as turning up or downthe strokeshad a blotted solidity and the letters disdained to keep the line--in shortit was a manuscript of that venerable kind easy tointerpret when you know beforehand what the writer means.

As Caleblooked onhis visage showed a growing depressionbut when Fredhanded him the paper he gave something like a snarland rapped thepaper passionately with the back of his hand. Bad work like thisdispelled all Caleb's mildness.

"Thedeuce!" he exclaimedsnarlingly.  "To think that thisis a country where a man's education may cost hundreds and hundredsand it turns you out this!"  Then in a more pathetic tonepushing up his spectacles and looking at the unfortunate scribe"TheLord have mercy on usFredI can't put up with this!"

"Whatcan I doMr. Garth?" said Fredwhose spirits had sunk verylownot only at the estimate of his handwritingbut at the visionof himself as liable to be ranked with office clerks.

"Do? Whyyou must learn to form your letters and keep the line. What'sthe use of writing at all if nobody can understand it?" askedCalebenergeticallyquite preoccupied with the bad quality of thework.  "Is there so little business in the world that youmust be sending puzzles over the country?  But that's the waypeople are brought up.  I should lose no end of time with theletters some people send meif Susan did not make them out for me. It's disgusting." Here Caleb tossed the paper from him.

Anystranger peeping into the office at that moment might have wonderedwhat was the drama between the indignant man of businessand thefine-looking young fellow whose blond complexion was getting ratherpatchy as he bit his lip with mortification.  Fred wasstruggling with many thoughts.  Mr. Garth had been so kind andencouraging at the beginning of their interviewthat gratitude andhopefulness had been at a high pitchand the downfall wasproportionate.  He had not thought of desk-work--in factlikethe majority of young gentlemenhe wanted an occupation which shouldbe free from disagreeables. I cannot tell what might have been theconsequences if he had not distinctly promised himself that he wouldgo to Lowick to see Mary and tell her that he was engaged to workunder her father. He did not like to disappoint himself there.

"I amvery sorry" were all the words that he could muster. But Mr.Garth was already relenting.

"Wemust make the best of itFred" he beganwith a return to hisusual quiet tone.  "Every man can learn to write.  Itaught myself. Go at it with a willand sit up at night if theday-time isn't enough. We'll be patientmy boy.  Callum shallgo on with the books for a bitwhile you are learning.  But nowI must be off" said Calebrising.  "You must letyour father know our agreement. You'll save me Callum's salaryyouknowwhen you can write; and I can afford to give you eighty poundsfor the first yearand more after."

When Fredmade the necessary disclosure to his parentsthe relative effect onthe two was a surprise which entered very deeply into his memory. He went straight from Mr. Garth's office to the warehouserightlyfeeling that the most respectful way in which he could behave to hisfather was to make the painful communication as gravely and formallyas possible.  Moreoverthe decision would be more certainlyunderstood to be finalif the interview took place in his father'sgravest hourswhich were always those spent in his private room atthe warehouse.

Fredentered on the subject directlyand declared briefly what he haddone and was resolved to doexpressing at the end his regret that heshould be the cause of disappointment to his fatherand taking theblame on his own deficiencies.  The regret was genuineandinspired Fred with strongsimple words.

Mr. Vincylistened in profound surprise without uttering even an exclamationasilence which in his impatient temperament was a sign of unusualemotion.  He had not been in good spirits about trade thatmorningand the slight bitterness in his lips grew intense as helistened.  When Fred had endedthere was a pause of nearly aminuteduring which Mr. Vincy replaced a book in his desk and turnedthe key emphatically.  Then he looked at his son steadilyandsaid--

"Soyou've made up your mind at lastsir?"

"Yesfather."

"Verywell; stick to it.  I've no more to say.  You've thrownaway your educationand gone down a step in lifewhen I had givenyou the means of risingthat's all."

"I amvery sorry that we differfather.  I think I can be quite asmuch of a gentleman at the work I have undertakenas if I had been acurate.  But I am grateful to you for wishing to do the best forme."

"Verywell; I have no more to say.  I wash my hands of you. I onlyhopewhen you have a son of your own he will make a better returnfor the pains you spend on him."

This wasvery cutting to Fred.  His father was using that unfairadvantage possessed by us all when we are in a pathetic situation andsee our own past as if it were simply part of the pathos. In realityMr. Vincy's wishes about his son had had a great deal of prideinconsideratenessand egoistic folly in them.  But still thedisappointed father held a strong lever; and Fred felt as if he werebeing banished with a malediction.

"Ihope you will not object to my remaining at homesir?" he saidafter rising to go; "I shall have a sufficient salary to pay formy boardas of course I should wish to do."

"Boardbe hanged!" said Mr. Vincyrecovering himself in his disgust atthe notion that Fred's keep would be missed at his table. "Ofcourse your mother will want you to stay.  But I shall keep nohorse for youyou understand; and you will pay your own tailor. Youwill do with a suit or two lessI fancywhen you have to pay for'em."

Fredlingered; there was still something to be said.  At last itcame.

"Ihope you will shake hands with mefatherand forgive me thevexation I have caused you."

Mr. Vincyfrom his chair threw a quick glance upward at his sonwho hadadvanced near to himand then gave his handsaying hurriedly"Yesyeslet us say no more."

Fred wentthrough much more narrative and explanation with his motherbut shewas inconsolablehaving before her eyes what perhaps her husband hadnever thought ofthe certainty that Fred would marry Mary Garththat her life would henceforth be spoiled by a perpetual infusion ofGarths and their waysand that her darling boywith his beautifulface and stylish air "beyond anybody else's son in Middlemarch"would be sure to get like that family in plainness of appearance andcarelessness about his clothes.  To her it seemed that there wasa Garth conspiracy to get possession of the desirable Fredbut shedared not enlarge on this opinionbecause a slight hint of it hadmade him "fly out" at her as he had never done before. Hertemper was too sweet for her to show any angerbut she felt that herhappiness had received a bruiseand for several days merely to lookat Fred made her cry a little as if he were the subject of somebaleful prophecy.  Perhaps she was the slower to recover herusual cheerfulness because Fred had warned her that she must notreopen the sore question with his fatherwho had accepted hisdecision and forgiven him.  If her husband had been vehementagainst Fredshe would have been urged into defence of her darling.It was the end of the fourth day when Mr. Vincy said to her--

"ComeLucymy deardon't be so down-hearted. You always have spoiled theboyand you must go on spoiling him."

"Nothingever did cut me so beforeVincy" said the wifeher fairthroat and chin beginning to tremble again"only his illness."

"Poohpoohnever mind!  We must expect to have trouble with ourchildren.  Don't make it worse by letting me see you out ofspirits."

"WellI won't" said Mrs. Vincyroused by this appeal and adjustingherself with a little shake as of a bird which lays down its ruffledplumage.

"Itwon't do to begin making a fuss about one" said Mr. Vincywishing to combine a little grumbling with domestic cheerfulness."There's Rosamond as well as Fred."

"Yespoor thing.  I'm sure I felt for her being disappointed of herbaby; but she got over it nicely."

"Babypooh!  I can see Lydgate is making a mess of his practiceandgetting into debt tooby what I hear.  I shall have Rosamondcoming to me with a pretty tale one of these days.  But they'llget no money from meI know.  Let HIS family help him. I neverdid like that marriage.  But it's no use talking.  Ring thebell for lemonsand don't look dull any moreLucy.  I'll driveyou and Louisa to Riverston to-morrow."

CHAPTERLVII

  They numbered scarce eight summers when a name
   Roseon their souls and stirred such motions there
   Asthrill the buds and shape their hidden frame
   Atpenetration of the quickening air:
   His name who toldof loyal Evan Dhu
   Of quaint Bradwardineand VichIan Vor
   Making the little world their childhoodknew
   Large with a land of mountain lake and scaur
  And larger yet with wonder love belief
   Toward WalterScott who living far away
   Sent them this wealth ofjoy and noble grief.
     The book and theymust partbut day by day
   In lines that thwart likeportly spiders ran
   They wrote the talefrom TullyVeolan.

Theevening that Fred Vincy walked to Lowick parsonage (he had begun tosee that this was a world in which even a spirited young man mustsometimes walk for want of a horse to carry him) he set out at fiveo'clock and called on Mrs. Garth by the waywishing to assurehimself that she accepted their new relations willingly.

He foundthe family groupdogs and cats includedunder the great apple-treein the orchard.  It was a festival with Mrs. Garthfor hereldest sonChristyher peculiar joy and pridehad come home for ashort holiday--Christywho held it the most desirable thing in theworld to be a tutorto study all literatures and be a regeneratePorsonand who was an incorporate criticism on poor Freda sort ofobject-lesson given to him by the educational mother. Christyhimselfa square-browedbroad-shouldered masculine edition of hismother not much higher than Fred's shoulder--which made it the harderthat he should be held superior--was always as simple as possibleand thought no more of Fred's disinclination to scholarship than of agiraffe'swishing that he himself were more of the same height. He was lying on the ground now by his mother's chairwith his strawhat laid flat over his eyeswhile Jim on the other side was readingaloud from that beloved writer who has made a chief part in thehappiness of many young lives.  The volume was "Ivanhoe"and Jim was in the great archery scene at the tournamentbutsuffered much interruption from Benwho had fetched his own old bowand arrowsand was making himself dreadfully disagreeableLettythoughtby begging all present to observe his random shotswhich noone wished to do except Browniethe active-minded but probablyshallow mongrelwhile the grizzled Newfoundland lying in the sunlooked on with the dull-eyed neutrality of extreme old age. Lettyherselfshowing as to her mouth and pinafore some slight signs thatshe had been assisting at the gathering of the cherries which stoodin a coral-heap on the tea-tablewas now seated on the grasslistening open-eyed to the reading.

But thecentre of interest was changed for all by the arrival of Fred Vincy. Whenseating himself on a garden-stoolhe said that he was on hisway to Lowick ParsonageBenwho had thrown down his bowandsnatched up a reluctant half-grown kitten insteadstrode acrossFred's outstretched legand said "Take me!"

"Ohand me too" said Letty.

"Youcan't keep up with Fred and me" said Ben.

"YesI can.  Motherplease say that I am to go" urged Lettywhose life was much checkered by resistance to her depreciation as agirl.

"Ishall stay with Christy" observed Jim; as much as to say thathe had the advantage of those simpletons; whereupon Letty put herhand up to her head and looked with jealous indecision from the oneto the other.

"Letus all go and see Mary" said Christyopening his arms.

"Nomy dear childwe must not go in a swarm to the parsonage. And thatold Glasgow suit of yours would never do.  Besidesyour fatherwill come home.  We must let Fred go alone.  He can tellMary that you are hereand she will come back to-morrow."

Christyglanced at his own threadbare kneesand then at Fred's beautifulwhite trousers.  Certainly Fred's tailoring suggested theadvantages of an English universityand he had a graceful way evenof looking warm and of pushing his hair back with his handkerchief.

"Childrenrun away" said Mrs. Garth; "it is too warm to hang aboutyour friends.  Take your brother and show him the rabbits."

The eldestunderstoodand led off the children immediately. Fred felt that Mrs.Garth wished to give him an opportunity of saying anything he had tosaybut he could only begin by observing--

"Howglad you must be to have Christy here!"

"Yes;he has come sooner than I expected.  He got down from the coachat nine o'clockjust after his father went out.  I am longingfor Caleb to come and hear what wonderful progress Christy is making.He has paid his expenses for the last year by giving lessonscarrying on hard study at the same time.  He hopes soon to get aprivate tutorship and go abroad."

"Heis a great fellow" said Fredto whom these cheerful truths hada medicinal taste"and no trouble to anybody." After aslight pausehe added"But I fear you will think that I amgoing to be a great deal of trouble to Mr. Garth."

"Caleblikes taking trouble:  he is one of those men who always do morethan any one would have thought of asking them to do" answeredMrs. Garth.  She was knittingand could either look at Fred ornotas she chose--always an advantage when one is bent on loadingspeech with salutary meaning; and though Mrs. Garth intended to beduly reservedshe did wish to say something that Fred might be thebetter for.

"Iknow you think me very undeservingMrs. Garthand with goodreason" said Fredhis spirit rising a little at the perceptionof something like a disposition to lecture him.  "I happento have behaved just the worst to the people I can't help wishing forthe most from. But while two men like Mr. Garth and Mr. Farebrotherhave not given me upI don't see why I should give myself up." Fred thought it might be well to suggest these masculine examples toMrs. Garth.

"Assuredly"said shewith gathering emphasis.  "A young man for whomtwo such elders had devoted themselves would indeed be culpable if hethrew himself away and made their sacrifices vain."

Fredwondered a little at this strong languagebut only said"Ihope it will not be so with meMrs. Garthsince I have someencouragement to believe that I may win Mary.  Mr. Garth hastold you about that?  You were not surprisedI dare say?" Fred endedinnocently referring only to his own love as probablyevident enough.

"Notsurprised that Mary has given you encouragement?" returned Mrs.Garthwho thought it would be well for Fred to be more alive to thefact that Mary's friends could not possibly have wished thisbeforehandwhatever the Vincys might suppose. "YesI confess Iwas surprised."

"Shenever did give me any--not the least in the worldwhen I talked toher myself" said Fredeager to vindicate Mary. "But whenI asked Mr. Farebrother to speak for meshe allowed him to tell methere was a hope."

The powerof admonition which had begun to stir in Mrs. Garth had not yetdischarged itself.  It was a little too provoking even for HERself-control that this blooming youngster should flourish on thedisappointments of sadder and wiser people--making a meal of anightingale and never knowing it--and that all the while his familyshould suppose that hers was in eager need of this sprig; and hervexation had fermented the more actively because of its totalrepression towards her husband.  Exemplary wives will sometimesfind scapegoats in this way.  She now said with energeticdecision"You made a great mistakeFredin asking Mr.Farebrother to speak for you."

"DidI?" said Fredreddening instantaneously.  He was alarmedbut at a loss to know what Mrs. Garth meantand addedin anapologetic tone"Mr. Farebrother has always been such a friendof ours; and MaryI knewwould listen to him gravely; and he tookit on himself quite readily."

"Yesyoung people are usually blind to everything but their own wishesand seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others" said Mrs.Garth She did not mean to go beyond this salutary general doctrineand threw her indignation into a needless unwinding of her worstedknitting her brow at it with a grand air.

"Icannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Farebrother"said Fredwho nevertheless felt that surprising conceptions werebeginning to form themselves.

"Precisely;you cannot conceive" said Mrs. Garthcutting her words asneatly as possible.

For amoment Fred looked at the horizon with a dismayed anxietyand thenturning with a quick movement said almost sharply--

"Doyou mean to sayMrs. Garththat Mr. Farebrother is in love withMary?"

"Andif it were soFredI think you are the last person who ought to besurprised" returned Mrs. Garthlaying her knitting down besideher and folding her arms.  It was an unwonted sign of emotion inher that she should put her work out of her hands. In fact herfeelings were divided between the satisfaction of giving Fred hisdiscipline and the sense of having gone a little too far. Fred tookhis hat and stick and rose quickly.

"Thenyou think I am standing in his wayand in Mary's too?" he saidin a tone which seemed to demand an answer.

Mrs. Garthcould not speak immediately.  She had brought herself into theunpleasant position of being called on to say what she really feltyet what she knew there were strong reasons for concealing. And toher the consciousness of having exceeded in words was peculiarlymortifying.  BesidesFred had given out unexpected electricityand he now added"Mr. Garth seemed pleased that Mary should beattached to me.  He could not have known anything of this."

Mrs. Garthfelt a severe twinge at this mention of her husbandthe fear thatCaleb might think her in the wrong not being easily endurable. Sheansweredwanting to check unintended consequences--

"Ispoke from inference only.  I am not aware that Mary knowsanything of the matter."

But shehesitated to beg that he would keep entire silence on a subject whichshe had herself unnecessarily mentionednot being used to stoop inthat way; and while she was hesitating there was already a rush ofunintended consequences under the apple-tree where the tea-thingsstood.  Benbouncing across the grass with Brownie at hisheelsand seeing the kitten dragging the knitting by a lengtheningline of woolshouted and clapped his hands; Brownie barkedthekittendesperatejumped on the tea-table and upset the milkthenjumped down again and swept half the cherries with it; and Bensnatching up the half-knitted sock-topfitted it over the kitten'shead as a new source of madnesswhile Letty arriving cried out toher mother against this cruelty--it was a history as full ofsensation as "This is the house that Jack built." Mrs.Garth was obliged to interferethe other young ones came up and thetete-a-tete with Fred was ended.  He got away as soon as hecouldand Mrs. Garth could only imply some retractation of herseverity by saying "God bless you" when she shook handswith him.

She wasunpleasantly conscious that she had been on the verge of speaking as"one of the foolish women speaketh"--telling first andentreating silence after.  But she had not entreated silenceand to prevent Caleb's blame she determined to blame herself andconfess all to him that very night.  It was curious what anawful tribunal the mild Caleb's was to herwhenever he set it up.But she meant to point out to him that the revelation might do FredVincy a great deal of good.

No doubtit was having a strong effect on him as he walked to Lowick. Fred'slight hopeful nature had perhaps never had so much of a bruise asfrom this suggestion that if he had been out of the way Mary mighthave made a thoroughly good match.  Also he was piqued that hehad been what he called such a stupid lout as to ask thatintervention from Mr. Farebrother.  But it was not in a lover'snature-- it was not in Fred'sthat the new anxiety raised aboutMary's feeling should not surmount every other.  Notwithstandinghis trust in Mr. Farebrother's generositynotwithstanding what Maryhad said to himFred could not help feeling that he had a rival: itwas a new consciousnessand he objected to it extremelynot beingin the least ready to give up Mary for her goodbeing ready ratherto fight for her with any man whatsoever.  But the fighting withMr. Farebrother must be of a metaphorical kindwhich was much moredifficult to Fred than the muscular.  Certainly this experiencewas a discipline for Fred hardly less sharp than his disappointmentabout his uncle's will.  The iron had not entered into his soulbut he had begun to imagine what the sharp edge would be. It did notonce occur to Fred that Mrs. Garth might be mistaken about Mr.Farebrotherbut he suspected that she might be wrong about Mary. Mary had been staying at the parsonage latelyand her mother mightknow very little of what had been passing in her mind.

He did notfeel easier when he found her looking cheerful with the three ladiesin the drawing-room. They were in animated discussion on some subjectwhich was dropped when he enteredand Mary was copying the labelsfrom a heap of shallow cabinet drawersin a minute handwriting whichshe was skilled in.  Mr. Farebrother was somewhere in thevillageand the three ladies knew nothing of Fred's peculiarrelation to Mary:  it was impossible for either of them topropose that they should walk round the gardenand Fred predicted tohimself that he should have to go away without saying a word to herin private.  He told her first of Christy's arrival and then ofhis own engagement with her father; and he was comforted by seeingthat this latter news touched her keenly. She said hurriedly"Iam so glad" and then bent over her writing to hinder any onefrom noticing her face.  But here was a subject which Mrs.Farebrother could not let pass.

"Youdon't meanmy dear Miss Garththat you are glad to hear of a youngman giving up the Church for which he was educated: you only meanthat things being soyou are glad that he should be under anexcellent man like your father."

"NoreallyMrs. FarebrotherI am glad of bothI fear" said Marycleverly getting rid of one rebellious tear. "I have adreadfully secular mind.  I never liked any clergyman except theVicar of Wakefield and Mr. Farebrother."

"Nowwhymy dear?" said Mrs. Farebrotherpausing on her largewooden knitting-needles and looking at Mary.  "You havealways a good reason for your opinionsbut this astonishes me. Ofcourse I put out of the question those who preach new doctrine. Butwhy should you dislike clergymen?"

"Ohdear" said Maryher face breaking into merriment as she seemedto consider a moment"I don't like their neckcloths."

"Whyyou don't like Camden'sthen" said Miss Winifredin someanxiety.

"YesI do" said Mary.  "I don't like the other clergymen'sneckclothsbecause it is they who wear them."

"Howvery puzzling!" said Miss Noblefeeling that her own intellectwas probably deficient.

"Mydearyou are joking.  You would have better reasons than thesefor slighting so respectable a class of men" said Mrs.Farebrothermajestically.

"MissGarth has such severe notions of what people should be that it isdifficult to satisfy her" said Fred.

"WellI am glad at least that she makes an exception in favor of my son"said the old lady.

Mary waswondering at Fred's piqued tonewhen Mr. Farebrother came in and hadto hear the news about the engagement under Mr. Garth. At the end hesaid with quiet satisfaction"THAT is right;" and thenbent to look at Mary's labels and praise her handwriting. Fred felthorribly jealous--was gladof coursethat Mr. Farebrother was soestimablebut wished that he had been ugly and fat as men at fortysometimes are.  It was clear what the end would besince Maryopenly placed Farebrother above everybodyand these women were allevidently encouraging the affair.  Hewas feeling sure that heshould have no chance of speaking to Marywhen Mr. Farebrothersaid--

"Fredhelp me to carry these drawers back into my study-- you have neverseen my fine new study.  Pray come tooMiss Garth. I want youto see a stupendous spider I found this morning."

Mary atonce saw the Vicar's intention.  He had never since thememorable evening deviated from his old pastoral kindness towardsherand her momentary wonder and doubt had quite gone to sleep. Marywas accustomed to think rather rigorously of what was probableandif a belief flattered her vanity she felt warned to dismiss it asridiculoushaving early had much exercise in such dismissals. It wasas she had foreseen:  when Fred had been asked to admire thefittings of the studyand she had been asked to admire the spiderMr. Farebrother said--

"Waithere a minute or two.  I am going to look out an engraving whichFred is tall enough to hang for me.  I shall be back in a fewminutes."  And then he went out.  Neverthelessthefirst word Fred said to Mary was--

"Itis of no usewhatever I doMary.  You are sure to marryFarebrother at last."  There was some rage in his tone.

"Whatdo you meanFred?"  Mary exclaimed indignantlyblushingdeeplyand surprised out of all her readiness in reply.

"Itis impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough-- you whosee everything."

"Ionly see that you are behaving very illFredin speaking so of Mr.Farebrother after he has pleaded your cause in every way. How can youhave taken up such an idea?"

Fred wasrather deepin spite of his irritation.  If Mary had reallybeen unsuspiciousthere was no good in telling her what Mrs.Garth-had said.

"Itfollows as a matter of course" he replied.  "When youare continually seeing a man who beats me in everythingand whom youset up above everybodyI can have no fair chance."

"Youare very ungratefulFred" said Mary.  "I wish I hadnever told Mr. Farebrother that I cared for you in the least."

"NoI am not ungrateful; I should be the happiest fellow in the world ifit were not for this.  I told your father everythingand he wasvery kind; he treated me as if I were his son. I could go at the workwith a willwriting and everythingif it were not for this."

"Forthis? for what?" said Maryimagining now that somethingspecific must have been said or done.

"Thisdreadful certainty that I shall be bowled out by Farebrother."Mary was appeased by her inclination to laugh.

"Fred"she saidpeeping round to catch his eyeswhich were sulkily turnedaway from her"you are too delightfully ridiculous. If you werenot such a charming simpletonwhat a temptation this would be toplay the wicked coquetteand let you suppose that somebody besidesyou has made love to me."

"Doyou really like me bestMary?" said Fredturning eyes full ofaffection on herand trying to take her hand.

"Idon't like you at all at this moment" said Maryretreatingand putting her hands behind her.  "I only said that nomortal ever made love to me besides you.  And that is noargument that a very wise man ever will" she endedmerrily.

"Iwish you would tell me that you could not possibly ever think ofhim" said Fred.

"Neverdare to mention this any more to meFred" said Marygettingserious again.  "I don't know whether it is more stupid orungenerous in you not to see that Mr: Farebrother has left ustogether on purpose that we might speak freely.  I amdisappointed that you should be so blind to his delicate feeling."

There wasno time to say any more before Mr. Farebrother came back with theengraving; and Fred had to return to the drawing-room still with ajealous dread in his heartbut yet with comforting arguments fromMary's words and manner.  The result of the conversation was onthe whole more painful to Mary:  inevitably her attention hadtaken a new attitudeand she saw the possibility of newinterpretations. She was in a position in which she seemed to herselfto be slighting Mr. Farebrotherand thisin relation to a man whois much honoredis always dangerous to the firmness of a gratefulwoman. To have a reason for going home the next day was a reliefforMary earnestly desired to be always clear that she loved Fred best.When a tender affection has been storing itself in us through many ofour yearsthe idea that we could accept any exchange for it seems tobe a cheapening of our lives.  And we can set a watch over ouraffections and our constancy as we can over other treasures.

"Fredhas lost all his other expectations; he must keep this" Marysaid to herselfwith a smile curling her lips.  It wasimpossible to help fleeting visions of another kind--new dignitiesand an acknowledged value of which she had often felt the absence.But these things with Fred outside themFred forsaken and lookingsad for the want of hercould never tempt her deliberate thought.

CHAPTERLVIII

  "For there can live no hatred in thine eye
  Therefore in that I cannot know thy change:
   In many'slooks the false heart's history
   Is writ in moods andfrowns and wrinkles strange:
   But Heaven in thycreation did decree
   That in thy face sweet loveshould ever dwell:
   Whate'er thy thoughts or thyheart's workings be
   Thy looks should nothing thencebut sweetness tell."
   --SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets.

At thetime when Mr. Vincy uttered that presentiment about Rosamondsheherself had never had the idea that she should be driven to make thesort of appeal which he foresaw.  She had not yet had anyanxiety about ways and meansalthough her domestic life had beenexpensive as well as eventful.  Her baby had been bornprematurelyand all the embroidered robes and caps had to be laid byin darkness. This misfortune was attributed entirely to her havingpersisted in going out on horseback one day when her husband haddesired her not to do so; but it must not be supposed that she hadshown temper on the occasionor rudely told him that she would do asshe liked.

What ledher particularly to desire horse-exercise was a visit from CaptainLydgatethe baronet's third sonwhoI am sorry to saywasdetested by our Tertius of that name as a vapid fop "parting hishair from brow to nape in a despicable fashion" (not followed byTertius himself)and showing an ignorant security that he knew theproper thing to say on every topic.  Lydgate inwardly cursed hisown folly that he had drawn down this visit by consenting to go tohis uncle's on the wedding-tourand he made himself ratherdisagreeable to Rosamond by saying so in private.  For toRosamond this visit was a source of unprecedented but gracefullyconcealed exultation. She was so intensely conscious of having acousin who was a baronet's son staying in the housethat sheimagined the knowledge of what was implied by his presence to bediffused through all other minds; and when she introduced CaptainLydgate to her guestsshe had a placid sense that his rankpenetrated them as if it had been an odor.  The satisfaction wasenough for the time to melt away some disappointment in theconditions of marriage with a medical man even of good birth: it seemed now that her marriage was visibly as well as ideallyfloating her above the Middlemarch leveland the future lookedbright with letters and visits to and from Quallinghamand vagueadvancement in consequence for Tertius.  Especially asprobablyat the Captain's suggestionhis married sisterMrs. Menganhadcome with her maidand stayed two nights on her way from town. Henceit was clearly worth while for Rosamond to take pains with her musicand the careful selection of her lace.

As toCaptain Lydgate himselfhis low browhis aquiline nose bent on onesideand his rather heavy utterancemight have been disadvantageousin any young gentleman who had not a military bearing and mustache togive him what is doted on by some flower-like blond heads as"style."  He hadmoreoverthat sort of high-breedingwhich consists in being free from the petty solicitudes ofmiddle-class gentilityand he was a great critic of feminine charms.Rosamond delighted in his admiration now even more than she had doneat Quallinghamand he found it easy to spend several hours of theday in flirting with her.  The visit altogether was one of thepleasantest larks he had ever hadnot the less so perhaps because hesuspected that his queer cousin Tertius wished him away: thoughLydgatewho would rather (hyperbolically speaking) have died thanhave failed in polite hospitalitysuppressed his dislikeand onlypretended generally not to hear what the gallant officer saidconsigning the task of answering him to Rosamond.  For he wasnot at all a jealous husbandand preferred leaving a feather-headedyoung gentleman alone with his wife to bearing him company.

"Iwish you would talk more to the Captain at dinnerTertius"said Rosamondone evening when the important guest was gone toLoamford to see some brother officers stationed there. "Youreally look so absent sometimes--you seem to be seeing through hishead into something behind itinstead of looking at him."

"Mydear Rosyyou don't expect me to talk much to such a conceited assas thatI hope" said Lydgatebrusquely.  "If he gothis head brokenI might look at it with interestnot before."

"Icannot conceive why you should speak of your cousin socontemptuously" said Rosamondher fingers moving at her workwhile she spoke with a mild gravity which had a touch of disdain init.

"AskLadislaw if he doesn't think your Captain the greatest bore he evermet with.  Ladislaw has almost forsaken the house since hecame."

Rosamondthought she knew perfectly well why Mr. Ladislaw disliked theCaptain:  he was jealousand she liked his being jealous.

"Itis impossible to say what will suit eccentric persons" sheanswered"but in my opinion Captain Lydgate is a thoroughgentlemanand I think you ought notout of respect to Sir Godwinto treat him with neglect."

"Nodear; but we have had dinners for him.  And he comes in and goesout as he likes.  He doesn't want me"

"Stillwhen he is in the roomyou might show him more attention. He may notbe a phoenix of cleverness in your sense; his profession isdifferent; but it would be all the better for you to talk a little onhis subjects.  _I_ think his conversation is quite agreeable.And he is anything but an unprincipled man."

"Thefact isyou would wish me to be a little more like himRosy"said Lydgatein a sort of resigned murmurwith a smile which wasnot exactly tenderand certainly not merry. Rosamond was silent anddid not smile again; but the lovely curves of her face lookedgood-tempered enough without smiling.

Thosewords of Lydgate's were like a sad milestone marking how far he hadtravelled from his old dreamlandin which Rosamond Vincy appeared tobe that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverence her husband'smind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaidusing her comb andlooking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of his adoredwisdom alone.  He had begun to distinguish between that imaginedadoration and the attraction towards a man's talent because it giveshim prestigeand is like an order in his button-hole or an Honorablebefore his name.

It mighthave been supposed that Rosamond had travelled toosince she hadfound the pointless conversation of Mr. Ned Plymdale perfectlywearisome; but to most mortals there is a stupidity which isunendurable and a stupidity which is altogether acceptable-- elseindeedwhat would become of social bonds?  Captain Lydgate'sstupidity was delicately scentedcarried itself with "style"talked with a good accentand was closely related to Sir Godwin.Rosamond found it quite agreeable and caught many of its phrases.

Thereforesince Rosamondas we knowwas fond of horsebackthere were plentyof reasons why she should be tempted to resume her riding whenCaptain Lydgatewho had ordered his man with two horses to followhim and put up at the "Green Dragon" begged her to go outon the gray which he warranted to be gentle and trained to carry alady--indeedhe had bought it for his sisterand was taking it toQuallingham.  Rosamond went out the first time without tellingher husbandand came back before his return; but the ride had beenso thorough a successand she declared herself so much the better inconsequencethat he was informed of it with full reliance on hisconsent that she should go riding again.

On thecontrary Lydgate was more than hurt--he was utterly confounded thatshe had risked herself on a strange horse without referring thematter to his wish.  After the first almost thunderingexclamations of astonishmentwhich sufficiently warned Rosamond ofwhat was cominghe was silent for some moments.

"Howeveryou have come back safely" he saidat lastin a decisivetone.  "You will not go againRosy; that is understood. Ifit were the quietestmost familiar horse in the worldthere wouldalways be the chance of accident.  And you know very well that Iwished you to give up riding the roan on that account."

"Butthere is the chance of accident indoorsTertius."

"Mydarlingdon't talk nonsense" said Lydgatein an imploringtone; "surely I am the person to judge for you.  I think itis enough that I say you are not to go again."

Rosamondwas arranging her hair before dinnerand the reflection of her headin the glass showed no change in its loveliness except a littleturning aside of the long neck.  Lydgate had been moving aboutwith his hands in his pocketsand now paused near heras if heawaited some assurance.

"Iwish you would fasten up my plaitsdear" said Rosamondletting her arms fall with a little sighso as to make a husbandashamed of standing there like a brute.  Lydgate had oftenfastened the plaits beforebeing among the deftest of men with hislarge finely formed fingers. He swept up the soft festoons of plaitsand fastened in the tall comb (to such uses do men come!); and whatcould he do then but kiss the exquisite nape which was shown in allits delicate curves? But when we do what we have done beforeit isoften with a difference. Lydgate was still angryand had notforgotten his point.

"Ishall tell the Captain that he ought to have known better than offeryou his horse" he saidas he moved away.

"Ibeg you will not do anything of the kindTertius" saidRosamondlooking at him with something more marked than usual in herspeech. "It will be treating me as if I were a child. Promise that you will leave the subject to me."

There didseem to be some truth in her objection.  Lydgate said"Verywell" with a surly obedienceand thus the discussion endedwith his promising Rosamondand not with her promising him.

In factshe had been determined not to promise.  Rosamond had thatvictorious obstinacy which never wastes its energy in impetuousresistance.  What she liked to do was to her the right thingand all her cleverness was directed to getting the means of doing it.She meant to go out riding again on the grayand she did go on thenext opportunity of her husband's absencenot intending that heshould know until it was late enough not to signify to her. Thetemptation was certainly great:  she was very fond of theexerciseand the gratification of riding on a fine horsewithCaptain LydgateSir Godwin's sonon another fine horse by her sideand of being met in this position by any one but her husbandwassomething as good as her dreams before marriage:  moreover shewas riveting the connection with the family at Quallinghamwhichmust be a wise thing to do.

But thegentle grayunprepared for the crash of a tree that was being felledon the edge of Halsell woodtook frightand caused a worse frightto Rosamondleading finally to the loss of her baby. Lydgate couldnot show his anger towards herbut he was rather bearish to theCaptainwhose visit naturally soon came to an end.

In allfuture conversations on the subjectRosamond was mildly certain thatthe ride had made no differenceand that if she had stayed at homethe same symptoms would have come on and would have ended in the samewaybecause she had felt something like them before.

Lydgatecould only say"Poorpoor darling!"--but he secretlywondered over the terrible tenacity of this mild creature. There was gathering within him an amazed sense of his powerlessnessover Rosamond. His superior knowledge and mental forceinstead ofbeingas he had imagineda shrine to consult on all occasionswassimply set aside on every practical question.  He had regardedRosamond's cleverness as precisely of the receptive kind which becamea woman. He was now beginning to find out what that clevernesswas--what was the shape into which it had run as into a close networkaloof and independent.  No one quicker than Rosamond to seecauses and effects which lay within the track of her own tastes andinterests: she had seen clearly Lydgate's preeminence in Middlemarchsocietyand could go on imaginatively tracing still more agreeablesocial effects when his talent should have advanced him; but for herhis professional and scientific ambition had no other relation tothese desirable effects than if they had been the fortunate discoveryof an ill-smelling oil.  And that oil apartwith which she hadnothing to doof course she believed in her own opinion more thanshe did in his.  Lydgate was astounded to find in numberlesstrifling mattersas well as in this last serious case of the ridingthat affection did not make her compliant. He had no doubt that theaffection was thereand had no presentiment that he had doneanything to repel it.  For his own part he said to himself thathe loved her as tenderly as everand could make up his mind-to hernegations; but--well!  Lydgate was much worriedand consciousof new elements in his life as noxious to him as an inlet of mud to acreature that has been used to breathe and bathe and dart after itsilluminated prey in the clearest of waters.

Rosamondwas soon looking lovelier than ever at her worktableenjoying drivesin her father's phaeton and thinking it likely that she might beinvited to Quallingham.  She knew that she was a much moreexquisite ornament to the drawing-room there than any daughter of thefamilyand in reflecting that the gentlemen were aware of thatdidnot perhaps sufficiently consider whether the ladies would be eagerto see themselves surpassed.

Lydgaterelieved from anxiety about herrelapsed into what she inwardlycalled his moodiness--a name which to her covered his thoughtfulpreoccupation with other subjects than herselfas well as thatuneasy look of the brow and distaste for all ordinary things as ifthey were mixed with bitter herbswhich really made a sort ofweather-glass to his vexation and foreboding. These latter states ofmind had one cause amongst otherswhich he had generously butmistakenly avoided mentioning to Rosamondlest it should affect herhealth and spirits.  Between him and her indeed there was thattotal missing of each other's mental trackwhich is too evidentlypossible even between persons who are continually thinking of eachother.  To Lydgate it seemed that he had been spending monthafter month in sacrificing more than half of his best intent and bestpower to his tenderness for Rosamond; bearing her little claims andinterruptions without impatienceandabove allbearing withoutbetrayal of bitterness to look through less and less of interferingillusion at the blank unreflecting surface her mind presented to hisardor for the more impersonal ends of his profession and hisscientific studyan ardor which he had fancied that the ideal wifemust somehow worship as sublimethough not in the least knowingwhy.  But his endurance was mingled with a self-discontentwhichif we know how to be candidwe shall confess to make morethan half our bitterness under grievanceswife or husband included. It always remains true that if we had been greatercircumstancewould have been less strong against us. Lydgate was aware that hisconcessions to Rosamond were often little more than the lapse ofslackening resolutionthe creeping paralysis apt to seize anenthusiasm which is out of adjustment to a constant portion of ourlives.  And on Lydgate's enthusiasm there was constantlypressing not a simple weight of sorrowbut the biting presence of apetty degrading caresuch as casts the blight of irony over allhigher effort.

This wasthe care which he had hitherto abstained from mentioning to Rosamond;and he believedwith some wonderthat it had never entered hermindthough certainly no difficulty could be less mysterious. It wasan inference with a conspicuous handle to itand had been easilydrawn by indifferent observersthat Lydgate was in debt; and hecould not succeed in keeping out of his mind for long together thathe was every day getting deeper into that swampwhich tempts mentowards it with such a pretty covering of flowers and verdure. It iswonderful how soon a man gets up to his chin there--in a condition inwhichspite of himselfhe is forced to think chiefly of releasethough he had a scheme of the universe in his soul.

Eighteenmonths ago Lydgate was poorbut had never known the eager want ofsmall sumsand felt rather a burning contempt for any one whodescended a step in order to gain them.  He was now experiencingsomething worse than a simple deficit:  he was assailed by thevulgar hateful trials of a man who has bought and used a great manythings which might have been done withoutand which he is unable topay forthough the demand for payment has become pressing.

How thiscame about may be easily seen without much arithmetic or knowledge ofprices.  When a man in setting up a house and preparing formarriage finds that his furniture and other initial expenses come tobetween four and five hundred pounds more than he has capital to payfor; when at the end of a year it appears that his householdexpenseshorses and et caeterasamount to nearly a thousandwhilethe proceeds of the practice reckoned from the old books to be wortheight hundred per annum have sunk like a summer pond and make hardlyfive hundredchiefly in unpaid entriesthe plain inference is thatwhether he minds it or nothe is in debt. Those were less expensivetimes than our ownand provincial life was comparatively modest; butthe ease with which a medical man who had lately bought a practicewho thought that he was obliged to keep two horseswhose table wassupplied without stintand who paid an insurance on his life and ahigh rent for house and gardenmight find his expenses doubling hisreceiptscan be conceived by any one who does not think thesedetails beneath his consideration. Rosamondaccustomed from her toan extravagant householdthought that good housekeeping consistedsimply in ordering the best of everything--nothing else "answered;"and Lydgate supposed that "if things were done at allthey mustbe done properly"-- he did not see how they were to liveotherwise.  If each head of household expenditure had beenmentioned to him beforehandhe would have probably observed that "itcould hardly come to much" and if any one had suggested asaving on a particular article-- for examplethe substitution ofcheap fish for dear-- it would have appeared to him simply apenny-wisemean notion. Rosamondeven without such an occasion asCaptain Lydgate's visitwas fond of giving invitationsand Lydgatethough he often thought the guests tiresomedid not interfere. This sociability seemed a necessary part of professional prudenceand the entertainment must be suitable.  It is true Lydgate wasconstantly visiting the homes of the poor and adjusting hisprescriptions of diet to their small means; butdear me! has it notby this time ceased to be remarkable--is it not rather that we expectin menthat they should have numerous strands of experience lyingside by side and never compare them with each other? Expenditure--like ugliness and errors--becomes a totally new thingwhen we attach our own personality to itand measure it by that widedifference which is manifest (in our own sensations) betweenourselves and others. Lydgate believed himself to be careless abouthis dressand he despised a man who calculated the effects of hiscostume; it seemed to him only a matter of course that he hadabundance of fresh garments-- such things were naturally ordered insheaves.  It must be remembered that he had never hitherto feltthe check of importunate debtand he walked by habitnot byself-criticism.  But the check had come.

Itsnovelty made it the more irritating.  He was amazeddisgustedthat conditions so foreign to all his purposesso hatefullydisconnected with the objects he cared to occupy himself withshouldhave lain in ambush and clutched him when he was unaware. And therewas not only the actual debt; there was the certainty that in hispresent position he must go on deepening it. Two furnishing tradesmenat Brassingwhose bills had been incurred before his marriageandwhom uncalculated current expenses had ever since prevented him frompayinghad repeatedly sent him unpleasant letters which had forcedthemselves on his attention. This could hardly have been more gallingto any disposition than to Lydgate'swith his intense pride--hisdislike of asking a favor or being under an obligation to any one. He had scorned even to form conjectures about Mr. Vincy's intentionson money mattersand nothing but extremity could have induced him toapply to his father-in-laweven if he had not been made aware invarious indirect ways since his marriage that Mr. Vincy's own affairswere not flourishingand that the expectation of help from him wouldbe resented. Some men easily trust in the readiness of friends; ithad never in the former part of his life occurred to Lydgate that heshould need to do so:  he had never thought what borrowing wouldbe to him; but now that the idea had entered his mindhe felt thathe would rather incur any other hardship.  In the mean time hehad no money or prospects of money; and his practice was not gettingmore lucrative.

No wonderthat Lydgate had been unable to suppress all signs of inward troubleduring the last few monthsand now that Rosamond was regainingbrilliant healthhe meditated taking her entirely into confidence onhis difficulties.  New conversance with tradesmen's bills hadforced his reasoning into a new channel of comparison:  he hadbegun to consider from a new point of view what was necessary andunnecessary in goods orderedand to see that there must be somechange of habits.  How could such a change be made withoutRosamond's concurrence?  The immediate occasion of opening thedisagreeable fact to her was forced upon him.

Having nomoneyand having privately sought advice as to what security couldpossibly be given by a man in his positionLydgate had offered theone good security in his power to the less peremptory creditorwhowas a silversmith and jewellerand who consented to take on himselfthe upholsterer's credit alsoaccepting interest for a given term.The security necessary was a bill of sale on the furniture of hishousewhich might make a creditor easy for a reasonable time about adebt amounting to less than four hundred pounds; and the silversmithMr. Doverwas willing to reduce it by taking back a portion of theplate and any other article which was as good as new. "Any otherarticle" was a phrase delicately implying jewelleryand moreparticularly some purple amethysts costing thirty poundswhichLydgate had bought as a bridal present.

Opinionsmay be divided as to his wisdom in making this present: some maythink that it was a graceful attention to be expected from a man likeLydgateand that the fault of any troublesome consequences lay inthe pinched narrowness of provincial life at that timewhich offeredno conveniences for professional people whose fortune was notproportioned to their tastes; alsoin Lydgate's ridiculousfastidiousness about asking his friends for money.

Howeverit had seemed a question of no moment to him on that fine morningwhen he went to give a final order for plate:  in the presenceof other jewels enormously expensiveand as an addition to orders ofwhich the amount had not been exactly calculatedthirty pounds forornaments so exquisitely suited to Rosamond's neck and arms couldhardly appear excessive when there was no ready cash for it toexceed.  But at this crisis Lydgate's imagination could not helpdwelling on the possibility of letting the amethysts take their placeagain among Mr. Dover's stockthough he shrank from the idea ofproposing this to Rosamond.  Having been roused to discernconsequences which he had never been in the habit of tracinghe waspreparing to act on this discernment with some of the rigor (by nomeans all) that he would have applied in pursuing experiment. He wasnerving himself to this rigor as he rode from Brassingand meditatedon the representations he must make to Rosamond.

It wasevening when he got home.  He was intensely miserablethisstrong man of nine-and-twenty and of many gifts.  He was notsaying angrily within himself that he had made a profound mistake;but the mistake was at work in him like a recognized chronic diseasemingling its uneasy importunities with every prospectand enfeeblingevery thought.  As he went along the passage to thedrawing-roomhe heard the piano and singing.  Of courseLadislaw was there. It was some weeks since Will had parted fromDorotheayet he was still at the old post in Middlemarch. Lydgate had no objection in general to Ladislaw's comingbut justnow he was annoyed that he could not find his hearth free.  Whenhe opened the door the two singers went on towards the key-noteraising their eyes and looking at him indeedbut not regarding hisentrance as an interruption. To a man galled with his harness as poorLydgate wasit is not soothing to see two people warbling at himashe comes in with the sense that the painful day has still pains instore.  His facealready paler than usualtook on a scowl ashe walked across the room and flung himself into a chair.

Thesingers feeling themselves excused by the fact that they had onlythree bars to singnow turned round.

"Howare youLydgate?" said Willcoming forward to shake hands.

Lydgatetook his handbut did not think it necessary to speak.

"Haveyou dinedTertius?  I expected you much earlier" saidRosamondwho had already seen that her husband was in a "horriblehumor." She seated herself in her usual place as she spoke.

"Ihave dined.  I should like some teaplease" said Lydgatecurtlystill scowling and looking markedly at his legs stretched outbefore him.

Will wastoo quick to need more.  "I shall be off" he saidreaching his hat.

"Teais coming" said Rosamond; "pray don't go."

"YesLydgate is bored" said Willwho had more comprehension ofLydgate than Rosamond hadand was not offended by his mannereasilyimagining outdoor causes of annoyance.

"Thereis the more need for you to stay" said Rosamondplayfullyandin her lightest accent; "he will not speak to me all theevening."

"YesRosamondI shall" said Lydgatein his strong baritone. "Ihave some serious business to speak to you about."

Nointroduction of the business could have been less like that whichLydgate had intended; but her indifferent manner had been tooprovoking.

"There!you see" said Will.  "I'm going to the meeting aboutthe Mechanics' Institute.  Good-by;" and he went quicklyout of the room.

Rosamonddid not look at her husbandbut presently rose and took her placebefore the tea-tray. She was thinking that she had never seen him sodisagreeable.  Lydgate turned his dark eyes on her and watchedher as she delicately handled the tea-service with her taper fingersand looked at the objects immediately before her with no curve in herface disturbedand yet with an ineffable protest in her air againstall people with unpleasant manners. For the moment he lost the senseof his wound in a sudden speculation about this new form of feminineimpassibility revealing itself in the sylph-like frame which he hadonce interpreted as the sign of a ready intelligent sensitiveness. His mind glancing back to Laure while he looked at Rosamondhe saidinwardly"Would SHE kill me because I wearied her?" andthen"It is the way with all women." But this power ofgeneralizing which gives men so much the superiority in mistake overthe dumb animalswas immediately thwarted by Lydgate's memory ofwondering impressions from the behavior of another woman-- fromDorothea's looks and tones of emotion about her husband when Lydgatebegan to attend him--from her passionate cry to be taught what wouldbest comfort that man for whose sake it seemed as if she must quellevery impulse in her except the yearnings of faithfulness andcompassion.  These revived impressions succeeded each otherquickly and dreamily in Lydgate's mind while the tea was beingbrewed.  He had shut his eyes in the last instant of reveriewhile he heard Dorothea saying"Advise me--think what I cando--he has been all his life laboring and looking forward. He mindsabout nothing else--and I mind about nothing else."

That voiceof deep-souled womanhood had remained within him as the enkindlingconceptions of dead and sceptred genius had remained within him (isthere not a genius for feeling nobly which also reigns over humanspirits and their conclusions?); the tones were a music from which hewas falling away--he had really fallen into a momentary dozewhenRosamond said in her silvery neutral way"Here is your teaTertius" setting it on the small table by his sideand thenmoved back to her place without looking at him. Lydgate was too hastyin attributing insensibility to her; after her own fashionshe wassensitive enoughand took lasting impressions. Her impression nowwas one of offence and repulsion.  But thenRosamond had noscowls and had never raised her voice:  she was quite sure thatno one could justly find fault with her.

PerhapsLydgate and she had never felt so far off each other before; butthere were strong reasons for not deferring his revelationeven ifhe had not already begun it by that abrupt announcement; indeed someof the angry desire to rouse her into more sensibility on his accountwhich had prompted him to speak prematurelystill mingled with hispain in the prospect of her pain. But he waited till the tray wasgonethe candles were litand the evening quiet might be countedon:  the interval had left time for repelled tenderness toreturn into the old course. He spoke kindly.

"DearRosylay down your work and come to sit by me" he saidgentlypushing away the tableand stretching out his arm to draw achair near his own.

Rosamondobeyed.  As she came towards him in her drapery of transparentfaintly tinted muslinher slim yet round figure never looked moregraceful; as she sat down by him and laid one hand on the elbow ofhis chairat last looking at him and meeting his eyesher delicateneck and cheek and purely cut lips never had more of that untarnishedbeauty which touches as in spring-time and infancy and all sweetfreshness.  It touched Lydgate nowand mingled the earlymoments of his love for her with all the other memories which werestirred in this crisis of deep trouble. He laid his ample hand softlyon herssaying--

"Dear!"with the lingering utterance which affection gives to the word. Rosamond too was still under the power of that same pastand herhusband was still in part the Lydgate whose approval had stirreddelight.  She put his hair lightly away from his foreheadthenlaid her other hand on hisand was conscious of forgiving him.

"I amobliged to tell you what will hurt youRosy.  But there arethings which husband and wife must think of together.  I daresay it has occurred to you already that I am short of money."

Lydgatepaused; but Rosamond turned her neck and looked at a vase on themantel-piece.

"Iwas not able to pay for all the things we had to get before we weremarriedand there have been expenses since which I have been obligedto meet.  The consequence isthere is a large debt atBrassing--three hundred and eighty pounds--which has been pressing onme a good whileand in fact we are getting deeper every dayforpeople don't pay me the faster because others want the money. I tookpains to keep it from you while you were not well; but now we mustthink together about itand you must help me."

"Whatcan--I--doTertius?" said Rosamondturning her eyes on himagain. That little speech of four wordslike so many others in alllanguagesis capable by varied vocal inflections of expressing allstates of mind from helpless dimness to exhaustive argumentativeperceptionfrom the completest self-devoting fellowship to the mostneutral aloofness. Rosamond's thin utterance threw into the words"What can--I--do!" as much neutrality as they could hold. They fell like a mortal chill on Lydgate's roused tenderness. He did not storm in indignation-- he felt too sad a sinking of theheart.  And when he spoke again it was more in the tone of a manwho forces himself to fulfil a task.

"Itis necessary for you to knowbecause I have to give security for atimeand a man must come to make an inventory of the furniture."

Rosamondcolored deeply.  "Have you not asked papa for money?"she saidas soon as she could speak.

"No."

"ThenI must ask him!" she saidreleasing her hands from Lydgate'sand rising to stand at two yards' distance from him.

"NoRosy" said Lydgatedecisively.  "It is too late todo that. The inventory will be begun to-morrow. Remember it is a meresecurity: it will make no difference:  it is a temporaryaffair.  I insist upon it that your father shall not knowunless I choose to tell him" added Lydgatewith a moreperemptory emphasis.

Thiscertainly was unkindbut Rosamond had thrown him back on evilexpectation as to what she would do in the way of quiet steadydisobedience.  The unkindness seemed unpardonable to her: shewas not given to weeping and disliked itbut now her chin and lipsbegan to tremble and the tears welled up.  Perhaps it was notpossible for Lydgateunder the double stress of outward materialdifficulty and of his own proud resistance to humiliatingconsequencesto imagine fully what this sudden trial was to a youngcreature who had known nothing but indulgenceand whose dreams hadall been of new indulgencemore exactly to her taste.  But hedid wish to spare her as much as he couldand her tears cut him tothe heart. He could not speak again immediately; but Rosamond did notgo on sobbing:  she tried to conquer her agitation and wipedaway her tearscontinuing to look before her at the mantel-piece.

"Trynot to grievedarling" said Lydgateturning his eyes uptowards her.  That she had chosen to move away from him in thismoment of her trouble made everything harder to saybut he mustabsolutely go on.  "We must brace ourselves to do what isnecessary. It is I who have been in fault:  I ought to have seenthat I could not afford-to live in this way. But many things havetold against me in my practiceand it really just now has ebbed to alow point.  I may recover itbut in the mean time we must pullup--we must change our way of living.  We shall weather it. WhenI have given this security I shall have time to look about me; andyou are so clever that if you turn your mind to managing you willschool me into carefulness.  I have been a thoughtless rascalabout squaring prices--but comedearsit down and forgive me."

Lydgatewas bowing his neck under the yoke like a creature who had talonsbut who had Reason toowhich often reduces us to meekness. When he had spoken the last words in an imploring toneRosamondreturned to the chair by his side.  His self-blame gave her somehope that he would attend to her opinionand she said--

"Whycan you not put off having the inventory made?  You can send themen away to-morrow when they come."

"Ishall not send them away" said Lydgatethe peremptorinessrising again.  Was it of any use to explain?

"Ifwe left Middlemarch? there would of course be a saleand that woulddo as well."

"Butwe are not going to leave Middlemarch."

"I amsureTertiusit would be much better to do so.  Why can we notgo to London?  Or near Durhamwhere your family is known?"

"Wecan go nowhere without moneyRosamond."

"Yourfriends would not wish you to be without money.  And surelythese odious tradesmen might be made to understand thatand to waitif you would make proper representations to them."

"Thisis idle Rosamond" said Lydgateangrily.  "You mustlearn to take my judgment on questions you don't understand. I havemade necessary arrangementsand they must be carried out. As tofriendsI have no expectations whatever from themand shall not askthem for anything."

Rosamondsat perfectly still.  The thought in her mind was that if shehad known how Lydgate would behaveshe would never have married him.

"Wehave no time to waste now on unnecessary wordsdear" saidLydgatetrying to be gentle again.  "There are somedetails that I want to consider with you.  Dover says he willtake a good deal of the plate back againand any of the jewellery welike. He really behaves very well."

"Arewe to go without spoons and forks then?" said Rosamondwhosevery lips seemed to get thinner with the thinness of her utterance.She was determined to make no further resistance or suggestions.

"Ohnodear!" said Lydgate.  "But look here" hecontinueddrawing a paper from his pocket and opening it; "hereis Dover's account.  SeeI have marked a number of articleswhich if we returned them would reduce the amount by thirty pounds.and more.  I have not marked any of the jewellery." Lydgate had really felt this point of the jewellery very bitter tohimself; but he had overcome the feeling by severe argument.  Hecould not propose to Rosamond that she should return any particularpresent of hisbut he had told himself that he was bound to putDover's offer before herand her inward prompting might make theaffair easy.

"Itis useless for me to lookTertius" said Rosamondcalmly; "youwill return what you please."  She would not turn her eyeson the paperand Lydgateflushing up to the roots of his hairdrewit back and let it fall on his knee.  Meanwhile Rosamond quietlywent out of the roomleaving Lydgate helpless and wondering. Was shenot coming back?  It seemed that she had no more identifiedherself with him than if they had been creatures of different speciesand opposing interests.  He tossed his head and thrust his handsdeep into his pockets with a sort of vengeance.  There was stillscience-- there were still good objects to work for.  He mustgive a tug still-- all the stronger because other satisfactions weregoing.

But thedoor opened and Rosamond re-entered. She carried the leather boxcontaining the amethystsand a tiny ornamental basket whichcontained other boxesand laying them on the chair where she hadbeen sittingshe saidwith perfect propriety in her air--

"Thisis all the jewellery you ever gave me.  You can return what youlike of itand of the plate also.  You will notof courseexpect me to stay at home to-morrow. I shall go to papa's."

To manywomen the look Lydgate cast at her would have been more terrible thanone of anger:  it had in it a despairing acceptance of thedistance she was placing between them.

"Andwhen shall you come back again?" he saidwith a bitter edge onhis accent.

"Ohin the evening.  Of course I shall not mention the subject tomamma."  Rosamond was convinced that no woman could behavemore irreproachably than she was behaving; and she went to sit downat her work-table. Lydgate sat meditating a minute or twoand theresult was that he saidwith some of the old emotion in his tone--

"Nowwe have been unitedRosyyou should not leave me to myself in thefirst trouble that has come."

"Certainlynot" said Rosamond; "I shall do everything it becomes meto do."

"Itis not right that the thing should be left to servantsor that Ishould have to speak to them about it.  And I shall be obligedto go out--I don't know how early.  I understand your shrinkingfrom the humiliation of these money affairs.  Butmy dearRosamondas a question of pridewhich I feel just as much as youcanit is surely better to manage the thing ourselvesand let theservants see as little of it as possible; and since you are my wifethere is no hindering your share in my disgraces--if there weredisgraces."

Rosamonddid not answer immediatelybut at last she said"Very wellIwill stay at home."

"Ishall not touch these jewelsRosy.  Take them away again. But Iwill write out a list of plate that we may returnand that can bepacked up and sent at once."

"Theservants will know THAT" said Rosamondwith the slightesttouch of sarcasm.

"Wellwe must meet some disagreeables as necessities.  Where is theinkI wonder?" said Lydgaterisingand throwing the accounton the larger table where he meant to write.

Rosamondwent to reach the inkstandand after setting it on the table wasgoing to turn awaywhen Lydgatewho was standing close byput hisarm round her and drew her towards himsaying--

"Comedarlinglet us make the best of things.  It will only be for atimeI hopethat we shall have to be stingy and particular. Kissme."

His nativewarm-heartedness took a great deal of quenchingand it is a part ofmanliness for a husband to feel keenly the fact that an inexperiencedgirl has got into trouble by marrying him. She received his kiss andreturned it faintlyand in this way an appearance of accord wasrecovered for the time.  But Lydgate could not help lookingforward with dread to the inevitable future discussions aboutexpenditure and the necessity for a complete change in their way ofliving.

CHAPTERLIX

  “They said of old the Soul had human shape
   Butsmallersubtler than the fleshly self
   So wanderedforth for airing when it pleased.
   And see! beside hercherub-face there floats
   A pale-lipped form aerialwhispering
     Its promptings in that littleshell her ear."

News isoften dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen whichthe bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when theyare buzzing in search of their particular nectar. This finecomparison has reference to Fred Vincywho on that evening at LowickParsonage heard a lively discussion among the ladies on the newswhich their old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr.Casaubon's strange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his willmade not long before his death.  Miss Winifred was astounded tofind that her brother had known the fact beforeand observed thatCamden was the most wonderful man for knowing things and not tellingthem; whereupon Mary Garth said that the codicil had perhaps gotmixed up with the habits of spiderswhich Miss Winifred never wouldlisten to.  Mrs. Farebrother considered that the news hadsomething to do with their having only once seen Mr. Ladislaw atLowickand Miss Noble made many small compassionate mewings.

Fred knewlittle and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubonsand his mindnever recurred to that discussion till one day calling on Rosamond athis mother's request to deliver a message as he passedhe happenedto see Ladislaw going away.  Fred and Rosamond had little to sayto each other now that marriage had removed her from collision withthe unpleasantness of brothersand especially now that he had takenwhat she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving up theChurch to take to such a business as Mr. Garth's. Hence Fred talkedby preference of what he considered indifferent newsand "apropos of that young Ladislaw" mentioned what he had heard atLowick Parsonage.

NowLydgatelike Mr. Farebrotherknew a great deal more than he toldand when he had once been set thinking about the relation betweenWill and Dorothea his conjectures had gone beyond the fact. Heimagined that there was a passionate attachment on both sidesandthis struck him as much too serious to gossip about. He rememberedWill's irritability when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubonand was themore circumspect.  On the whole his surmisesin addition towhat he knew of the factincreased his friendliness and tolerancetowards Ladislawand made him understand the vacillation which kepthim at Middlemarch after he had said that he should go away. It wassignificant of the separateness be tween Lydgate's mind andRosamond's that he had no impulse to speak to her on the subject;indeedhe did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. And he wasright there; though he had no vision of the way in which her mindwould act in urging her to speak.

When sherepeated Fred's news to Lydgatehe said"Take care you don'tdrop the faintest hint to LadislawRosy.  He is likely to flyout as if you insulted him.  Of course it is a painful affair."

Rosamondturned her neck and patted her hairlooking the image of placidindifference.  But the next time Will came when Lydgate wasawayshe spoke archly about his not going to London as he hadthreatened.

"Iknow all about it.  I have a confidential little bird"said sheshowing very pretty airs of her head over the bit of workheld high between her active fingers.  "There is a powerfulmagnet in this neighborhood."

"Tobe sure there is.  Nobody knows that better than you" saidWillwith light gallantrybut inwardly prepared to be angry.

"Itis really the most charming romance:  Mr. Casaubon jealousandforeseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would somuch like to marryand no one who would so much like to marry her asa certain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by makingher forfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman-- andthen--and then--and then--ohI have no doubt the end will bethoroughly romantic."

"GreatGod! what do you mean?" said Willflushing over face and earshis features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake."Don't joke; tell me what you mean."

"Youdon't really know?" said Rosamondno longer playfulanddesiring nothing better than to tell in order that she might evokeeffects.

"No!"he returnedimpatiently.

"Don'tknow that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs. Casaubonmarries you she is to forfeit all her property?"

"Howdo you know that it is true?" said Willeagerly.

"Mybrother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers."  Will startedup from his chair and reached his hat.

"Idare say she likes you better than the property" said Rosamondlooking at him from a distance.

"Praydon't say any more about it" said Willin a hoarse undertoneextremely unlike his usual light voice.  "It is a foulinsult to her and to me."  Then he sat down absentlylooking before himbut seeing nothing.

"Nowyou are angry with ME" said Rosamond.  "It is too badto bear ME malice.  You ought to be obliged to me for tellingyou."

"So Iam" said Willabruptlyspeaking with that kind of double soulwhich belongs to dreamers who answer questions.

"Iexpect to hear of the marriage" said Rosamondplay. fully.

"Never! You will never hear of the marriage!"

With thosewords uttered impetuouslyWill roseput out his hand to Rosamondstill with the air of a somnambulistand went away.

When hewas goneRosamond left her chair and walked to the other end of theroomleaning when she got there against a chiffonniereand lookingout of the window wearily.  She was oppressed by ennuiand bythat dissatisfaction which in women's minds is continually turninginto a trivial jealousyreferring to no real claimsspringing fromno deeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoismand yetcapable of impelling action as well as speech. "There really isnothing to care for much" said poor Rosamond inwardlythinkingof the family at Quallinghamwho did not write to her; and thatperhaps Tertius when he came home would tease her about expenses. She had already secretly disobeyed him by asking her father to helpthemand he had ended decisively by saying"I am more likelyto want help myself."

CHAPTERLX

Goodphrases are surelyand ever werevery commendable.
    --Justice Shallow. 

A few daysafterwards--it was already the end of August--there was an occasionwhich caused some excitement in Middlemarch:  the publicif itchosewas to have the advantage of buyingunder the distinguishedauspices of Mr. Borthrop Trumbullthe furniturebooksand pictureswhich anybody might see by the handbills to be the best in everykindbelonging to Edwin LarcherEsq. This was not one of the salesindicating the depression of trade; on the contraryit was due toMr. Larcher's great success in the carrying businesswhich warrantedhis purchase of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in highstyle by an illustrious Spa physician--furnished indeed with suchlarge framefuls of expensive flesh-painting in the dining-roomthatMrs. Larcher was nervous until reassured by finding the subjects tobe Scriptural.  Hence the fine opportunity to purchasers whichwas well pointed out in the handbills of Mr. Borthrop Trumbullwhoseacquaintance with the history of art enabled him to state that thehall furnitureto be sold without reservecomprised a piece ofcarving by a contemporary of Gibbons. 

AtMiddlemarch in those times a large sale was regarded as a kind offestival.  There was a table spread with the best cold eatablesas at a superior funeral; and facilities were offered for thatgenerous-drinking of cheerful glasses which might lead to generousand cheerful bidding for undesirable articles.  Mr. Larcher'ssale was the more attractive in the fine weather because the housestood just at the end of the townwith a garden and stablesattachedin that pleasant issue from Middlemarch called the LondonRoadwhich was also the road to the New Hospital and to Mr.Bulstrode's retired residenceknown as the Shrubs.  In shortthe auction was as good as a fairand drew all classes with leisureat command: to somewho risked making bids in order simply to raisepricesit was almost equal to betting at the races.  The seconddaywhen the best furniture was to be sold"everybody"was there; even Mr. Thesigerthe rector of St. Peter'shad lookedin for a short timewishing to buy the carved tableand had rubbedelbows with Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Horrock.  There was a wreathof Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the large tablein the dining-roomwhere Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with deskand hammer; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were oftenvaried by incomings and outgoings both from the door and the largebow-window opening on to the lawn.

"Everybody"that day did not include Mr. Bulstrodewhose health could not wellendure crowds and draughts.  But Mrs. Bulstrode had particularlywished to have a certain picture--a "Supper at Emmaus"attributed in the catalogue to Guido; and at the last moment beforethe day of the sale Mr. Bulstrode had called at the office of the"Pioneer" of which he was now one of the proprietorstobeg of Mr. Ladislaw as a great favor that he would obligingly use hisremarkable knowledge of pictures on behalf of Mrs. Bulstrodeandjudge of the value of this particular painting--"if" addedthe scrupulously polite bankerattendance at the sale would notinterfere with the arrangements for your departurewhich I know isimminent."

Thisproviso might have sounded rather satirically in Will's ear if he hadbeen in a mood to care about such satire.  It referred to anunderstanding entered into many weeks before with the proprietors ofthe paperthat he should be at liberty any day he pleased to handover the management to the subeditor whom he had been training; sincehe wished finally to quit Middlemarch. But indefinite visions ofambition are weak against the ease of doing what is habitual orbeguilingly agreeable; and we all know the difficulty of carrying outa resolve when we secretly long that it may turn out to beunnecessary.  In such states of mind the most incredulous personhas a private leaning towards miracle: impossible to conceive how ourwish could be fulfilledstill-- very wonderful things havehappened!  Will did not confess this weakness to himselfbut helingered.  What was the use of going to London at that time ofthe year?  The Rugby men who would remember him were not there;and so far as political writing was concernedhe would rather for afew weeks go on with the "Pioneer."  At the presentmomenthoweverwhen Mr. Bulstrode was speaking to himhe had botha strengthened resolve to go and an equally strong resolve not to gotill he had once more seen Dorothea.  Hence he replied that hehad reasons for deferring his departure a littleand would be happyto go to the sale.

Will wasin a defiant moodhis consciousness being deeply stung with thethought that the people who looked at him probably knew a facttantamount to an accusation against him as a fellow with low designswhich were to be frustrated by a disposal of property. Like mostpeople who assert their freedom with regard to conventionaldistinctionhe was prepared to be sudden and quick at quarrel withany one who might hint that he had personal reasons for thatassertion-- that there was anything in his bloodhis bearingor hischaracter to which he gave the mask of an opinion.  When he wasunder an irritating impression of this kind he would go about fordays with a defiant lookthe color changing in his transparent skinas if he were on the qui vivewatching for something which he had todart upon.

Thisexpression was peculiarly noticeable in him at the saleand thosewho had only seen him in his moods of gentle oddity or of brightenjoyment would have been struck with a contrast. He was not sorry tohave this occasion for appearing in public before the Middlemarchtribes of TollerHackbuttand the restwho looked down on him asan adventurerand were in a state of brutal ignorance aboutDante--who sneered at his Polish bloodand were themselves of abreed very much in need of crossing. He stood in a conspicuous placenot far from the auctioneerwith a fore-finger in each side-pocketand his head thrown backwardnot caring to speak to anybodythoughhe had been cordially welcomed as a connoissURE by Mr. Trumbullwhowas enjoying the utmost activity of his great faculties.

And surelyamong all men whose vocation requires them to exhibit their powers ofspeechthe happiest is a prosperous provincial auctioneer keenlyalive to his own jokes and sensible of his encyclopedic knowledge. Some saturninesour-blooded persons might object to be constantlyinsisting on the merits of all articles from boot-jacks to"Berghems;" but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull had a kindly liquidin his veins; he was an admirer by natureand would have liked tohave the universe under his hammerfeeling that it would go at ahigher figure for his recommendation.

MeanwhileMrs. Larcher's drawing-room furniture was enough for him. When WillLadislaw had come ina second fendersaid to have been forgotten inits right placesuddenly claimed the auctioneer's enthusiasmwhichhe distributed on the equitable principle of praising those thingsmost which were most in need of praise.  The fender was ofpolished steelwith much lancet-shaped open-work and a sharp edge

"Nowladies" said he"I shall appeal to you.  Here is afender which at any other sale would hardly be offered with outreservebeingas I may sayfor quality of steel and quaintness ofdesigna kind of thing"--here Mr. Trumbull dropped his voiceand became slightly nasaltrimming his outlines with his leftfinger-- "that might not fall in with ordinary tastes. Allow me to tell you that by-and-by this style of workmanship will bethe only one in vogue--half-a-crownyou said? thank you--going athalf-a-crownthis characteristic fender; and I have particularinformation that the antique style is very much sought after in highquarters.  Three shillings--three-and-sixpence--hold it well upJoseph!  Lookladiesat the chastity of the design-- I have nodoubt myself that it was turned out in the last century! FourshillingsMr. Mawmsey?--four shillings."

"It'snot a thing I would put in MY drawing-room" said Mrs. Mawmseyaudiblyfor the warning of the rash husband. "I wonder AT Mrs.Larcher.  Every blessed child's head that fell against it wouldbe cut in two.  The edge is like a knife."

"Quitetrue" rejoined Mr. Trumbullquickly"and most uncommonlyuseful to have a fender at hand that will cutif you have a leathershoe-tie or a bit of string that wants cutting and no knife at hand:many a man has been left hanging because there was no knife to cuthim down.  Gentlemenhere's a fender that if you had themisfortune to hang yourselves would cut you down in no time--withastonishing celerity--four-and-sixpence--five--five-and-sixpence--anappropriate thing for a spare bedroom where there was a four-posterand a guest a little out of his mind--six shillings--thank youMr.Clintup-- going at six shillings--going--gone!"  Theauctioneer's glancewhich had been searching round him with apreternatural susceptibility to all signs of biddinghere dropped onthe paper before himand his voice too dropped into a tone ofindifferent despatch as he said"Mr. Clintup.  Be handyJoseph."

"Itwas worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell thatjoke on" said Mr. Clintuplaughing low and apologetically tohis next neighbor.  He was a diffident though distinguishednurserymanand feared that the audience might regard his bid as afoolish one.

MeanwhileJoseph had brought a trayful of small articles. "Nowladies"said Mr. Trumbulltaking up one of the articles"this traycontains a very recherchy lot--a collection of trifles for thedrawing-room table--and trifles make the sum OF human things--nothingmore important than trifles--(yesMr. Ladislawyesby-and-by)--butpass the tray roundJoseph--these bijoux must be examinedladies. This I have in my hand is an ingenious contrivance-- a sort ofpractical rebusI may call it:  hereyou seeit looks like anelegant heart-shaped boxportable--for the pocket; thereagainitbecomes like a splendid double flower--an ornament for the table; andnow"--Mr. Trumbull allowed the flower to fall alarmingly intostrings of heart-shaped leaves--"a book of riddles!  Noless than five hundred printed in a beautiful red.  Gentlemenif I had less of a conscienceI should not wish you to bid high forthis lot-- I have a longing for it myself.  What can promoteinnocent mirthand I may say virtuemore than a good riddle?--ithinders profane languageand attaches a man to the society ofrefined females. This ingenious article itselfwithout the elegantdomino-boxcard-basket&c.ought alone to give a high price tothe lot. Carried in the pocket it might make an individual welcome inany society.  Four shillingssir?--four shillings for thisremarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras.  Here isa sample: `How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds?Answer-- money.'  You hear?--lady-birds--honey money.  Thisis an amusement to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting--it has whatwe call satireand wit without indecency. Four-and-sixpence--five shillings."

Thebidding ran on with warming rivalry.  Mr. Bowyer was a bidderand this was too exasperating.  Bowyer couldn't afford itandonly wanted to hinder every other man from making a figure. Thecurrent carried even Mr. Horrock with itbut this committal ofhimself to an opinion fell from him with so little sacrifice of hisneutral expressionthat the bid might not have been detected as hisbut for the friendly oaths of Mr. Bambridgewho wanted to know whatHorrock would do with blasted stuff only fit for haberdashers givenover to that state of perdition which the horse-dealer so cordiallyrecognized in the majority of earthly existences. The lot was finallyknocked down at a guinea to Mr. Spilkinsa young Slender of theneighborhoodwho was reckless with his pocket-money and felt hiswant of memory for riddles.

"ComeTrumbullthis is too bad--you've been putting some old maid'srubbish into the sale" murmured Mr. Tollergetting close tothe auctioneer.  "I want to see how the prints goand Imust be off soon."

"IMmediatelyMr. Toller.  It was only an act of benevolence which your nobleheart would approve.  Joseph! quick with the prints-- Lot 235. Nowgentlemenyou who are connoissURESyou are going to have atreat.  Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellingtonsurrounded by his staff on the Field of Waterloo; and notwithstandingrecent events which haveas it wereenveloped our great Hero in acloudI will be bold to say-- for a man in my line must not be blownabout by political winds-- that a finer subject--of the modern orderbelonging to our own time and epoch--the understanding of man couldhardly conceive: angels mightperhapsbut not mensirsnot men."

"Whopainted it?" said Mr. Powderellmuch impressed.

"Itis a proof before the letterMr. Powderell--the painter is notknown" answered Trumbullwith a certain gaspingness in hislast wordsafter which he pursed up his lips and stared round him.

"I'llbid a pound!" said Mr. Powderellin a tone of resolved emotionas of a man ready to put himself in the breach.  Whether fromawe or pitynobody raised the price on him.

Next cametwo Dutch prints which Mr. Toller had been eager forand after hehad secured them he went away.  Other printsand afterwardssome paintingswere sold to leading Middlemarchers who had come witha special desire for themand there was a more active movement ofthe audience in and out; somewho had bought what they wantedgoingawayothers coming in either quite newly or from a temporary visitto the refreshments which were spread under the marquee on the lawn. It was this marquee that Mr. Bambridge was bent on buyingand heappeared to like looking inside it frequentlyas a foretaste of itspossession.  On the last occasion of his return from it he wasobserved to bring with him a new companiona stranger to Mr.Trumbull and every one elsewhose appearancehoweverled to thesupposition that he might be a relative of the horse-dealer's-- also"given to indulgence."  His large whiskersimposingswaggerand swing of the legmade him a striking figure; but hissuit of blackrather shabby at the edgescaused the prejudicialinference that he was not able to afford himself as much indulgenceas he liked.

"Whois it you've picked upBam?" said Mr. Horrockaside.

"Askhim yourself" returned Mr. Bambridge.  "He said he'djust turned in from the road."

Mr.Horrock eyed the strangerwho was leaning back against his stickwith one handusing his toothpick with the otherand looking abouthim with a certain restlessness apparently under the silence imposedon him by circumstances.

At lengththe "Supper at Emmaus" was brought forwardto Willsimmense relieffor he was getting so tired of the proceedings thathe had drawn back a little and leaned his shoulder against the walljust behind the auctioneer.  He now came forward againand hiseye caught the conspicuous strangerwhorather to his surprisewasstaring at him markedly.  But Will was immediately appealed toby Mr. Trumbull.

"YesMr. Ladislawyes; this interests you as a connoissUREI think. It is some pleasure" the auctioneer went on with a risingfervor"to have a picture like this to show to a company ofladies and gentlemen--a picture worth any sum to an individual whosemeans were on a level with his judgment.  It is a painting ofthe Italian school--by the celebrated Guydothe greatest painter inthe worldthe chief of the Old Mastersas they are called-- I takeitbecause they were up to a thing or two beyond most of us-- inpossession of secrets now lost to the bulk of mankind. Let me tellyougentlemenI have seen a great many pictures by the Old Mastersand they are not all up to this mark--some of them are darker thanyou might like and not family subjects. But here is a Guydo--theframe alone is worth pounds--which any lady might be proud to hangup--a suitable thing for what we call a refectory in a charitableinstitutionif any gentleman of the Corporation wished to show hismunifiCENCE. Turn it a littlesir? yes.  Josephturn it alittle towards Mr. Ladislaw--Mr. Ladislawhaving been abroadunderstands the merit of these thingsyou observe."

All eyeswere for a moment turned towards Willwho saidcoolly"Fivepounds."  The auctioneer burst out in deep remonstrance.

"Ah! Mr. Ladislaw! the frame alone is worth that.  Ladies andgentlemenfor the credit of the town!  Suppose it should bediscovered hereafter that a gem of art has been amongst us in thistownand nobody in Middlemarch awake to it.  Five guineas--fiveseven-six-- five ten.  Stillladiesstill!  It is a gemand `Full many a gem' as the poet sayshas been allowed to go at anominal pride because the public knew no betterbecause it wasoffered in circles where there was--I was going to say a low feelingbut no!--Six pounds-- six guineas--a Guydo of the first order goingat six guineas-- it is an insult to religionladies; it touches usall as Christiansgentlementhat a subject like this should go atsuch a low figure-- six pounds ten--seven--"

Thebidding was briskand Will continued to share in itrememberingthat Mrs. Bulstrode had a strong wish for the pictureand thinkingthat he might stretch the price to twelve pounds. But it was knockeddown to him at ten guineaswhereupon he pushed his way towards thebow-window and went out.  He chose to go under the marquee toget a glass of waterbeing hot and thirsty: it was empty of othervisitorsand he asked the woman in attendance to fetch him somefresh water; but before she was well gone he was annoyed to seeentering the florid stranger who had stared at him. It struck Will atthis moment that the man might be one of those political parasiticinsects of the bloated kind who had once or twice claimedacquaintance with him as having heard him speak on the Reformquestionand who might think of getting a shilling by news.  Inthis light his personalready rather heating to behold on a summer'sdayappeared the more disagreeable; and Willhalf-seated on theelbow of a garden-chairturned his eyes carefully away from thecomer. But this signified little to our acquaintance Mr. Raffleswhonever hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling observationif itsuited his purpose to do so.  He moved.  a step or two tillhe was in front of Willand said with full-mouthed haste"ExcusemeMr. Ladislaw-- was your mother's name Sarah Dunkirk?"

Willstarting to his feetmoved backward a stepfrowningand sayingwith some fierceness"Yessirit was.  And what is thatto you?"

It was inWill's nature that the first spark it threw out was a direct answerof the question and a challenge of the consequences. To have said"What is that to you?" in the first instancewould haveseemed like shuffling--as if he minded who knew anything about hisorigin!

Raffles onhis side had not the same eagerness for a collision which was impliedin Ladislaw's threatening air.  The slim young fellow with hisgirl's complexion looked like a tiger-cat ready to spring on him. Under such circumstances Mr. Raffles's pleasure in annoying hiscompany was kept in abeyance.

"Nooffencemy good sirno offence!  I only remember your mother--knew her when she was a girl.  But it is your father that youfeaturesir.  I had the pleasure of seeing your father too.Parents aliveMr. Ladislaw?"

"No!"thundered Willin the same attitude as before.

"Shouldbe glad to do you a serviceMr. Ladislaw--by JoveI should! Hope tomeet again."

HereuponRaffleswho had lifted his hat with the last wordsturned himselfround with a swing of his leg and walked away. Will looked after hima momentand could see that he did not re-enter the auction-roombut appeared to be walking towards the road. For an instant hethought that he had been foolish not to let the man go ontalking;--but no! on the whole he preferred doing without knowledgefrom that source.

Later inthe eveninghoweverRaffles overtook him in the streetandappearing either to have forgotten the roughness of his formerreception or to intend avenging it by a forgiving familiaritygreeted him jovially and walked by his sideremarking at first onthe pleasantness of the town and neighbor hood.  Will suspectedthat the man had been drinking and was considering how to shake himoff when Raffles said--

"I'vebeen abroad myselfMr. Ladislaw--I've seen the world-- used toparley-vous a little.  It was at Boulogne I saw your father-- amost uncommon likeness you are of himby Jove! mouth--nose--eyes--hair turned off your brow just like his--a little in the foreignstyle. John Bull doesn't do much of that.  But your father wasvery ill when I saw him.  Lordlord! hands you might seethrough. You were a small youngster then.  Did he get well?"

"No"said Willcurtly.

"Ah! Well!  I've often wondered what became of your mother. She ranaway from her friends when she was a young lass-- a proud-spiritedlassand prettyby Jove!  I knew the reason why she ran away"said Raffleswinking slowly as he looked sideways at Will.

"Youknow nothing dishonorable of hersir" said Willturning onhim rather savagely.  But Mr. Raffles just now was not sensitiveto shades of manner.

"Nota bit!" said hetossing his head decisively "She was alittle too honorable to like her friends--that was it!" Here Raffles again winked slowly.  "Lord bless youI knewall about 'em-- a little in what you may call the respectablethieving line-- the high style of receiving-house--none of your holesand corners-- first-rate. Slap-up shophigh profits and no mistake. But Lord! Sarah would have known nothing about it--a dashing younglady she was-- fine boarding-school--fit for a lord's wife--onlyArchie Duncan threw it at her out of spitebecause she would havenothing to do with him.  And so she ran away from the wholeconcern. I travelled for 'emsirin a gentlemanly way--at a highsalary. They didn't mind her running away at first--godly folkssirvery godly--and she was for the stage.  The son was alive thenand the daughter was at a discount.  Hallo! here we are at theBlue Bull.  What do you sayMr. Ladislaw?--shall we turn in andhave a glass?"

"NoI must say good evening" said Willdashing up a passage whichled into Lowick Gateand almost running to get out of Raffles'sreach.

He walkeda long while on the Lowick road away from the townglad of thestarlit darkness when it came.  He felt as if he had had dirtcast on him amidst shouts of scorn.  There was this to confirmthe fellow's statement--that his mother never would tell him thereason why she had run away from her family.

Well! whatwas heWill Ladislawthe worsesupposing the truth about thatfamily to be the ugliest?  His mother had braved hardship inorder to separate herself from it.  But if Dorothea's friendshad known this story--if the Chettams had known it-- they would havehad a fine color to give their suspicions a welcome ground forthinking him unfit to come near her.  Howeverlet them suspectwhat they pleasedthey would find themselves in the wrong. Theywould find out that the blood in his veins was as free from the taintof meanness as theirs.

CHAPTERLXI

"Inconsistencies"answered Imlac"cannot both be rightbut imputed

toman they may both be true."--Rasselas.

The samenightwhen Mr. Bulstrode returned from a journey to Brassing onbusinesshis good wife met him in the entrance-hall and drew himinto his private sitting-room.

"Nicholas"she saidfixing her honest eyes upon him anxiously"there hasbeen such a disagreeable man here asking for you--it has made mequite uncomfortable."

"Whatkind of manmy dear" said Mr. Bulstrodedreadfully certain ofthe answer.

"Ared-faced man with large whiskersand most impudent in his manner.He declared he was an old friend of yoursand said you would besorry not to see him.  He wanted to wait for you herebut Itold him he could see you at the Bank to-morrow morning.  Mostimpudent he was!--stared at meand said his friend Nick had luck inwives. I don't believe he would have gone awayif Blucher had nothappened to break his chain and come running round on the gravel--for I was in the garden; so I said`You'd better go away--the dog isvery fierceand I can't hold him.'  Do you really know anythingof such a man?"

"Ibelieve I know who he ismy dear" said Mr. Bulstrodein hisusual subdued voice"an unfortunate dissolute wretchwhom Ihelped too much in days gone by.  HoweverI presume you willnot be troubled by him again.  He will probably come to theBank-- to begdoubtless."

No morewas said on the subject until the next daywhen Mr. Bulstrode hadreturned from the town and was dressing for dinner.  His wifenot sure that he was come homelooked into his dressing-room and sawhim with his coat and cravat offleaning one arm on a chest ofdrawers and staring absently at the ground. He started nervously andlooked up as she entered.

"Youlook very illNicholas.  Is there anything the matter?"

"Ihave a good deal of pain in my head" said Mr. Bulstrodewhowas so frequently ailing that his wife was always ready to believe inthis cause of depression.

"Sitdown and let me sponge it with vinegar."

PhysicallyMr. Bulstrode did not want the vinegarbut morally the affectionateattention soothed him.  Though always politeit was his habitto receive such services with marital coolnessas his wife's duty. But to-daywhile she was bending over himhe said"You arevery goodHarriet" in a tone which had something new in it toher ear; she did not know exactly what the novelty wasbut herwoman's solicitude shaped itself into a darting thought that he mightbe going to have an illness.

"Hasanything worried you?" she said.  "Did that man cometo you at the Bank?"

"Yes;it was as I had supposed.  He is a man who at one time mighthave done better.  But he has sunk into a drunken debauchedcreature."

"Ishe quite gone away?" said Mrs. Bulstrodeanxiously but forcertain reasons she refrained from adding"It was verydisagreeable to hear him calling himself a friend of yours." At that moment she would not have liked to say anything which impliedher habitual consciousness that her husband's earlier connectionswere not quite on a level with her own.  Not that she knew muchabout them. That her husband had at first been employed in a bankthat he had afterwards entered into what he called city business andgained a fortune before he was three-and-thirtythat he had marrieda widow who was much older than himself--a Dissenterand in otherways probably of that disadvantageous quality usually perceptible ina first wife if inquired into with the dispassionate judgment of asecond--was almost as much as she had cared to learn beyond theglimpses which Mr. Bulstrode's narrative occasionally gave of hisearly bent towards religionhis inclination to be a preacherandhis association with missionary and philanthropic efforts. Shebelieved in him as an excellent man whose piety carried a peculiareminence in belonging to a laymanwhose influence had turned her ownmind toward seriousnessand whose share of perishable good had beenthe means of raising her own position. But she also liked to thinkthat it was well in every sense for Mr. Bulstrode to have won thehand of Harriet Vincy; whose family was undeniable in a Middlemarchlight--a better light surely than any thrown in London thoroughfaresor dissenting chapel-yards. The unreformed provincial mind distrustedLondon; and while true religion was everywhere savinghonest Mrs.Bulstrode was convinced that to be saved in the Church was morerespectable. She so much wished to ignore towards others that herhusband had ever been a London Dissenterthat she liked to keep itout of sight even in talking to him.  He was quite aware ofthis; indeed in some respects he was rather afraid of this ingenuouswifewhose imitative piety and native worldliness were equallysincerewho had nothing to be ashamed ofand whom he had marriedout of a thorough inclination still subsisting.  But his fearswere such as belong to a man who cares to maintain his recognizedsupremacy: the loss of high consideration from his wifeas fromevery one else who did not clearly hate him out of enmity to thetruthwould be as the beginning of death to him.  When shesaid--

"Ishe quite gone away?"

"OhI trust so" he answeredwith an effort to throw as much soberunconcern into his tone as possible!

But intruth Mr. Bulstrode was very far from a state of quiet trust. In theinterview at the BankRaffles had made it evident that his eagernessto torment was almost as strong in him as any other greed. He hadfrankly said that he had turned out of the way to come toMiddlemarchjust to look about him and see whether the neighborhoodwould suit him to live in.  He had certainly had a few debts topay more than he expectedbut the two hundred pounds were not goneyet: a cool five-and-twenty would suffice him to go away with for thepresent. What he had wanted chiefly was to see his friend Nick andfamilyand know all about the prosperity of a man to whom he was somuch attached.  By-and-by he might come back for a longer stay.This time Raffles declined to be "seen off the premises"as he expressed it--declined to quit Middlemarch under Bulstrode'seyes. He meant to go by coach the next day--if he chose.

Bulstrodefelt himself helpless.  Neither threats nor coaxing couldavail:  he could not count on any persistent fear nor on anypromise.  On the contraryhe felt a cold certainty at his heartthat Raffles--unless providence sent death to hinder him-- would comeback to Middlemarch before long.  And that certainty was aterror.

It was notthat he was in danger of legal punishment or of beggary: he was indanger only of seeing disclosed to the judgment of his neighbors andthe mournful perception of his wife certain facts of his past lifewhich would render him an object of scorn and an opprobrium of thereligion with which he had diligently associated himself. The terrorof being judged sharpens the memory:  it sends an inevitableglare over that long-unvisited past which has been habituallyrecalled only in general phrases.  Even without memorythe lifeis bound into one by a zone of dependence in growth and decay; butintense memory forces a man to own his blameworthy past. With memoryset smarting like a reopened wounda man's past is not simply a deadhistoryan outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repentederror shaken loose from the life:  it is a still quivering partof himselfbringing shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings ofa merited shame.

Into thissecond life Bulstrode's past had now risenonly the pleasures of itseeming to have lost their quality.  Night and daywithoutinterruption save of brief sleep which only wove retrospect and fearinto a fantastic presenthe felt the scenes of his earlier lifecoming between him and everything elseas obstinately as when welook through the window from a lighted roomthe objects we turn ourbacks on are still before usinstead of the grass and the trees Thesuccessive events inward and outward were there in one view: thougheach might be dwelt on in turnthe rest still kept their hold in theconsciousness.

Once morehe saw himself the young banker's clerkwith an agreeable personasclever in figures as he was fluent in speech and fond of theologicaldefinition:  an eminent though young member of a Calvinisticdissenting church at Highburyhaving had striking experience inconviction of sin and sense of pardon.  Again he heard himselfcalled for as Brother Bulstrode in prayer meetingsspeaking onreligious platformspreaching in private houses. Again he felthimself thinking of the ministry as possibly his vocationandinclined towards missionary labor.  That was the happiest timeof his life:  that was the spot he would have chosen now toawake in and find the rest a dream.  The people among whomBrother Bulstrode was distinguished were very fewbut they were verynear to himand stirred his satisfaction the more; his powerstretched through a narrow spacebut he felt its effect the moreintensely. He believed without effort in the peculiar work of gracewithin himand in the signs that God intended him for specialinstrumentality.

Then camethe moment of transition; it was with the sense of promotion he hadwhen hean orphan educated at a commercial charity-schoolwasinvited to a fine villa belonging to Mr. Dunkirkthe richest man inthe congregation.  Soon he became an intimate therehonored forhis piety by the wifemarked out for his ability by the husbandwhose wealth was due to a flourishing city and west-end trade. Thatwas the setting-in of a new current for his ambitiondirecting hisprospects of "instrumentality" towards the uniting ofdistinguished religious gifts with successful business.

By-and-bycame a decided external leading:  a confidential subordinatepartner diedand nobody seemed to the principal so well fitted tofill the severely felt vacancy as his young friend Bulstrodeif hewould become confidential accountant.  The offer was accepted.The business was a pawnbroker'sof the most magnificent sort both inextent and profits; and on a short acquaintance with it Bulstrodebecame aware that one source of magnificent profit was the easyreception of any goods offeredwithout strict inquiry as to wherethey came from.  But there was a branch house at the west endand no pettiness or dinginess to give suggestions of shame.

Heremembered his first moments of shrinking.  They were privateand were filled with arguments; some of these taking the form ofprayer.  The business was established and had old roots; is itnot one thing to set up a new gin-palace and another to accept aninvestment in an old one?  The profits made out of lost souls--where can the line be drawn at which they begin in humantransactions? Was it not even God's way of saving His chosen? "Thou knowest"-- the young Bulstrode had said thenas theolder Bulstrode was saying now-- "Thou knowest how loose my soulsits from these things--how I view them all as implements for tillingThy garden rescued here and there from the wilderness."

Metaphorsand precedents were not wanting; peculiar spiritual experiences werenot wanting which at last made the retention of his position seem aservice demanded of him:  the vista of a fortune had alreadyopened itselfand Bulstrode's shrinking remained private.  Mr.Dunkirk had never expected that there would be any shrinking at all: he had never conceived that trade had anything to do with the schemeof salvation.  And it was true that Bulstrode found himselfcarrying on two distinct lives; his religious activity could not beincompatible with his business as soon as he had argued himself intonot feeling it incompatible.

Mentallysurrounded with that past againBulstrode had the samepleas--indeedthe years had been perpetually spinning them intointricate thicknesslike masses of spider-webpadding the moralsensibility; nayas age made egoism more eager but less enjoyinghis soul had become more saturated with the belief that he dideverything for God's sakebeing indifferent to it for his own. And yet--if he could be back in that far-off spot with his youthfulpoverty--whythen he would choose to be a missionary.

But thetrain of causes in which he had locked himself went on. There wastrouble in the fine villa at Highbury.  Years beforethe onlydaughter had run awaydefied her parentsand gone on the stage; andnow the only boy diedand after a short time Mr. Dunkirk died also.The wifea simple pious womanleft with all the wealth in and outof the magnificent tradeof which she never knew the precise naturehad come to believe in Bulstrodeand innocently adore him as womenoften adore their priest or "man-made" minister.  Itwas natural that after a time marriage should have been thought ofbetween them. But Mrs. Dunkirk had qualms and yearnings about herdaughterwho had long been regarded as lost both to God and herparents. It was known that the daughter had marriedbut she wasutterly gone out of sight.  The motherhaving lost her boyimagined a grandsonand wished in a double sense to reclaim herdaughter. If she were foundthere would be a channel for property--perhaps a wide one--in the provision for several grandchildren.Efforts to find her must be made before Mrs. Dunkirk would marryagain. Bulstrode concurred; but after advertisement as well as othermodes of inquiry had been triedthe mother believed that herdaughter was not to be foundand consented to marry withoutreservation of property.

Thedaughter had been found; but only one man besides Bulstrode knew itand he was paid for keeping silence and carrying himself away.

That wasthe bare fact which Bulstrode was now forced to see in the rigidoutline with which acts present themselves onlookers. But for himselfat that distant timeand even now in burning memorythe fact wasbroken into little sequenceseach justified as it came by reasoningswhich seemed to prove it righteous.  Bulstrode's course up tothat time hadhe thoughtbeen sanctioned by remarkable providencesappearing to point the way for him to be the agent in making the bestuse of a large property and withdrawing it from perversion. Death andother striking dispositionssuch as feminine trustfulnesshad come;and Bulstrode would have adopted Cromwell's words-- "Do you callthese bare events?  The Lord pity you!"  The eventswere comparatively smallbut the essential condition was there--namelythat they were in favor of his own ends.  It was easyfor him to settle what was due from him to others by inquiring whatwere God's intentions with regard to himself.  Could it be forGod's service that this fortune should in any considerable proportiongo to a young woman and her husband who were given up to the lightestpursuitsand might scatter it abroad in triviality-- people whoseemed to lie outside the path of remarkable providences? Bulstrodehad never said to himself beforehand"The daughter shall not befound"--nevertheless when the moment came he kept her existencehidden; and when other moments followedhe soothed the mother withconsolation in the probability that the unhappy young woman might beno more.

There werehours in which Bulstrode felt that his action was unrighteous; buthow could he go back?  He had mental exercisescalled himselfnought laid hold on redemptionand went on in his course ofinstrumentality.  And after five years Death again came to widenhis pathby taking away his wife.  He did gradually withdrawhis capitalbut he did not make the sacrifices requisite to put anend to the businesswhich was carried on for thirteen yearsafterwards before it finally collapsed.  Meanwhile NicholasBulstrode had used his hundred thousand discreetlyand was becomeprovinciallysolidly important--a bankera Churchmana publicbenefactor; also a sleeping partner in trading concernsin which hisability was directed to economy in the raw materialas in the caseof the dyes which rotted Mr. Vincy's silk.  And nowwhen thisrespectability had lasted undisturbed for nearly thirty years-- whenall that preceded it had long lain benumbed in the consciousness--that past had risen and immersed his thought as if with the terribleirruption of a new sense overburthening the feeble being.

Meanwhilein his conversation with Raffleshe had learned something momentoussomething which entered actively into the struggle of his longingsand terrors.  Therehe thoughtlay an opening towardsspiritualperhaps towards material rescue.

Thespiritual kind of rescue was a genuine need with him.  There maybe coarse hypocriteswho consciously affect beliefs and emotions forthe sake of gulling the worldbut Bulstrode was not one of them. Hewas simply a man whose desires had been stronger than his theoreticbeliefsand who had gradually explained the gratification of hisdesires into satisfactory agreement with those beliefs. If this behypocrisyit is a process which shows itself occasionally in us allto whatever confession we belongand whether we believe in thefuture perfection of our race or in the nearest date fixed for theend of the world; whether we regard the earth as a putrefying nidusfor a saved remnantincluding ourselvesor have a passionate beliefin the solidarity of mankind.

Theservice he could do to the cause of religion had been through lifethe ground he alleged to himself for his choice of action: it hadbeen the motive which he had poured out in his prayers. Who would usemoney and position better than he meant to use them? Who couldsurpass him in self-abhorrence and exaltation of God's cause? And toMr. Bulstrode God's cause was something distinct from his ownrectitude of conduct:  it enforced a discrimination of God'senemieswho were to be used merely as instrumentsand whom it wouldbe as well if possible to keep out of money and consequent influence.Alsoprofitable investments in trades where the power of the princeof this world showed its most active devicesbecame sanctified by aright application of the profits in the hands of God's servant.

Thisimplicit reasoning is essentially no more peculiar to evangelicalbelief than the use of wide phrases for narrow motives is peculiar toEnglishmen.  There is no general doctrine which is not capableof eating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit ofdirect fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men.

But a manwho believes in something else than his own greedhas necessarily aconscience or standard to which he more or less adapts himself. Bulstrode's standard had been his serviceableness to God's cause: "I am sinful and nought--a vessel to be consecrated by use--butuse me!"--had been the mould into which he had constrained hisimmense need of being something important and predominating. And nowhad come a moment in which that mould seemed in danger of beingbroken and utterly cast away.

What ifthe acts he had reconciled himself to because they made him astronger instrument of the divine glorywere to become the pretextof the scofferand a darkening of that glory? If this were to be theruling of Providencehe was cast out from the temple as one who hadbrought unclean offerings.

He hadlong poured out utterances of repentance.  But today arepentance had come which was of a bitterer flavorand a threateningProvidence urged him to a kind of propitiation which was not simply adoctrinal transaction.  The divine tribunal had changed itsaspect for him; self-prostration was no longer enoughand he mustbring restitution in his hand.  It was really before his Godthat Bulstrode was about to attempt such restitution as seemedpossible: a great dread had seized his susceptible frameand thescorching approach of shame wrought in him a new spiritual need. Night and daywhile the resurgent threatening past was making aconscience within himhe was thinking by what means he could recoverpeace and trust-- by what sacrifice he could stay the rod.  Hisbelief in these moments of dread wasthat if he spontaneously didsomething rightGod would save him from the consequences ofwrong-doing. For religion can only change when the emotions whichfill it are changed; and the religion of personal fear remains nearlyat the level of the savage.

He hadseen Raffles actually going away on the Brassing coachand this wasa temporary relief; it removed the pressure of an immediate dreadbut did not put an end to the spiritual conflict and the need to winprotection.  At last he came to a difficult resolveand wrote aletter to Will Ladislawbegging him to be at the Shrubs that eveningfor a private interview at nine o'clock. Will had felt no particularsurprise at the requestand connected it with some new notions aboutthe "Pioneer;" but when he was shown into Mr. Bulstrode'sprivate roomhe was struck with the painfully worn look on thebanker's faceand was going to say"Are you ill?" whenchecking himself in that abruptnesshe only inquired after Mrs.Bulstrodeand her satisfaction with the picture bought for her.

"Thankyoushe is quite satisfied; she has gone out with her daughters thisevening.  I begged you to comeMr. Ladislawbecause I have acommunication of a very private--indeedI will sayof a sacredlyconfidential naturewhich I desire to make to you.  NothingIdare sayhas been farther from your thoughts than that there hadbeen important ties in the past which could connect your history withmine."

Will feltsomething like an electric shock.  He was already in a state ofkeen sensitiveness and hardly allayed agitation on the subject ofties in the pastand his presentiments were not agreeable. It seemedlike the fluctuations of a dream--as if the action begun by that loudbloated stranger were being carried on by this pale-eyed sicklylooking piece of respectabilitywhose subdued tone and glibformality of speech were at this moment almost as repulsive to him astheir remembered contrast.  He answeredwith a marked change ofcolor--

"Noindeednothing."

"Yousee before youMr. Ladislawa man who is deeply stricken. But forthe urgency of conscience and the knowledge that I am before the barof One who seeth not as man seethI should be under no compulsion tomake the disclosure which has been my object in asking you to comehere to-night. So far as human laws goyou have no claim on mewhatever."

Will waseven more uncomfortable than wondering.  Mr. Bulstrode hadpausedleaning his head on his handand looking at the floor. Buthe now fixed his examining glance on Will and said--

"I amtold that your mother's name was Sarah Dunkirkand that she ran awayfrom her friends to go on the stage.  Alsothat your father wasat one time much emaciated by illness.  May I ask if you canconfirm these statements?"

"Yesthey are all true" said Willstruck with the order in which aninquiry had comethat might have been expected to be preliminary tothe banker's previous hints.  But Mr. Bulstrode had to-nightfollowed the order of his emotions; he entertained no doubt that theopportunity for restitution had comeand he had an overpoweringimpulse towards the penitential expression by which he wasdeprecating chastisement.

"Doyou know any particulars of your mother's family?" he continued.

"No;she never liked to speak of them.  She was a very generoushonorable woman" said Willalmost angrily.

"I donot wish to allege anything against her.  Did she never mentionher mother to you at all?"

"Ihave heard her say that she thought her mother did not know thereason of her running away.  She said `poor mother' in a pityingtone."

"Thatmother became my wife" said Bulstrodeand then paused a momentbefore he added"you have a claim on meMr. Ladislaw:  asI said beforenot a legal claimbut one which my consciencerecognizes. I was enriched by that marriage--a result which wouldprobably not have taken place--certainly not to the same extent--ifyour grandmother could have discovered her daughter.  ThatdaughterI gatheris no longer living!"

"No"said Willfeeling suspicion and repugnance rising so strongly withinhimthat without quite knowing what he didhe took his hat from thefloor and stood up.  The impulse within him was to reject thedisclosed connection.

"Praybe seatedMr. Ladislaw" said Bulstrodeanxiously. "Doubtlessyou are startled by the suddenness of this discovery. But I entreatyour patience with one who is already bowed down by inward trial."

Willreseated himselffeeling some pity which was half contempt for thisvoluntary self-abasement of an elderly man.

"Itis my wishMr. Ladislawto make amends for the deprivation whichbefell your mother.  I know that you are without fortuneand Iwish to supply you adequately from a store which would have probablyalready been yours had your grandmother been certain of your mother'sexistence and been able to find her."

Mr.Bulstrode paused.  He felt that he was performing a strikingpiece of scrupulosity in the judgment of his auditorand apenitential act in the eyes of God.  He had no clew to the stateof Will Ladislaw's mindsmarting as it was from the clear hints ofRafflesand with its natural quickness in construction stimulated bythe expectation of discoveries which he would have been glad toconjure back into darkness.  Will made no answer for severalmomentstill Mr. Bulstrodewho at the end of his speech had casthis eyes on the floornow raised them with an examining glancewhich Will met fullysaying--

"Isuppose you did know of my mother's existenceand knew where shemight have been found."

Bulstrodeshrank--there was a visible quivering in his face and hands. He wastotally unprepared to have his advances met in this wayor to findhimself urged into more revelation than he had beforehand set down asneedful.  But at that moment he dared not tell a lieand hefelt suddenly uncertain of his ground which he had trodden with someconfidence before.

"Iwill not deny that you conjecture rightly" he answeredwith afaltering in his tone.  "And I wish to make atonement toyou as the one still remaining who has suffered a loss through me.You enterI trustinto my purposeMr. Ladislawwhich has areference to higher than merely human claimsand as I have alreadysaidis entirely independent of any legal compulsion.  I amready to narrow my own resources and the prospects of my family bybinding myself to allow you five hundred pounds yearly during mylifeand to leave you a proportional capital at my death--nayto dostill moreif more should be definitely necessary to any laudableproject on your part."  Mr. Bulstrode had gone on toparticulars in the expectation that these would work strongly onLadislawand merge other feelings in grateful acceptance.

But Willwas looking as stubborn as possiblewith his lip pouting and hisfingers in his side-pockets. He was not in the least touchedandsaid firmly--

"BeforeI make any reply to your propositionMr. BulstrodeI must beg youto answer a question or two.  Were you connected with thebusiness by which that fortune you speak of was originally made?"

Mr.Bulstrode's thought was"Raffles has told him."  Howcould he refuse to answer when he had volunteered what drew forth thequestion? He answered"Yes."

"Andwas that business--or was it not--a thoroughly dishonorable one--nayone thatif its nature had been made publicmight have rankedthose concerned in it with thieves and convicts?"

Will'stone had a cutting bitterness:  he was moved to put his questionas nakedly as he could.

Bulstrodereddened with irrepressible anger.  He had been prepared for ascene of self-abasementbut his intense pride and his habit ofsupremacy overpowered penitenceand even dreadwhen this young manwhom he had meant to benefitturned on him with the air of a judge.

"Thebusiness was established before I became connected with itsir; noris it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind" heanswerednot raising his voicebut speaking with quick defiantness.

"Yesit is" said Willstarting up again with his hat in his hand."It is eminently mine to ask such questionswhen I have todecide whether I will have transactions with you and accept yourmoney. My unblemished honor is important to me.  It is importantto me to have no stain on my birth and connections.  And now Ifind there is a stain which I can't help.  My mother felt itand tried to keep as clear of it as she couldand so will I. You shall keep your ill-gotten money.  If I had any fortune ofmy ownI would willingly pay it to any one who could disprove whatyou have told me. What I have to thank you for is that you kept themoney till nowwhen I can refuse it.  It ought to lie with aman's self that he is a gentleman.  Good-nightsir."

Bulstrodewas going to speakbut Willwith determined quicknesswas out ofthe room in an instantand in another the hall-door had closedbehind him.  He was too strongly possessed with passionaterebellion against this inherited blot which had been thrust on hisknowledge to reflect at present whether he had not been too hard onBulstrode--too arrogantly merciless towards a man of sixtywho wasmaking efforts at retrieval when time had rendered them vain.

No thirdperson listening could have thoroughly understood the impetuosity ofWill's repulse or the bitterness of his words. No one but himselfthen knew how everything connected with the sentiment of his owndignity had an immediate bearing for him on his relation to Dorotheaand to Mr. Casaubon's treatment of him. And in the rush of impulsesby which he flung back that offer of Bulstrode's there was mingledthe sense that it would have been impossible for him ever to tellDorothea that he had accepted it.

As forBulstrode--when Will was gone he suffered a violent reactionandwept like a woman.  It was the first time he had encountered anopen expression of scorn from any man higher than Raffles; and withthat scorn hurrying like venom through his systemthere was nosensibility left to consolations.  Rut the relief of weeping hadto be checked.  His wife and daughters soon came home fromhearing the address of an Oriental missionaryand were full ofregret that papa had not heardin the first instancetheinteresting things which they tried to repeat to him.

Perhapsthrough all other hidden thoughtsthe one that breathed most comfortwasthat Will Ladislaw at least was not likely to publish what hadtaken place that evening.

CHAPTERLXII

  "He was a squyer of lowe degre
   That loved theking's daughter of Hungrie.
   --Old Romance.

WillLadislaw's mind was now wholly bent on seeing Dorothea againandforthwith quitting Middlemarch.  The morning after his agitatingscene with Bulstrode he wrote a brief letter to hersaying thatvarious causes had detained him in the neighborhood longer than hehad expectedand asking her permission to call again at Lowick atsome hour which she would mention on the earliest possible dayhebeing anxious to departbut unwilling to do so until she had grantedhim an interview.  He left the letter at the officeorderingthe messenger to carry it to Lowick Manorand wait for an answer.

Ladislawfelt the awkwardness of asking for more last words. His formerfarewell had been made in the hearing of Sir James Chettamand hadbeen announced as final even to the butler.  It is certainlytrying to a man's dignity to reappear when he is not expected to doso: a first farewell has pathos in itbut to come back for a secondlends an opening to comedyand it was possible even that there mightbe bitter sneers afloat about Will's motives for lingering. Still itwas on the whole more satisfactory to his feeling to take thedirectest means of seeing Dorotheathan to use any device whichmight give an air of chance to a meeting of which he wished her tounderstand that it was what he earnestly sought. When he had partedfrom her beforehe had been in ignorance of facts which gave a newaspect to the relation between themand made a more absoluteseverance than he had then believed in. He knew nothing of Dorothea'sprivate fortuneand being little used to reflect on such matterstook it for granted that according to Mr. Casaubon's arrangementmarriage to himWill Ladislawwould mean that she consented to bepenniless. That was not what he could wish for even in his secretheartor even if she had been ready to meet such hard contrast forhis sake. And thentoothere was the fresh smart of that disclosureabout his mother's familywhich if known would be an added reasonwhy Dorothea's friends should look down upon him as utterly belowher. The secret hope that after some years he might come back withthe sense that he had at least a personal value equal to her wealthseemed now the dreamy continuation of a dream.  This changewould surely justify him in asking Dorothea to receive him once more.

ButDorothea on that morning was not at home to receive Will's note. Inconsequence of a letter from her uncle announcing his intention to beat home in a weekshe had driven first to Freshitt to carry thenewsmeaning to go on to the Grange to deliver some orders withwhich her uncle had intrusted her--thinkingas he said"alittle mental occupation of this sort good for a widow."

If WillLadislaw could have overheard some of the talk at Freshitt thatmorninghe would have felt all his suppositions confirmed as to thereadiness of certain people to sneer at his lingering in theneighborhood.  Sir Jamesindeedthough much relievedconcerning Dorotheahad been on the watch to learn Ladislaw'smovementsand had an instructed informant in Mr. Standishwho wasnecessarily in his confidence on this matter.  That Ladislaw hadstayed in Middlemarch nearly two months after he had declared that hewas going immediatelywas a fact to embitter Sir James's suspicionsor at least to justify his aversion to a "young fellow"whom he represented to himself as slightvolatileand likely enoughto show such recklessness as naturally went along with a positionunriveted by family ties or a strict profession.  But he hadjust heard something from Standish whichwhile it justified thesesurmises about Willoffered a means of nullifying all danger withregard to Dorothea.

Unwontedcircumstances may make us all rather unlike ourselves: there areconditions under which the most majestic person is obliged to sneezeand our emotions are liable to be acted on in the same incongruousmanner.  Good Sir James was this morning so far unlike himselfthat he was irritably anxious to say something to Dorothea on asubject which he usually avoided as if it had been a matter of shameto them both.  He could not use Celia as a mediumbecause hedid not choose that she should know the kind of gossip he had in hismind; and before Dorothea happened to arrive he had been trying toimagine howwith his shyness and unready tonguehe could evermanage to introduce his communication.  Her unexpected presencebrought him to utter hopelessness in his own power of saying anythingunpleasant; but desperation suggested a resource; he sent the groomon an unsaddled horse across the park with a pencilled note to Mrs.Cadwalladerwho already knew the gossipand would think it nocompromise of herself to repeat it as often as required.

Dorotheawas detained on the good pretext that Mr. Garthwhom she wanted toseewas expected at the hall within the hourand she was stilltalking to Caleb on the gravel when Sir Jameson the watch for therector's wifesaw her coming and met her with the needful hints.

"Enough! I understand"--said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "You shall beinnocent.  I am such a blackamoor that I cannot smirch myself."

"Idon't mean that it's of any consequence" said Sir Jamesdisliking that Mrs. Cadwallader should understand too much. "Onlyit is desirable that Dorothea should know there are reasons why sheshould not receive him again; and I really can't say so to her. Itwill come lightly from you."

It camevery lightly indeed.  When Dorothea quitted Caleb and turned tomeet themit appeared that Mrs. Cadwallader had stepped across thepark by the merest chance in the worldjust to chat with Celia in amatronly way about the baby.  And so Mr. Brooke was comingback?  Delightful!--coming backit was to be hopedquite curedof Parliamentary fever and pioneering.  Apropos of the"Pioneer"--somebody had prophesied that it would soon belike a dying dolphinand turn all colors for want of knowing how tohelp itselfbecause Mr. Brooke's protegethe brilliant youngLadislawwas gone or going.  Had Sir James heard that?

The threewere walking along the gravel slowlyand Sir Jamesturning aside towhip a shrubsaid he had heard something of that sort.

"Allfalse!" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "He is not goneorgoingapparently; the `Pioneer' keeps its colorand Mr. OrlandoLadislaw is making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continuallywith your Mr. Lydgate's wifewho they tell me is as pretty as prettycan be. It seems nobody ever goes into the house without finding thisyoung gentleman lying on the rug or warbling at the piano. But thepeople in manufacturing towns are always disreputable."

"Youbegan by saying that one report was falseMrs. Cadwalladerand Ibelieve this is false too" said Dorotheawith indignantenergy; "at leastI feel sure it is a misrepresentation. I will not hear any evil spoken of Mr. Ladislaw; he has alreadysuffered too much injustice."

Dorotheawhen thoroughly moved cared little what any one thought of herfeelings; and even if she had been able to reflectshe would haveheld it petty to keep silence at injurious words about Will from fearof being herself misunderstood.  Her face was flushed and herlip trembled.

Sir Jamesglancing at herrepented of his stratagem; but Mrs. Cadwalladerequal to all occasionsspread the palms of her hands outward andsaid--"Heaven grant itmy dear!--I mean that all bad talesabout anybody may be false.  But it is a pity that young Lydgateshould have married one of these Middlemarch girls. Considering he'sa son of somebodyhe might have got a woman with good blood in herveinsand not too youngwho would have put up with his profession. There's Clara Harfagerfor instancewhose friends don't know whatto do with her; and she has a portion. Then we might have had heramong us.  However!--it's no use being wise for other people. Where is Celia?  Pray let us go in."

"I amgoing on immediately to Tipton" said Dorothearatherhaughtily. "Good-by."

Sir Jamescould say nothing as he accompanied her to the carriage. He wasaltogether discontented with the result of a contrivance which hadcost him some secret humiliation beforehand.

Dorotheadrove along between the berried hedgerows and the shorn corn-fieldsnot seeing or hearing anything around.  The tears came androlled down her cheeksbut she did not know it. The worlditseemedwas turning ugly and hatefuland there was no place for hertrustfulness.  "It is not true--it is not true!" wasthe voice within her that she listened to; but all the while aremembrance to which there had always clung a vague uneasiness wouldthrust itself on her attention--the remembrance of that day when shehad found Will Ladislaw with Mrs. Lydgateand had heard his voiceaccompanied by the piano.

"Hesaid he would never do anything that I disapproved--I wish I couldhave told him that I disapproved of that" said poor Dorotheainwardlyfeeling a strange alternation between anger with Will andthe passionate defence of him.  "They all try to blackenhim before me; but I will care for no painif he is not to blame. Ialways believed he was good."--These were her last thoughtsbefore she felt that the carriage was passing under the archway ofthe lodge-gate at the Grangewhen she hurriedly pressed herhandkerchief to her face and began to think of her errands. Thecoachman begged leave to take out the horses for half an hour asthere was something wrong with a shoe; and Dorotheahaving the sensethat she was going to resttook off her gloves and bonnetwhile shewas leaning against a statue in the entrance-halland talking to thehousekeeper.  At last she said--

"Imust stay here a littleMrs. Kell.  I will go into the libraryand write you some memoranda from my uncle's letterif you will openthe shutters for me."

"Theshutters are openmadam" said Mrs. Kellfollowing Dorotheawho had walked along as she spoke.  "Mr. Ladislaw is therelooking for something."

(Will hadcome to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he had missed inthe act of packing his movablesand did not choose to leave behind.)

Dorothea'sheart seemed to turn over as if it had had a blowbut she was notperceptibly checked:  in truththe sense that Will was therewas for the moment all-satisfying to herlike the sight of somethingprecious that one has lost.  When she reached the door she saidto Mrs. Kell--

"Goin firstand tell him that I am here."

Will hadfound his portfolioand had laid it on the table at the far end ofthe roomto turn over the sketches and please himself by looking atthe memorable piece of art which had a relation to nature toomysterious for Dorothea.  He was smiling at it stillandshaking the sketches into order with the thought that he might find aletter from her awaiting him at Middlemarchwhen Mrs. Kell close tohis elbow said--

"Mrs.Casaubon is coming insir."

Willturned round quicklyand the next moment Dorothea was entering. AsMrs. Kell closed the door behind her they met:  each was lookingat the otherand consciousness was overflowed by something thatsuppressed utterance.  It was not confusion that kept themsilentfor they both felt that parting was nearand there is noshamefacedness in a sad parting.

She movedautomatically towards her uncle's chair against the writing-tableand Willafter drawing it out a little for herwent a few paces offand stood opposite to her.

"Praysit down" said Dorotheacrossing her hands on her lap; "Iam very glad you were here."  Will thought that her facelooked just as it did when she first shook hands with him in Rome;for her widow's capfixed in her bonnethad gone off with itandhe could see that she had lately been shedding tears.  But themixture of anger in her agitation had vanished at the sight of him;she had been usedwhen they were face to facealways to feelconfidence and the happy freedom which comes with mutualunderstandingand how could other people's words hinder that effecton a sudden? Let the music which can take possession of our frame andfill the air with joy for ussound once more--what does it signifythat we heard it found fault with in its absence?

"Ihave sent a letter to Lowick Manor to-dayasking leave to see you"said Willseating himself opposite to her.  "I am goingaway immediatelyand I could not go without speaking to you again."

"Ithought we had parted when you came to Lowick many weeks ago-- youthought you were going then" said Dorotheaher voice tremblinga little.

"Yes;but I was in ignorance then of things which I know now-- things whichhave altered my feelings about the future.  When I saw youbeforeI was dreaming that I might come back some day. I don't thinkI ever shall--now."  Will paused here.

"Youwished me to know the reasons?" said Dorotheatimidly.

"Yes"said Willimpetuouslyshaking his head backwardand looking awayfrom her with irritation in his face.  "Of course I mustwish it. I have been grossly insulted in your eyes and in the eyes ofothers. There has been a mean implication against my character. I wish you to know that under no circumstances would I have loweredmyself by-- under no circumstances would I have given men the chanceof saying that I sought money under the pretext of seeking--somethingelse. There was no need of other safeguard against me--the safeguardof wealth was enough."

Will rosefrom his chair with the last word and went--he hardly knew where; butit was to the projecting window nearest himwhich had been open asnow about the same season a year agowhen he and Dorothea had stoodwithin it and talked together.  Her whole heart was going out atthis moment in sympathy with Will's indignation: she only wanted toconvince him that she had never done him injusticeand he seemed tohave turned away from her as if she too had been part of theunfriendly world.

"Itwould be very unkind of you to suppose that I ever attributed anymeanness to you" she began.  Then in her ardent waywanting to plead with himshe moved from her chair and went in frontof him to her old place in the windowsaying"Do you supposethat I ever disbelieved in you?"

When Willsaw her therehe gave a start and moved backward out of the windowwithout meeting her glance.  Dorothea was hurt by this movementfollowing up the previous anger of his tone. She was ready to saythat it was as hard on her as on himand that she was helpless; butthose strange particulars of their relation which neither of themcould explicitly mention kept her always in dread of saying toomuch.  At this moment she had no belief that Will would in anycase have wanted to marry herand she feared using words which mightimply such a belief. She only said earnestlyrecurring to his lastword--

"I amsure no safeguard was ever needed against you."

Will didnot answer.  In the stormy fluctuation of his feelings thesewords of hers seemed to him cruelly neutraland he looked pale andmiserable after his angry outburst.  He went to the table andfastened up his portfoliowhile Dorothea looked at him from thedistance. They were wasting these last moments together in wretchedsilence. What could he saysince what had got obstinately uppermostin his mind was the passionate love for her which he forbade himselfto utter?  What could she saysince she might offer him nohelp-- since she was forced to keep the money that ought to have beenhis?-- since to-day he seemed not to respond as he used to do to herthorough trust and liking?

But Willat last turned away from his portfolio and approached the windowagain.

"Imust go" he saidwith that peculiar look of the eyes whichsometimes accompanies bitter feelingas if they had been tired andburned with gazing too close at a light.

"Whatshall you do in life?" said Dorotheatimidly.  "Haveyour intentions remained just the same as when we said good-bybefore?"

"Yes"said Willin a tone that seemed to waive the subject asuninteresting.  "I shall work away at the first thing thatoffers. I suppose one gets a habit of doing without happiness orhope."

"Ohwhat sad words!" said Dorotheawith a dangerous tendency tosob. Then trying to smileshe added"We used to agree that wewere alike in speaking too strongly."

"Ihave not spoken too strongly now" said Willleaning backagainst the angle of the wall.  "There are certain thingswhich a man can only go through once in his life; and he must knowsome time or other that the best is over with him.  Thisexperience has happened to me while I am very young--that is all. What I care more for than I can ever care for anything else isabsolutely forbidden to me-- I don't mean merely by being out of myreachbut forbidden meeven if it were within my reachby my ownpride and honor-- by everything I respect myself for.  Of courseI shall go on living as a man might do who had seen heaven in atrance."

Willpausedimagining that it would be impossible for Dorothea tomisunderstand this; indeed he felt that he was contradicting himselfand offending against his self-approval in speaking to her soplainly; but still--it could not be fairly called wooing a woman totell her that he would never woo her. It must be admitted to be aghostly kind of wooing.

ButDorothea's mind was rapidly going over the past with quite anothervision than his.  The thought that she herself might be whatWill most cared for did throb through her an instantbut then camedoubt: the memory of the little they had lived through togetherturned pale and shrank before the memory which suggested how muchfuller might have been the intercourse between Will and some one elsewith whom he had had constant companionship.  Everything he hadsaid might refer to that other relationand whatever had passedbetween him and herself was thoroughly explained by what she hadalways regarded as their simple friendship and the cruel obstructionthrust upon it by her husband's injurious act.  Dorothea stoodsilentwith her eyes cast down dreamilywhile images crowded uponher which left the sickening certainty that Will was referring toMrs. Lydgate. But why sickening?  He wanted her to know thathere too his conduct should be above suspicion.

Will wasnot surprised at her silence.  His mind also was tumultuouslybusy while he watched herand he was feeling rather wildly thatsomething must happen to hinder their parting--some miracleclearlynothing in their own deliberate speech.  Yetafter allhad sheany love for him?--he could not pretend to himself that he wouldrather believe her to be without that pain.  He could not denythat a secret longing for the assurance that she loved him was at theroot of all his words.

Neither ofthem knew how long they stood in that way.  Dorothea was raisingher eyesand was about to speakwhen the door opened and herfootman came to say--

"Thehorses are readymadamwhenever you like to start."

"Presently"said Dorothea.  Then turning to Willshe said"I havesome memoranda to write for the housekeeper."

"Imust go" said Willwhen the door had closed again--advancingtowards her.  "The day after to-morrow I shall leaveMiddlemarch."

"Youhave acted in every way rightly" said Dorotheain a low tonefeeling a pressure at her heart which made it difficult to speak.

She putout her handand Will took it for an instant with. out speakingforher words had seemed to him cruelly cold and unlike herself. Their eyes metbut there was discontent in hisand in hers therewas only sadness.  He turned away and took his portfolio underhis arm.

"Ihave never done you injustice.  Please remember me" saidDorothearepressing a rising sob.

"Whyshould you say that?" said Willwith irritation.  "Asif I were not in danger of forgetting everything else."

He hadreally a movement of anger against her at that momentand itimpelled him to go away without pause.  It was all one flash toDorothea-- his last words--his distant bow to her as he reached thedoor-- the sense that he was no longer there.  She sank into thechairand for a few moments sat like a statuewhile images andemotions were hurrying upon her.  Joy came firstin spite ofthe threatening train behind it--joy in the impression that it wasreally herself whom Will loved and was renouncingthat there wasreally no other love less permissiblemore blameworthywhich honorwas hurrying him away from.  They were parted all the samebut--Dorothea drew a deep breath and felt her strength return--shecould think of him unrestrainedly.  At that moment the partingwas easy to bear: the first sense of loving and being loved excludedsorrow.  It was as if some hard icy pressure had meltedand herconsciousness had room to expand:  her past was come back to herwith larger interpretation. The joy was not the less--perhaps it wasthe more complete just then-- because of the irrevocable parting; forthere was no reproachno contemptuous wonder to imagine in any eyeor from any lips. He had acted so as to defy reproachand makewonder respectful.

Any onewatching her might have seen that there was a fortifying thoughtwithin her.  Just as when inventive power is working with gladease some small claim on the attention is fully met as if it wereonly a cranny opened to the sunlightit was easy now for Dorothea towrite her memoranda.  She spoke her last words to thehousekeeper in cheerful tonesand when she seated herself in thecarriage her eyes were bright and her cheeks blooming under thedismal bonnet.  She threw back the heavy "weepers"and looked before herwondering which road Will had taken. It was inher nature to be proud that he was blamelessand through all herfeelings there ran this vein--"I was right to defend him."

Thecoachman was used to drive his grays at a good paneMr. Casaubonbeing unenjoying and impatient in everything away from his deskandwanting to get to the end of all journeys; and Dorothea was nowbowled along quickly.  Driving was pleasantfor rain in thenight had laid the dustand the blue sky looked far offaway fromthe region of the great clouds that sailed in masses. The earthlooked like a happy place under the vast heavensand Dorothea waswishing that she might overtake Will and see him once more.

After aturn of the roadthere he was with the portfolio under his arm; butthe next moment she was passing him while he raised his hatand shefelt a pang at being seated there in a sort of exaltationleavinghim behind.  She could not look back at him.  It was as ifa crowd of indifferent objects had thrust them asunderand forcedthem along different pathstaking them farther and farther away fromeach otherand making it useless to look back. She could no moremake any sign that would seem to say"Need we part?" thanshe could stop the carriage to wait for him.  Naywhat a worldof reasons crowded upon her against any movement of her thoughttowards a future that might reverse the decision of this day!

"Ionly wish I had known before--I wish he knew--then we could be quitehappy in thinking of each otherthough we are forever parted. And ifI could but have given him the moneyand made things easier forhim!"--were the longings that came back the most persistently.And yetso heavily did the world weigh on her in spite of herindependent energythat with this idea of Will as in need of suchhelp and at a disadvantage with the worldthere came always thevision of that unfittingness of any closer relation between themwhich lay in the opinion of every one connected with her.  Shefelt to the full all the imperativeness of the motives which urgedWill's conduct. How could he dream of her defying the barrier thather husband had placed between them?--how could she ever say toherself that she would defy it?

Will'scertainty as the carriage grew smaller in the distancehad much morebitterness in it.  Very slight matters were enough to gall himin his sensitive moodand the sight of Dorothea driving past himwhile he felt himself plodding along as a poor devil seeking aposition in a world which in his present temper offered him littlethat he covetedmade his conduct seem a mere matter of necessityand took away the sustainment of resolve. After allhe had noassurance that she loved him:  could any man pretend that he wassimply glad in such a case to have the suffering all on his own side?

Thatevening Will spent with the Lydgates; the next evening he was gone.

BOOKVII

TWOTEMPTATIONS

CHAPTERLXIII

Theselittle things are great to little man.--GOLDSMITH.

"Haveyou seen much of your scientific phoenixLydgatelately?" saidMr. Toller at one of his Christmas dinner-partiesspeaking to Mr.Farebrother on his right hand.

"NotmuchI am sorry to say" answered the Vicaraccustomed toparry Mr. Toller's banter about his belief in the new medical light."I am out of the way and he is too busy."

"Ishe?  I am glad to hear it" said Dr. Minchinwith mingledsuavity and surprise.

"Hegives a great deal of time to the New Hospital" said Mr.Farebrotherwho had his reasons for continuing the subject:  "Ihear of that from my neighborMrs. Casaubonwho goes there often. She says Lydgate is indefatigableand is making a fine thing ofBulstrode's institution. He is preparing a new ward in case of thecholera coming to us."

"Andpreparing theories of treatment to try on the patientsI suppose"said Mr. Toller.

"ComeTollerbe candid" said Mr. Farebrother.  "You aretoo clever not to see the good of a bold fresh mind in medicineaswell as in everything else; and as to choleraI fancynone of youare very sure what you ought to do.  If a man goes a little toofar along a new roadit is usually himself that he harms more thanany one else."

"I amsure you and Wrench ought to be obliged to him" said Dr.Minchinlooking towards Toller"for he has sent you the creamof Peacock's patients."

"Lydgatehas been living at a great rate for a young beginner" said Mr.Harry Tollerthe brewer.  "I suppose his relations in theNorth back him up."

"Ihope so" said Mr. Chichely"else he ought not to havemarried that nice girl we were all so fond of.  Hang itone hasa grudge against a man who carries off the prettiest girl in thetown."

"Ayby God! and the best too" said Mr. Standish.

"Myfriend Vincy didn't half like the marriageI know that" saidMr. Chichely.  "HE wouldn't do much.  How therelations on the other side may have come down I can't say." There was an emphatic kind of reticence in Mr. Chichely's manner ofspeaking.

"OhI shouldn't think Lydgate ever looked to practice for a living"said Mr. Tollerwith a slight touch of sarcasmand there thesubject was dropped.

This wasnot the first time that Mr. Farebrother had heard hints of Lydgate'sexpenses being obviously too great to be met by his practicebut hethought it not unlikely that there were resources or expectationswhich excused the large outlay at the time of Lydgate's marriageandwhich might hinder any bad consequences from the disappointment inhis practice.  One eveningwhen he took the pains to go toMiddlemarch on purpose to have a chat with Lydgate as of oldhenoticed in him an air of excited effort quite unlike his usual easyway of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever hehad anything to say.  Lydgate talked persistently when they werein his work-roomputting arguments for and against the probabilityof certain biological views; but he had none of those definite thingsto say or to show which give the waymarks of a patient uninterruptedpursuitsuch as he used himself to insist onsaying that "theremust be a systole and diastole in all inquiry" and that "aman's mind must be continually expanding and shrinking between thewhole human horizon and the horizon of an object-glass." Thatevening he seemed to be talking widely for the sake of resisting anypersonal bearing; and before long they went into the drawing roomwhere Lydgatehaving asked Rosamond to give them musicsank back inhis chair in silencebut with a strange light in his eyes. "Hemay have been taking an opiate" was a thought that crossed Mr.Farebrother's mind--"tic-douloureux perhaps--or medicalworries."

It did notoccur to him that Lydgate's marriage was not delightful: he believedas the rest didthat Rosamond was an amiabledocile creaturethough he had always thought her rather uninteresting-- a little toomuch the pattern-card of the finishing-school; and his mother couldnot forgive Rosamond because she never seemed to see that HenriettaNoble was in the room.  "HoweverLydgate fell in love withher" said the Vicar to himself"and she must be to histaste."

Mr.Farebrother was aware that Lydgate was a proud manbut having verylittle corresponding fibre in himselfand perhaps too little careabout personal dignityexcept the dignity of not being mean orfoolishhe could hardly allow enough for the way in which Lydgateshrankas from a burnfrom the utterance of any word about hisprivate affairs. And soon after that conversation at Mr. Toller'sthe Vicar learned something which made him watch the more eagerly foran opportunity of indirectly letting Lydgate know that if he wantedto open himself about any difficulty there was a friendly ear ready.

Theopportunity came at Mr. Vincy'swhereon New Year's Daythere wasa partyto which Mr. Farebrother was irresistibly invitedon theplea that he must not forsake his old friends on the first new yearof his being a greater manand Rector as well as Vicar. And thisparty was thoroughly friendly:  all the ladies of theFarebrother family were present; the Vincy children all dined at thetableand Fred had persuaded his mother that if she did not inviteMary Garththe Farebrothers would regard it as a slight tothemselvesMary being their particular friend.  Mary cameandFred was in high spiritsthough his enjoyment was of a checkeredkind-- triumph that his mother should see Mary's importance with thechief personages in the party being much streaked with jealousy whenMr. Farebrother sat down by her.  Fred used to be much more easyabout his own accomplishments in the days when he had not begun todread being "bowled out by Farebrother" and this terrorwas still before him.  Mrs. Vincyin her fullest matronlybloomlooked at Mary's little figurerough wavy hairand visagequite without lilies and rosesand wondered; trying unsuccessfullyto fancy herself caring about Mary's appearance in wedding clothesor feeling complacency in grandchildren who would "feature"the Garths. Howeverthe party was a merry oneand Mary wasparticularly bright; being gladfor Fred's sakethat his friendswere getting kinder to herand being also quite willing that theyshould see how much she was valued by others whom they must admit tobe judges.

Mr.Farebrother noticed that Lydgate seemed boredand that Mr. Vincyspoke as little as possible to his son-in-law. Rosamond was perfectlygraceful and calmand only a subtle observation such as the Vicarhad not been roused to bestow on her would have perceived the totalabsence of that interest in her husband's presence which a lovingwife is sure to betrayeven if etiquette keeps her aloof from him.When Lydgate was taking part in the conversationshe never lookedtowards him any more than if she had been a sculptured Psychemodelled to look another way:  and whenafter being called outfor an hour or twohe re-entered the roomshe seemed unconscious ofthe factwhich eighteen months before would have had the effect of anumeral before ciphers.  In realityhowevershe was intenselyaware of Lydgate's voice and movements; and her pretty good-temperedair of unconsciousness was a studied negation by which she satisfiedher inward opposition to him without compromise of propriety. Whenthe ladies were in the drawing-room after Lydgate had been calledaway from the dessertMrs. Farebrotherwhen Rosamond happened to benear hersaid--"You have to give up a great deal of yourhusband's societyMrs. Lydgate."

"Yesthe life of a medical man is very arduous:  especially when heis so devoted to his profession as Mr. Lydgate is" saidRosamondwho was standingand moved easily away at the end of thiscorrect little speech.

"Itis dreadfully dull for her when there is no company" said Mrs.Vincywho was seated at the old lady's side. "I am sure Ithought so when Rosamond was illand I was staying with her. You knowMrs. Farebrotherours is a cheerful house. I am of acheerful disposition myselfand Mr. Vincy always likes something tobe going on.  That is what Rosamond has been used to. Verydifferent from a husband out at odd hoursand never knowing when hewill come homeand of a closeproud disposition_I_think"--indiscreet Mrs. Vincy did lower her tone slightly withthis parenthesis.  "But Rosamond always had an angel of atemper; her brothers used very often not to please herbut she wasnever the girl to show temper; from a baby she was always as good asgoodand with a complexion beyond anything.  But my childrenare all good-temperedthank God."

This waseasily credible to any one looking at Mrs. Vincy as she threw backher broad cap-stringsand smiled towards her three little girlsaged from seven to eleven.  But in that smiling glance she wasobliged to include Mary Garthwhom the three girls had got into acorner to make her tell them stories.  Mary was just finishingthe delicious tale of Rumpelstiltskinwhich she had well by heartbecause Letty was never tired of communicating it to her ignorantelders from a favorite red volume.  LouisaMrs. Vincy'sdarlingnow ran to her with wide-eyed serious excitementcrying"Oh mammamammathe little man stamped so hard on the floor hecouldn't get his leg out again!"

"Blessyoumy cherub!" said mamma; "you shall tell me all aboutit to-morrow. Go and listen!" and thenas her eyes followedLouisa back towards the attractive cornershe thought that if Fredwished her to invite Mary again she would make no objectionthechildren being so pleased with her.

Butpresently the corner became still more animatedfor Mr. Farebrothercame inand seating himself behind Louisatook her on his lap;whereupon the girls all insisted that he must hear Rumpelstiltskinand Mary must tell it over again.  He insisted tooand Marywithout fussbegan again in her neat fashionwith precisely thesame words as before.  Fredwho had also seated himself nearwould have felt unmixed triumph in Mary's effectiveness if Mr.Farebrother had not been looking at her with evident admirationwhile he dramatized an intense interest in the tale to please thechildren.

"Youwill never care any more about my one-eyed giantLoo" saidFred at the end.

"YesI shall.  Tell about him now" said Louisa.

"OhI dare say; I am quite cut out.  Ask Mr. Farebrother."

"Yes"added Mary; "ask Mr. Farebrother to tell you about the antswhose beautiful house was knocked down by a giant named Tomand hethought they didn't mind because he couldn't hear them cryor seethem use their pocket-handkerchiefs."

"Please"said Louisalooking up at the Vicar.

"NonoI am a grave old parson.  If I try to draw a story out of mybag a sermon comes instead.  Shall I preach you a sermon?"said heputting on his short-sighted glassesand pursing up hislips.

"Yes"said Louisafalteringly.

"Letme seethen.  Against cakes:  how cakes are bad thingsespecially if they are sweet and have plums in them."

Louisatook the affair rather seriouslyand got down from the Vicar's kneeto go to Fred.

"AhI see it will not do to preach on New Year's Day" said Mr.Farebrotherrising and walking--away.  He had discovered oflate that Fred had become jealous of himand also that he himselfwas not losing his preference for Mary above all other women.

"Adelightful young person is Miss Garth" said Mrs. Farebrotherwho had been watching her son's movements.

"Yes"said Mrs. Vincyobliged to replyas the old lady turned to herexpectantly.  "It is a pity she is not better-looking."

"Icannot say that" said Mrs. Farebrotherdecisively.  "Ilike her countenance.  We must not always ask for beautywhen agood God has seen fit to make an excellent young woman without it. Iput good manners firstand Miss Garth will know how to conductherself in any station."

The oldlady was a little sharp in her tonehaving a prospective referenceto Mary's becoming her daughter-in-law; for there was thisinconvenience in Mary's position with regard to Fredthat it was notsuitable to be made publicand hence the three ladies at LowickParsonage were still hoping that Camden would choose Miss Garth.

Newvisitors enteredand the drawing-room was given up to music andgameswhile whist-tables were prepared in the quiet room on theother side of the hall.  Mr. Farebrother played a rubber tosatisfy his motherwho regarded her occasional whist as a protestagainst scandal and novelty of opinionin which light even a revokehad its dignity.  But at the end he got Mr. Chichely to take hisplaceand left the room.  As he crossed the hallLydgate hadjust come in and was taking off his great-coat.

"Youare the man I was going to look for" said the Vicar; andinstead of entering the drawing-roomthey walked along the hall andstood against the fireplacewhere the frosty air helped to make aglowing bank.  "You seeI can leave the whist-table easilyenough" he went onsmiling at Lydgate"now I don't playfor money. I owe that to youMrs. Casaubon says."

"How?"said Lydgatecoldly.

"Ahyou didn't mean me to know it; I call that ungenerous reticence. Youshould let a man have the pleasure of feeling that you have done hima good turn.  I don't enter into some people's dislike of beingunder an obligation:  upon my wordI prefer being under anobligation to everybody for behaving well to me."

"Ican't tell what you mean" said Lydgate"unless it is thatI once spoke of you to Mrs. Casaubon.  But I did not think thatshe would break her promise not to mention that I had done so"said Lydgateleaning his back against the corner of themantel-pieceand showing no radiance in his face.

"Itwas Brooke who let it outonly the other day.  He paid me thecompliment of saying that he was very glad I had the living thoughyou had come across his tacticsand had praised me up as a lien anda Tillotsonand that sort of thingtill Mrs. Casaubon would hear ofno one else."

"OhBrooke is such a leaky-minded fool" said Lydgatecontemptuously.

"WellI was glad of the leakiness then.  I don't see why you shouldn'tlike me to know that you wished to do me a servicemy dear fellow. And you certainly have done me one.  It's rather a strong checkto one's self-complacency to find how much of one's right doingdepends on not being in want of money.  A man will not betempted to say the Lord's Prayer backward to please the devilif hedoesn't want the devil's services.  I have no need to hang onthe smiles of chance now."

"Idon't see that there's any money-getting without chance" saidLydgate; "if a man gets it in a professionit's pretty sure tocome by chance."

Mr.Farebrother thought he could account for this speechin strikingcontrast with Lydgate's former way of talkingas the perversitywhich will often spring from the moodiness of a man ill at ease inhis affairs.  He answered in a tone of good-humored admission--

"Ahthere's enormous patience wanted with the way of the world. But it isthe easier for a man to wait patiently when he has friends who lovehimand ask for nothing better than to help him throughso far asit lies in their power."

"Ohyes" said Lydgatein a careless tonechanging his attitudeand looking at his watch.  "People make much more of theirdifficulties than they need to do."

He knew asdistinctly as possible that this was an offer of help to himself fromMr. Farebrotherand he could not bear it. So strangely determinedare we mortalsthatafter having been long gratified with the sensethat he had privately done the Vicar a servicethe suggestion thatthe Vicar discerned his need of a service in return made him shrinkinto unconquerable reticence. Besidesbehind all making of suchoffers what else must come?--that he should "mention his case"imply that he wanted specific things. At that momentsuicide seemedeasier.

Mr.Farebrother was too keen a man not to know the meaning of that replyand there was a certain massiveness in Lydgate's manner and tonecorresponding with his physiquewhich if he repelled your advancesin the first instance seemed to put persuasive devices out ofquestion.

"Whattime are you?" said the Vicardevouring his wounded feeling.

"Aftereleven" said Lydgate.  And they went into thedrawing-room.

CHAPTERLXIV

  1st Gent. Where lies the powerthere let the blame lie too.
  2d Gent.  Naypower is relative; you cannot fright
  The coming pest with border fortresses
   Or catch yourcarp with subtle argument.
   All force is twain inone:  cause is not cause
   Unless effect be there;and action's self
   Must needs contain a passive. So command
   Exists but with obedience."

Even ifLydgate had been inclined to be quite open about his affairshe knewthat it would have hardly been in Mr. Farebrother's power to give himthe help he immediately wanted.  With the year's bills coming infrom his tradesmenwith Dover's threatening hold on his furnitureand with nothing to depend on but slow dribbling payments frompatients who must not be offended--for the handsome fees he had hadfrom Freshitt Hall and Lowick Manor had been easily absorbed--nothingless than a thousand pounds would have freed him from actualembarrassmentand left a residue whichaccording to the favoritephrase of hopefulness in such circumstanceswould have given him"time to look about him."

Naturallythe merry Christmas bringing the happy New Yearwhen fellow-citizensexpect to be paid for the trouble and goods they have smilinglybestowed on their neighborshad so tightened the pressure of sordidcares on Lydgate's mind that it was hardly possible for him to thinkunbrokenly of any other subjecteven the most habitual andsoliciting.  He was not an ill-tempered man; his intellectualactivitythe ardent kindness of his heartas well as his strongframewould alwaysunder tolerably easy conditionshave kept himabove the petty uncontrolled susceptibilities which make bad temper. But he was now a prey to that worst irritation which arises notsimply from annoyancesbut from the second consciousness underlyingthose annoyancesof wasted energy and a degrading preoccupationwhich was the reverse of all his former purposes. "THIS is whatI am thinking of; and THAT is what I might have been thinking of"was the bitter incessant murmur within himmaking every difficulty adouble goad to impatience.

Somegentlemen have made an amazing figure in literature by generaldiscontent with the universe as a trap of dulness into which theirgreat souls have fallen by mistake; but the sense of a stupendousself and an insignificant world may have its consolations. Lydgate'sdiscontent was much harder to bear:  it was the sense that therewas a grand existence in thought and effective action lying aroundhimwhile his self was being narrowed into the miserable isolationof egoistic fearsand vulgar anxieties for events that might allaysuch fears.  His troubles will perhaps appear miserably sordidand beneath the attention of lofty persons who can know nothing ofdebt except on a magnificent scale.  Doubtless they were sordid;and for the majoritywho are not loftythere is no escape fromsordidness but by being free from money-cravingwith all its basehopes and temptationsits watching for deathits hinted requests.its horse-dealer's desire to make bad work pass for goodits seekingfor function which ought to be another'sits compulsion often tolong for Luck in the shape of a wide calamity.

It wasbecause Lydgate writhed under the idea of getting his neck beneaththis vile yoke that he had fallen into a bitter moody state which wascontinually widening Rosamond's alienation from him. After the firstdisclosure about the bill of salehe had made many efforts to drawher into sympathy with him about possible measures for narrowingtheir expensesand with the threatening approach of Christmas hispropositions grew more and more definite. "We two can do withonly one servantand live on very little" he said"and Ishall manage with one horse."  For Lydgateas we haveseenhad begun to reasonwith a more distinct visionabout theexpenses of livingand any share of pride he had given toappearances of that sort was meagre compared with the pride whichmade him revolt from exposure as a debtoror from asking men to helphim with their money.

"Ofcourse you can dismiss the other two servantsif you like"said Rosamond; "but I should have thought it would be veryinjurious to your position for us to live in a poor way.  Youmust expect your practice to be lowered."

"Mydear Rosamondit is not a question of choice.  We have beguntoo expensively.  Peacockyou knowlived in a much smallerhouse than this.  It is my fault:  I ought to have knownbetterand I deserve a thrashing--if there were anybody who had aright to give it me--for bringing you into the necessity of living ina poorer way than you have been used to.  But we married becausewe loved each otherI suppose.  And that may help us to pullalong till things get better.  Comedearput down that workand come to me."

He wasreally in chill gloom about her at that momentbut he dreaded afuture without affectionand was determined to resist the oncomingof division between them.  Rosamond obeyed himand he took heron his kneebut in her secret soul she was utterly aloof from him.The poor thing saw only that the world was not ordered to her likingand Lydgate was part of that world.  But he held her waist withone hand and laid the other gently on both of hers; for this ratherabrupt man had much tenderness in his manners towards womenseemingto have always present in his imagination the weakness of theirframes and the delicate poise of their health both in body and mind.And he began again to speak persuasively.

"Ifindnow I look into things a littleRosythat it is wonderfulwhat an amount of money slips away in our housekeeping.  Isuppose the servants are carelessand we have had a great manypeople coming. But there must be many in our rank who manage withmuch less: they must do with commoner thingsI supposeand lookafter the scraps.  It seemsmoney goes but a little way inthese mattersfor Wrench has everything as plain as possibleand hehas a very large practice."

"Ohif you think of living as the Wrenches do!" said Rosamondwitha little turn of her neck.  "But I have heard you expressyour disgust at that way of living."

"Yesthey have bad taste in everything--they make economy look ugly. Weneedn't do that.  I only meant that they avoid expensesalthough Wrench has a capital practice."

"Whyshould not you have a good practiceTertius?  Mr. Peacock had.You should be more careful not to offend peopleand you should sendout medicines as the others do.  I am sure you began wellandyou got several good houses.  It cannot answer to be eccentric;you should think what will be generally liked" said Rosamondin a decided little tone of admonition.

Lydgate'sanger rose:  he was prepared to be indulgent towards feminineweaknessbut not towards feminine dictation. The shallowness of awaternixie's soul may have a charm until she becomes didactic. But he controlled himselfand only saidwith a touch of despoticfirmness--

"WhatI am to do in my practiceRosyit is for me to judge. That is notthe question between us.  It is enough for you to know that ourincome is likely to be a very narrow one-- hardly four hundredperhaps lessfor a long time to comeand we must try to re-arrangeour lives in accordance with that fact."

Rosamondwas silent for a moment or twolooking before herand then said"My uncle Bulstrode ought to allow you a salary for the time yougive to the Hospital:  it is not right that you should work fornothing."

"Itwas understood from the beginning that my services would begratuitous.  Thatagainneed not enter into our discussion. Ihave pointed out what is the only probability" said Lydgateimpatiently.  Then checking himselfhe went on more quietly--

"Ithink I see one resource which would free us from a good deal of thepresent difficulty.  I hear that young Ned Plymdale is going tobe married to Miss Sophy Toller.  They are richand it is notoften that a good house is vacant in Middlemarch.  I feel surethat they would be glad to take this house from us with most of ourfurnitureand they would be willing to pay handsomely for the lease.I can employ Trumbull to speak to Plymdale about it."

Rosamondleft her husband's knee and walked slowly to the other end of theroom; when she turned round and walked towards him it was evidentthat the tears had comeand that she was biting her under-lip andclasping her hands to keep herself from crying. Lydgate waswretched--shaken with anger and yet feeling that it would be unmanlyto vent the anger just now.

"I amvery sorryRosamond; I know this is painful."

"Ithoughtat leastwhen I had borne to send the plate back and havethat man taking an inventory of the furniture--I should have thoughtTHAT would suffice."

"Iexplained it to you at the timedear.  That was only a securityand behind that Security there is a debt.  And that debt must bepaid within the next few monthselse we shall have our furnituresold. If young Plymdale will take our house and most of ourfurniturewe shall be able to pay that debtand some others tooand we shall be quit of a place too expensive for us.  We mighttake a smaller house:  TrumbullI knowhas a very decent oneto let at thirty pounds a-yearand this is ninety." Lydgate uttered this speech in the curt hammering way with which weusually try to nail down a vague mind to imperative facts. Tears rolled silently down Rosamond's cheeks; she just pressed herhandkerchief against themand stood looking al; the large vase onthe mantel-piece. It was a moment of more intense bitterness than shehad ever felt before. At last she saidwithout hurry and withcareful emphasis--

"Inever could have believed that you would like to act in that way."

"Likeit?" burst out Lydgaterising from his chairthrusting hishands in his pockets and stalking away from the hearth; "it'snot a question of liking.  Of courseI don't like it; it's theonly thing I can do."  He wheeled round thereand turnedtowards her.

"Ishould have thought there were many other means than that" saidRosamond.  "Let us have a sale and leave Middlemarchaltogether."

"Todo what?  What is the use of my leaving my work in Middlemarchto go where I have none?  We should be just as pennilesselsewhere as we are here" said Lydgate still more angrily.

"Ifwe are to be in that position it will be entirely your own doingTertius" said Rosamondturning round to speak with the fullestconviction.  "You will not behave as you ought to do toyour own family.  You offended Captain Lydgate. Sir Godwin wasvery kind to me when we were at Quallinghamand I am sure if youshowed proper regard to him and told him your affairshe would doanything for you.  But rather than thatyou like giving up ourhouse and furniture to Mr. Ned Plymdale."

There wassomething like fierceness in Lydgate's eyesas he answered with newviolence"Wellthenif you will have it soI do like it. I admit that I like it better than making a fool of myself by goingto beg where it's of no use.  Understand thenthat it is what ILIKE TO DO."

There wasa tone in the last sentence which was equivalent to the clutch of hisstrong hand on Rosamond's delicate arm. But for all thathis willwas not a whit stronger than hers. She immediately walked out of theroom in silencebut with an intense determination to hinder whatLydgate liked to do.

He wentout of the housebut as his blood cooled he felt that the chiefresult of the discussion was a deposit of dread within him at theidea of opening with his wife in future subjects which might againurge him to violent speech.  It was as if a fracture in delicatecrystal had begunand he was afraid of any movement that might mateit fatal. His marriage would be a mere piece of bitter irony if theycould not go on loving each other.  He had long ago made up hismind to what he thought was her negative character--her want ofsensibilitywhich showed itself in disregard both of his specificwishes and of his general aims.  The first great disappointmenthad been borne: the tender devotedness and docile adoration of theideal wife must be renouncedand life must be taken up on a lowerstage of expectationas it is by men who have lost their limbs. But the real wife had not only her claimsshe had still a hold onhis heartand it was his intense desire that the hold should remainstrong. In marriagethe certainty"She will never love memuch" is easier to bear than the fear"I shall love herno more."  Henceafter that outbursthis inward effortwas entirely to excuse herand to blame the hard circumstances whichwere partly his fault. He tried that eveningby petting herto healthe wound he had made in the morningand it was not in Rosamond'snature to be repellent or sulky; indeedshe welcomed the signs thather husband loved her and was under control.  But this wassomething quite distinct from loving HIM. Lydgate would not havechosen soon to recur to the plan of parting with the house; he wasresolved to carry it outand say as little more about it aspossible. But Rosamond herself touched on it at breakfast by sayingmildly--

"Haveyou spoken to Trumbull yet?"

"No"said Lydgate"but I shall call on him as I go by this morning.No time must be lost."  He took Rosamond's question as asign that she withdrew her inward oppositionand kissed her headcaressingly when he got up to go away.

As soon asit was late enough to make a callRosamond went to Mrs. PlymdaleMr. Ned's motherand entered with pretty congratulations into the ofthe coming marriage.  Mrs. Plymdale's maternal view wasthatRosamond might possibly now have retrospective glimpses of her ownfolly; and feeling the advantages to be at present all on the side ofher sonwas too kind a woman not to behave graciously.

"YesNed is most happyI must say.  And Sophy Toller is all I coulddesire in a daughter-in-law. Of course her father is able to dosomething handsome for her--that is only what would be expected witha brewery like his.  And the connection is everything we shoulddesire.  But that is not what I look at. She is such a very nicegirl--no airsno pretensionsthough on a level with the first. I don't mean with the titled aristocracy. I see very little good inpeople aiming out of their own sphere. I mean that Sophy is equal tothe best in the townand she is contented with that."

"Ihave always thought her very agreeable" said Rosamond.

"Ilook upon it as a reward for Nedwho never held his head too highthat he should have got into the very best connection"continued Mrs. Plymdaleher native sharpness softened by a fervidsense that she was taking a correct view.  "And suchparticular people as the Tollers arethey might have objectedbecause some of our friends are not theirs.  It is well knownthat your aunt Bulstrode and I have been intimate from our youthandMr. Plymdale has been always on Mr. Bulstrode's side.  And Imyself prefer serious opinions. But the Tollers have welcomed Ned allthe same."

"I amsure he is a very deservingwell-principled young man" saidRosamondwith a neat air of patronage in return for Mrs. Plymdale'swholesome corrections.

"Ohhe has not the style of a captain in the armyor that sort ofcarriage as if everybody was beneath himor that showy kind oftalkingand singingand intellectual talent.  But I amthankful he has not.  It is a poor preparation both for here andHereafter."

"Ohdearyes; appearances have very little to do with happiness"said Rosamond.  "I think there is every prospect of theirbeing a happy couple.  What house will they take?"

"Ohas for thatthey must put up with what they can get. They have beenlooking at the house in St. Peter's Placenext to Mr. Hackbutt's; itbelongs to himand he is putting it nicely in repair.  Isuppose they are not likely to hear of a better. IndeedI think Nedwill decide the matter to-day."

"Ishould think it is a nice house; I like St. Peter's Place."

"Wellit is near the Churchand a genteel situation. But the windows arenarrowand it is all ups and downs. You don't happen to know of anyother that would be at liberty?" said Mrs. Plymdalefixing herround black eyes on Rosamond with the animation of a sudden thoughtin them.

"Ohno; I hear so little of those things."

Rosamondhad not foreseen that question and answer in setting out to pay hervisit; she had simply meant to gather any information which wouldhelp her to avert the parting with her own house under circumstancesthoroughly disagreeable to her.  As to the untruth in her replyshe no more reflected on it than she did on the untruth there was inher saying that appearances had very little to do with happiness. Herobjectshe was convincedwas thoroughly justifiable: it was Lydgatewhose intention was inexcusable; and there was a plan in her mindwhichwhen she had carried it out fullywould prove how very falsea step it would have been for him to have descended from hisposition.

Shereturned home by Mr. Borthrop Trumbull's officemeaning to callthere.  It was the first time in her life that Rosamond hadthought of doing anything in the form of businessbut she felt equalto the occasion.  That she should be obliged to do what sheintensely dislikedwas an idea which turned her quiet tenacity intoactive invention.  Here was a case in which it could not beenough simply to disobey and be serenelyplacidly obstinate: shemust act according to her judgmentand she said to herself that herjudgment was right--"indeedif it had not beenshe would nothave wished to act on it."

Mr.Trumbull was in the back-room of his officeand received Rosamondwith his finest mannersnot only because he had much sensibility toher charmsbut because the good-natured fibre in him was stirred byhis certainty that Lydgate was in difficultiesand that thisuncommonly pretty woman--this young lady with the highest personalattractions--was likely to feel the pinch of trouble-- to findherself involved in circumstances beyond her control. He begged herto do him the honor to take a seatand stood before her trimming andcomporting himself with an eager solicitudewhich was chieflybenevolent.  Rosamond's first question waswhether her husbandhad called on Mr. Trumbull that morningto speak about disposing oftheir house.

"Yesma'amyeshe did; he did so" said the good auctioneertryingto throw something soothing into his iteration. "I was about tofulfil his orderif possiblethis afternoon. He wished me not toprocrastinate."

"Icalled to tell you not to go any furtherMr. Trumbull; and I beg ofyou not to mention what has been said on the subject. Will you obligeme?"

"CertainlyI willMrs. Lydgatecertainly.  Confidence is sacred with meon business or any other topic.  I am then to consider thecommission withdrawn?" said Mr. Trumbulladjusting the longends of his blue cravat with both handsand looking at Rosamonddeferentially.

"Yesif you please.  I find that Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house--the one in St. Peter's Place next to Mr. Hackbutt's. Mr. Lydgatewould be annoyed that his orders should be fulfilled uselessly. Andbesides thatthere are other circumstances which render the proposalunnecessary."

"VerygoodMrs. Lydgatevery good.  I am at your commandswheneveryou require any service of me" said Mr. Trumbullwho feltpleasure in conjecturing that some new resources had been opened."Rely on meI beg.  The affair shall go no further."

Thatevening Lydgate was a little comforted by observing that Rosamond wasmore lively than she had usually been of lateand even seemedinterested in doing what would please him without being asked. Hethought"If she will be happy and I can rub throughwhat doesit all signify?  It is only a narrow swamp that we have to passin a long journey.  If I can get my mind clear againI shalldo."

He was somuch cheered that he began to search for an account of experimentswhich he had long ago meant to look upand had neglected out of thatcreeping self-despair which comes in the train of petty anxieties. He felt again some of the old delightful absorption in a far-reachinginquirywhile Rosamond played the quiet music which was as helpfulto his meditation as the plash of an oar on the evening lake. It was rather late; he had pushed away all the booksand was lookingat the fire with his hands clasped behind his head in forgetfulnessof everything except the construction of a new controllingexperimentwhen Rosamondwho had left the piano and was leaningback in her chair watching himsaid--

"Mr.Ned Plymdale has taken a house already."

Lydgatestartled and jarredlooked up in silence for a momentlike a manwho has been disturbed in his sleep.  Then flushing with anunpleasant consciousnesshe asked--

"Howdo you know?"

"Icalled at Mrs. Plymdale's this morningand she told me that he hadtaken the house in St. Peter's Placenext to Mr. Hackbutt's."

Lydgatewas silent.  He drew his hands from behind his head and pressedthem against the hair which was hangingas it was apt to doin amass on his foreheadwhile he rested his elbows on his knees. He wasfeeling bitter disappointmentas if he had opened a door out of asuffocating place and had found it walled up; but he also felt surethat Rosamond was pleased with the cause of his disappointment. He preferred not looking at her and not speakinguntil he had gotover the first spasm of vexation.  After allhe said in hisbitternesswhat can a woman care about so much as house andfurniture? a husband without them is an absurdity. When he looked upand pushed his hair asidehis dark eyes had a miserable blanknon-expectance of sympathy in thembut he only saidcoolly--

"Perhapssome one else may turn up.  I told Trumbull to be on thelook-out if he failed with Plymdale."

Rosamondmade no remark.  She trusted to the chance that nothing morewould pass between her husband and the auctioneer until some issueshould have justified her interference; at any rateshe had hinderedthe event which she immediately dreaded.  After a pauseshesaid--

"Howmuch money is it that those disagreeable people want?"

"Whatdisagreeable people?"

"Thosewho took the list--and the others.  I meanhow much money wouldsatisfy them so that you need not be troubled any more?"

Lydgatesurveyed her for a momentas if he were looking for symptomsandthen said"Ohif I could have got six hundred from Plymdalefor furniture and as premiumI might have managed.  I couldhave paid off Doverand given enough on account to the others tomake them wait patientlyif we contracted our expenses."

"ButI mean how much should you want if we stayed in this house?"

"Morethan I am likely to get anywhere" said Lydgatewith rather agrating sarcasm in his tone.  It angered him to perceive thatRosamond's mind was wandering over impracticable wishes instead offacing possible efforts.

"Whyshould you not mention the sum?" said Rosamondwith a mildindication that she did not like his manners.

"Well"said Lydgate in a guessing tone"it would take at least athousand to set me at ease.  But" he addedincisively"Ihave to consider what I shall do without itnot with it."

Rosamondsaid no more.

But thenext day she carried out her plan of writing to Sir Godwin Lydgate. Since the Captain's visitshe had received a letter from himandalso one from Mrs. Menganhis married sistercondoling with her onthe loss of her babyand expressing vaguely the hope that theyshould see her again at Quallingham. Lydgate had told her that thispoliteness meant nothing; but she was secretly convinced that anybackwardness in Lydgate's family towards him was due to his cold andcontemptuous behaviorand she had answered the letters in her mostcharming mannerfeeling some confidence that a specific invitationwould follow.  But there had been total silence.  TheCaptain evidently was not a great penmanand Rosamond reflected thatthe sisters might have been abroad. Howeverthe season was come forthinking of friends at homeand at any rate Sir Godwinwho hadchucked her under the chinand pronounced her to be like thecelebrated beautyMrs. Crolywho had made a conquest of him in1790would be touched by any appeal from herand would find itpleasant for her sake to behave as he ought to do towards hisnephew.  Rosamond was naively convinced of what an old gentlemanought to do to prevent her from suffering annoyance. And she wrotewhat she considered the most judicious letter possible-- one whichwould strike Sir Godwin as a proof of her excellent sense-- pointingout how desirable it was that Tertius should quit such a place asMiddlemarch for one more fitted to his talentshow the unpleasantcharacter of the inhabitants had hindered his professional successand how in consequence he was in money difficultiesfrom which itwould require a thousand pounds thoroughly to extricate him. She didnot say that Tertius was unaware of her intention to write; for shehad the idea that his supposed sanction of her letter would be inaccordance with what she did say of his great regard for his uncleGodwin as the relative who had always been his best friend. Such wasthe force of Poor Rosamond's tactics now she applied them to affairs.

This hadhappened before the party on New Year's Dayand no answer had yetcome from Sir Godwin.  But on the morning of that day Lydgatehad to learn that Rosamond had revoked his order to BorthropTrumbull.  Feeling it necessary that she should be graduallyaccustomed to the idea of their quitting the house in Lowick Gateheovercame his reluctance to speak to her again on the subjectandwhen they were breakfasting said--

"Ishall try to see Trumbull this morningand tell him to. advertisethe house in the `Pioneer' and the `Trumpet.' If the thing wereadvertisedsome one might be inclined to take it who would nototherwise have thought of a change.  In these country placesmany people go on in their old houses when their families are toolarge for themfor want of knowing where they can find another. AndTrumbull seems to have got no bite at all."

Rosamondknew that the inevitable moment was come.  "I orderedTrumbull not to inquire further" she saidwith a carefulcalmness which was evidently defensive.

Lydgatestared at her in mute amazement.  Only half an hour before hehad been fastening up her plaits for herand talking the "littlelanguage" of affectionwhich Rosamondthough not returning itaccepted as if she had been a serene and lovely imagenow and thenmiraculously dimpling towards her votary. With such fibres stillastir in himthe shock he received could not at once be distinctlyanger; it was confused pain.  He laid down the knife and forkwith which he was carvingand throwing himself back in his chairsaid at lastwith a cool irony in his tone--

"MayI ask when and why you did so?"

"WhenI knew that the Plymdales had taken a houseI called to tell him notto mention ours to them; and at the same time I told him not to letthe affair go on any further.  I knew that it would be veryinjurious to you if it were known that you wished to part with yourhouse and furnitureand I had a very strong objection to it. I thinkthat was reason enough."

"Itwas of no consequence then that I had told you imperative reasons ofanother kind; of no consequence that I had come to a differentconclusionand given an order accordingly?" said Lydgatebitinglythe thunder and lightning gathering about his brow andeyes.

The effectof any one's anger on Rosamond had always been to make her shrink incold dislikeand to become all the more calmly correctin theconviction that she was not the person to misbehave whatever othersmight do.  She replied--

"Ithink I had a perfect right to speak on a subject which concerns meat least as much as you."

"Clearly--youhad a right to speakbut only to me.  You had no right tocontradict my orders secretlyand treat me as if I were a fool"said Lydgatein the same tone as before.  Then with some addedscorn"Is it possible to make you understand what theconsequences will be? Is it of any use for me to tell you again whywe must try to part with the house?"

"Itis not necessary for you to tell me again" said Rosamondin avoice that fell and trickled like cold water-drops. "Iremembered what you said.  You spoke just as violently as you donow. But that does not alter my opinion that you ought to try everyother means rather than take a step which is so painful to me. And asto advertising the houseI think it would be perfectly degrading toyou."

"Andsuppose I disregard your opinion as you disregard mine?"

"Youcan do soof course.  But I think you ought to have told mebefore we were married that you would place me in the worst positionrather than give up your own will."

Lydgatedid not speakbut tossed his head on one sideand twitched thecorners of his mouth in despair.  Rosamondseeing that he wasnot looking at herrose and set his cup of coffee before him; but hetook no notice of itand went on with an inward drama and argumentoccasionally moving in his seatresting one arm on the tableandrubbing his hand against his hair.  There was a conflux ofemotions and thoughts in him that would not let him either givethorough way to his anger or persevere with simple rigidity ofresolve. Rosamond took advantage of his silence.

"Whenwe were married everyone felt that your position was very high. Icould not have imagined then that you would want to sell ourfurnitureand take a house in Bride Streetwhere the rooms are likecages. If we are to live in that way let us at least leaveMiddlemarch."

"Thesewould be very strong considerations" said Lydgatehalfironically--still there was a withered paleness about his lips as helooked at his coffeeand did not drink--"these would be verystrong considerations if I did not happen to be in debt."

"Manypersons must have been in debt in the same waybut if they arerespectablepeople trust them.  I am sure I have heard papa saythat the Torbits were in debtand they went on very well It cannotbe good to act rashly" said Rosamondwith serene wisdom.

Lydgatesat paralyzed by opposing impulses:  since no reasoning he couldapply to Rosamond seemed likely to conquer her assenthe wanted tosmash and grind some object on which he could at least produce animpressionor else to tell her brutally that he was masterand shemust obey.  But he not only dreaded the effect of suchextremities on their mutual life--he had a growing dread ofRosamond's quiet elusive obstinacywhich would not allow anyassertion of power to be final; and againshe had touched him in aspot of keenest feeling by implying that she had been deluded with afalse vision of happiness in marrying him.  As to saying that hewas masterit was not the fact.  The very resolution to whichhe had wrought himself by dint of logic and honorable pride wasbeginning to relax under her torpedo contact.  He swallowed halfhis cup of coffeeand then rose to go.

"Imay at least request that you will not go to Trumbull at present--until it has been seen that there are no other means" saidRosamond. Although she was not subject to much fearshe felt itsafer not to betray that she had written to Sir Godwin. "Promise me that you will not go to him for a few weeksorwithout telling me."

Lydgategave a short laugh.  "I think it is I who should exact apromise that you will do nothing without telling me" he saidturning his eyes sharply upon herand then moving to the door.

"Youremember that we are going to dine at papa's" said Rosamondwishing that he should turn and make a more thorough concession toher.  But he only said "Oh yes" impatientlyand wentaway. She held it to be very odious in him that he did not think thepainful propositions he had had to make to her were enoughwithoutshowing so unpleasant a temper.  And when she put the moderaterequest that he would defer going to Trumbull againit was cruel inhim not to assure her of what he meant to do. She was convinced ofher having acted in every way for the best; and each grating or angryspeech of Lydgate's served only as an addition to the register ofoffences in her mind. Poor Rosamond for months had begun to associateher husband with feelings of disappointmentand the terriblyinflexible relation of marriage had lost its charm of encouragingdelightful dreams. It had freed her from the disagreeables of herfather's housebut it had not given her everything that she hadwished and hoped. The Lydgate with whom she had been in love had beena group of airy conditions for hermost of which had disappearedwhile their place had been taken by every-day details which must belived through slowly from hour to hournot floated through with arapid selection of favorable aspects.  The habits of Lydgate'sprofessionhis home preoccupation with scientific subjectswhichseemed to her almost like a morbid vampire's tastehis peculiarviews of things which had never entered into the dialogue ofcourtship-- all these continually alienating influenceseven withoutthe fact of his having placed himself at a disadvantage in the townand without that first shock of revelation about Dover's debtwouldhave made his presence dull to her.  There was another presencewhich ever since the early days of her marriageuntil four monthsagohad been an agreeable excitementbut that was gone: Rosamondwould not confess to herself how much the consequent blank had to dowith her utter ennui; and it seemed to her (perhaps she was right)that an invitation to Quallinghamand an opening for Lydgate tosettle elsewhere than in Middlemarch--in Londonor somewhere likelyto be free from unpleasantness--would satisfy her quite wellandmake her indifferent to the absence of Will Ladislawtowards whomshe felt some resentment for his exaltation of Mrs. Casaubon.

That wasthe state of things with Lydgate and Rosamond on the New Year's Daywhen they dined at her father'sshe looking mildly neutral towardshim in remembrance of his ill-tempered behavior at breakfastand hecarrying a much deeper effect from the inward conflict in which thatmorning scene was only one of many epochs. His flushed effort whiletalking to Mr. Farebrother--his effort after the cynical pretencethat all ways of getting money are essentially the sameand thatchance has an empire which reduces choice to a fool's illusion--wasbut the symptom of a wavering resolvea benumbed response to the oldstimuli of enthusiasm.

What washe to do?  He saw even more keenly than Rosamond did thedreariness of taking her into the small house in Bride Streetwhereshe would have scanty furniture around her and discontent within: alife of privation and life with Rosamond were two images which hadbecome more and more irreconcilable ever since the threat ofprivation had disclosed itself.  But even if his resolves hadforced the two images into combinationthe useful preliminaries tothat hard change were not visibly within reach.  And though hehad not given the promise which his wife had asked forhe did not goagain to Trumbull.  He even began to think of taking a rapidjourney to the North and seeing Sir Godwin. He had once believed thatnothing would urge him into making an application for money to hisunclebut he had not then known the full pressure of alternativesyet more disagreeable.  He could not depend on the effect of aletter; it was only in an interviewhowever disagreeable this mightbe to himselfthat he could give a thorough explanation and couldtest the effectiveness of kinship. No sooner had Lydgate begun torepresent this step to himself as the easiest than there was areaction of anger that he--he who had long ago determined to livealoof from such abject calculationssuch self-interested anxietyabout the inclinations and the pockets of men with whom he had beenproud to have no aims in common--should have fallen not simply totheir levelbut to the level of soliciting them.

CHAPTERLXV

  "One of us two must bowen douteless
   Andsith aman is more reasonable
   Than woman isye [men] mostebe suffrable.
   --CHAUCER:  Canterbury Tales.

The biasof human nature to be slow in correspondence triumphs even over thepresent quickening in the general pace of things: what wonder thenthat in 1832 old Sir Godwin Lydgate was slow to write a letter whichwas of consequence to others rather than to himself?  Nearlythree weeks of the new year were goneand Rosamondawaiting ananswer to her winning appealwas every day disappointed. Lydgatein total ignorance of her expectationswas seeing the billscome inand feeling that Dover's use of his advantage over othercreditors was imminent.  He had never mentioned to Rosamond hisbrooding purpose of going to Quallingham: he did not want to admitwhat would appear to her a concession to her wishes after indignantrefusaluntil the last moment; but he was really expecting to setoff soon.  A slice of the railway would enable him to manage thewhole journey and back in four days.

But onemorning after Lydgate had gone outa letter came addressed to himwhich Rosamond saw clearly to be from Sir Godwin.  She was fullof hope.  Perhaps there might be a particular note to herenclosed; but Lydgate was naturally addressed on the question ofmoney or other aidand the fact that he was written tonaythevery delay in writing at allseemed to certify that the answer wasthoroughly compliant. She was too much excited by these thoughts todo anything but light stitching in a warm corner of the dining-roomwith the outside of this momentous letter lying on the table beforeher.  About twelve she heard her husband's step in the passageand tripping to open the doorshe said in her lightest tones"Tertiuscome in here-- here is a letter for you."

"Ah?"he saidnot taking off his hatbut just turning her round withinhis arm to walk towards the spot where the letter lay. "My uncleGodwin!" he exclaimedwhile Rosamond reseated herselfandwatched him as he opened the letter.  She had expected him to besurprised.

WhileLydgate's eyes glanced rapidly over the brief lettershe saw hisfaceusually of a pale browntaking on a dry whiteness; withnostrils and lips quivering he tossed down the letter before herandsaid violently--

"Itwill be impossible to endure life with youif you will always beacting secretly--acting in opposition to me and hiding your actions."

He checkedhis speech and turned his back on her--then wheeled round and walkedaboutsat downand got up again restlesslygrasping hard theobjects deep down in his pockets.  He was afraid of sayingsomething irremediably cruel.

Rosamondtoo had changed color as she read.  The letter ran in thisway:--

"DEARTERTIUS--Don't set your wife to write to me when you have anythingto ask.  It is a roundabout wheedling sort of thing which Ishould not have credited you with.  I never choose to write to awoman on matters of business.  As to my supplying you with athousand poundsor only half that sumI can do nothing of the sort.My own family drains me to the last penny.  With two youngersons and three daughtersI am not likely to have cash to spare. You seem to have got through your own money pretty quicklyand tohave made a mess where you are; the sooner you go somewhere else thebetter. But I have nothing to do with men of your professionandcan't help you there.  I did the best I could for you asguardianand let you have your own way in taking to medicine. You might have gone into the army or the Church.  Your moneywould have held out for thatand there would have been a surerladder before you. Your uncle Charles has had a grudge against youfor not going into his professionbut not I. I have always wishedyou wellbut you must consider yourself on your own legs entirelynow.
   Your affectionate uncle
   GODWINLYDGATE."

WhenRosamond had finished reading the letter she sat quite stillwithher hands folded before herrestraining any show of her keendisappointmentand intrenching herself in quiet passivity under herhusband's wrath Lydgate paused in his movementslooked at her againand saidwith biting severity--

"Willthis be enough to convince you of the harm you may do by secretmeddling?  Have you sense enough to recognize now yourincompetence to judge and act for me--to interfere with yourignorance in affairs which it belongs to me to decide on?"

The wordswere hard; but this was not the first time that Lydgate had beenfrustrated by her.  She did not look at himand made no reply.

"Ihad nearly resolved on going to Quallingham.  It would have costme pain enough to do ityet it might have been of some use. But ithas been of no use for me to think of anything. You have always beencounteracting me secretly.  You delude me with a false assentand then I am at the mercy of your devices. If you mean to resistevery wish I expresssay so and defy me. I shall at least know whatI am doing then."

It is aterrible moment in young lives when the closeness of love's bond hasturned to this power of galling.  In spite of Rosamond'sself-control a tear fell silently and rolled over her lips.  Shestill said nothing; but under that quietude was hidden an intenseeffect: she was in such entire disgust with her husband that shewished she had never seen him.  Sir Godwin's rudeness towardsher and utter want of feeling ranged him with Dover and all othercreditors-- disagreeable people who only thought of themselvesanddid not mind how annoying they were to her.  Even her father wasunkindand might have done more for them.  In fact there wasbut one person in Rosamond's world whom she did not regard asblameworthyand that was the graceful creature with blond plaits andwith little hands crossed before herwho had never expressed herselfunbecominglyand had always acted for the best--the best naturallybeing what she best liked.

Lydgatepausing and looking at her began to feel that half-maddening sense ofhelplessness which comes over passionate people when their passion ismet by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air seems toput them in the wrongand at last infects even the justestindignation with a doubt of its justice.  He needed to recoverthe full sense that he was in the right by moderating his words.

"Canyou not seeRosamond" he began againtrying to be simplygrave and not bitter"that nothing can be so fatal as a want ofopenness and confidence between us?  It has happened again andagain that I have expressed a decided wishand you have seemed toassentyet after that you have secretly disobeyed my wish.  Inthat way I can never know what I have to trust to.  There wouldbe some hope for us if you would admit this.  Am I such anunreasonablefurious brute? Why should you not be open with me?" Still silence.

"Willyou only say that you have been mistakenand that I may depend onyour not acting secretly in future?" said Lydgateurgentlybutwith something of request in his tone which Rosamond was quick toperceive.  She spoke with coolness.

"Icannot possibly make admissions or promises in answer to such wordsas you have used towards me.  I have not been accustomed tolanguage of that kind.  You have spoken of my `secret meddling'and my `interfering ignorance' and my `false assent.'  I havenever expressed myself in that way to youand I think that you oughtto apologize.  You spoke of its being impossible to live withme. Certainly you have not made my life pleasant to me of late. Ithink it was to be expected that I should try to avert some of thehardships which our marriage has brought on me."  Anothertear fell as Rosamond ceased speakingand she pressed it away asquietly as the first.

Lydgateflung himself into a chairfeeling checkmated.  What place wasthere in her mind for a remonstrance to lodge in?  He laid downhis hatflung an arm over the back of his chairand looked down forsome moments without speaking.  Rosamond had the double purchaseover him of insensibility to the point of justice in his reproachand of sensibility to the undeniable hardships now present in hermarried life.  Although her duplicity in the affair of the househad exceeded what he knewand had really hindered the Plymdales fromknowing of itshe had no consciousness that her action could rightlybe called false.  We are not obliged to identify our own actsaccording to a strict classificationany more than the materials ofour grocery and clothes.  Rosamond felt that she was aggrievedand that this was what Lydgate had to recognize.

As forhimthe need of accommodating himself to her naturewhich wasinflexible in proportion to its negationsheld him as with pincers.He had begun to have an alarmed foresight of her irrevocable loss oflove for himand the consequent dreariness of their life. The readyfulness of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with thefirst violent movements of his anger.  It would assuredly havebeen a vain boast in him to say that he was her master.

"Youhave not made my life pleasant to me of late"--"thehardships which our marriage has brought on me"--these wordswere stinging his imagination as a pain makes an exaggerated dream.If he were not only to sink from his highest resolvebut to sinkinto the hideous fettering of domestic hate?

"Rosamond"he saidturning his eyes on her with a melancholy look"youshould allow for a man's words when he is disappointed and provoked. You and I cannot have opposite interests. I cannot part my happinessfrom yours.  If I am angry with youit is that you seem not tosee how any concealment divides us. How could I wish to make anythinghard to you either by my words or conduct?  When I hurt youIhurt part of my own life.  I should never be angry with you ifyou would be quite open with me."

"Ihave only wished to prevent you from hurrying us into wretchednesswithout any necessity" said Rosamondthe tears coming againfrom a softened feeling now that her husband had softened. "Itis so very hard to be disgraced here among all the people we knowand to live in such a miserable way.  I wish I had died with thebaby."

She spokeand wept with that gentleness which makes such words and tearsomnipotent over a loving-hearted man.  Lydgate drew his chairnear to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with hispowerful tender hand.  He only caressed her; he did not sayanything; for what was there to say?  He could not promise toshield her from the dreaded wretchednessfor he could see no suremeans of doing so.  When he left her to go out againhe toldhimself that it was ten times harder for her than for him: he had alife away from homeand constant appeals to his activity on behalfof others.  He wished to excuse everything in her if he could--but it was inevitable that in that excusing mood he should think ofher as if she were an animal of another and feebler species.Nevertheless she had mastered him.

CHAPTERLXVI

    "'Tis one thing to be temptedEscalus
  Another thing to fall."
   --Measure forMeasure.

Lydgatecertainly had good reason to reflect on the service his practice didhim in counteracting his personal cares. He had no longer free energyenough for spontaneous research and speculative thinkingbut by thebedside of patientsthe direct external calls on his judgment andsympathies brought the added impulse needed to draw him out ofhimself.  It was not simply that beneficent harness of routinewhich enables silly men to live respectably and unhappy men to livecalmly--it was a perpetual claim on the immediate fresh applicationof thoughtand on the consideration of another's need and trial. Many of us looking back through life would say that the kindest manwe have ever known has been a medical manor perhaps that surgeonwhose fine tactdirected by deeply informed perceptionhas come tous in our need with a more sublime beneficence than that ofmiracle-workers. Some of that twice-blessed mercy was always withLydgate in his work at the Hospital or in private housesservingbetter than any opiate to quiet and sustain him under his anxietiesand his sense of mental degeneracy.

Mr.Farebrother's suspicion as to the opiate was truehowever. Under thefirst galling pressure of foreseen difficultiesand the firstperception that his marriageif it were not to be a yokedlonelinessmust be a state of effort to go on loving without toomuch care about being lovedhe had once or twice tried a dose ofopium.  But he had no hereditary constitutional craving aftersuch transient escapes from the hauntings of misery. He was strongcould drink a great deal of winebut did not care about it; and whenthe men round him were drinking spiritshe took sugar and waterhaving a contemptuous pity even for the earliest stages of excitementfrom drink.  It was the same with gambling. He had looked on ata great deal of gambling in Pariswatching it as if it had been adisease.  He was no more tempted by such winning than he was bydrink.  He had said to himself that the only winning he caredfor must be attained by a conscious process of highdifficultcombination tending towards a beneficent result. The power he longedfor could not be represented by agitated fingers clutching a heap ofcoinor by the half-barbaroushalf-idiotic triumph in the eyes of aman who sweeps within his arms the ventures of twenty chapfallencompanions.

But justas he had tried opiumso his thought now began to turn upongambling--not with appetite for its excitementbut with a sort ofwistful inward gaze after that easy way of getting moneywhichimplied no asking and brought no responsibility.  If he had beenin London or Paris at that timeit is probable that such thoughtsseconded by opportunitywould have taken him into a gambling-houseno longer to watch the gamblersbut to watch with them in kindredeagerness.  Repugnance would have been surmounted by the immenseneed to winif chance would be kind enough to let him. An incidentwhich happened not very long after that airy notion of getting aidfrom his uncle had been excludedwas a strong sign of the effectthat might have followed any extant opportunity of gambling.

Thebilliard-room at the Green Dragon was the constant resort of acertain setmost of whomlike our acquaintance Mr. Bambridgewereregarded as men of pleasure.  It was here that poor Fred Vincyhad made part of his memorable debthaving lost money in bettingand been obliged to borrow of that gay companion.  It wasgenerally known in Middlemarch that a good deal of money was lost andwon in this way; and the consequent repute of the Green Dragon as aplace of dissipation naturally heightened in some quarters thetemptation to go there. Probably its regular visitantslike theinitiates of freemasonrywished that there were something a littlemore tremendous to keep to themselves concerning it; but they werenot a closed communityand many decent seniors as well as juniorsoccasionally turned into the billiard-room to see what was going on. Lydgatewho had the muscular aptitude for billiardsand was fond ofthe gamehad once or twice in the early days after his arrival inMiddlemarch taken his turn with the cue at the Green Dragon; butafterwards he had no leisure for the gameand no inclination for thesocialities there. One eveninghoweverhe had occasion to seek Mr.Bambridge at that resort.  The horsedealer had engaged to gethim a customer for his remaining good horsefor which Lydgate haddetermined to substitute a cheap hackhoping by this reduction ofstyle to get perhaps twenty pounds; and he cared now for every smallsumas a help towards feeding the patience of his tradesmen. To run up to the billiard-roomas he was passingwould save time.

Mr.Bambridge was not yet comebat would be sure to arrive by-and-bysaid his friend Mr. Horrock; and Lydgate stayedplaying a game forthe sake of passing the time.  That evening he had the peculiarlight in the eyes and the unusual vivacity which had been oncenoticed in him by Mr. Farebrother.  The exceptional fact of hispresence was much noticed in the roomwhere there was a good deal ofMiddlemarch company; and several lookers-onas well as some of theplayerswere betting with animation.  Lydgate was playing welland felt confident; the bets were dropping round himand with aswift glancing thought of the probable gain which might double thesum he was saving from his horsehe began to bet on his own playand won again and again.  Mr. Bambridge had come inbut Lydgatedid not notice him.  He was not only excited with his playbutvisions were gleaming on him of going the next day to Brassingwherethere was gambling on a grander scale to be hadand whereby onepowerful snatch at the devil's baithe might carry it off withoutthe hookand buy his rescue from his daily solicitings.

He wasstill winning when two new visitors entered.  One of them was ayoung Hawleyjust come from his law studies in townand the otherwas Fred Vincywho had spent several evenings of late at this oldhaunt of his.  Young Hawleyan accomplished billiard-playerbrought a cool fresh hand to the cue.  But Fred Vincystartledat seeing Lydgateand astonished to see him betting with an excitedairstood asideand kept out of the circle round the table.

Fred hadbeen rewarding resolution by a little laxity of late. He had beenworking heartily for six months at all outdoor occupations under Mr.Garthand by dint of severe practice had nearly mastered the defectsof his handwritingthis practice beingperhapsa little the lesssevere that it was often carried on in the evening at Mr. Garth'sunder the eyes of Mary.  But the last fortnight Mary had beenstaying at Lowick Parsonage with the ladies thereduring Mr.Farebrother's residence in Middlemarchwhere he was carrying outsome parochial plans; and Frednot seeing anything more agreeable todohad turned into the Green Dragonpartly to play at billiardspartly to taste the old flavor of discourse about horsessportandthings in generalconsidered from a point of view which was notstrenuously correct.  He had not been out hunting once thisseasonhad had no horse of his own to rideand had gone from placeto place chiefly with Mr. Garth in his gigor on the sober cob whichMr. Garth could lend him.  It was a little too badFred beganto thinkthat he should be kept in the traces with more severitythan if he had been a clergyman.  "I will tell you whatMistress Mary--it will be rather harder work to learn surveying anddrawing plans than it would have been to write sermons" he hadsaidwishing her to appreciate what he went through for her sake;"and as to Hercules and Theseusthey were nothing to me. Theyhad sportand never learned to write a bookkeeping hand." AndnowMary being out of the way for a little whileFredlike anyother strong dog who cannot slip his collarhad pulled up the stapleof his chain and made a small escapenot of course meaning to gofast or far.  There could be no reason why he should not play atbilliardsbut he was determined not to bet. As to money just nowFred had in his mind the heroic project of saving almost all of theeighty pounds that Mr. Garth offered himand returning itwhich hecould easily do by giving up all futile money-spendingsince he hada superfluous stock of clothesand no expense in his board.  Inthat way he couldin one yeargo a good way towards repaying theninety pounds of which he had deprived Mrs. Garthunhappily at atime when she needed that sum more than she did now. Neverthelessit must be acknowledged that on this eveningwhich wasthe fifth of his recent visits to the billiard-roomFred hadnot inhis pocketbut in his mindthe ten pounds which he meant to reservefor himself from his half-year's salary (having before him thepleasure of carrying thirty to Mrs. Garth when Mary was likely to become home again)-- he had those ten pounds in his mind as a fund fromwhich he might risk somethingif there were a chance of a good bet.Why?  Wellwhen sovereigns were flying aboutwhy shouldn't hecatch a few?  He would never go far along that road again; but aman likes to assure himselfand men of pleasure generallywhat hecould do in the way of mischief if he choseand that if he abstainsfrom making himself illor beggaring himselfor talking with theutmost looseness which the narrow limits of human capacity willallowit is not because he is a spooney. Fred did not enter intoformal reasonswhich are a very artificialinexact way ofrepresenting the tingling returns of old habitand the caprices ofyoung blood:  but there was lurking in him a prophetic sensethat eveningthat when he began to play he should also begin tobet--that he should enjoy some punch-drinkingand in general preparehimself for feeling "rather seedy" in the morning. It is insuch indefinable movements that action often begins.

But thelast thing likely to have entered Fred's expectation was that heshould see his brother-in-law Lydgate--of whom he had never quitedropped the old opinion that he was a prigand tremendouslyconscious of his superiority--looking excited and bettingjust as hehimself might have done.  Fred felt a shock greater than hecould quite account for by the vague knowledge that Lydgate was indebtand that his father had refused to help him; and his owninclination to enter into the play was suddenly checked. It was astrange reversal of attitudes:  Fred's blond face and blue eyesusually bright and carelessready to give attention to anything thatheld out a promise of amusementlooking involuntarily grave andalmost embarrassed as if by the sight of something unfitting; whileLydgatewho had habitually an air of self-possessed strengthand acertain meditativeness that seemed to lie behind his most observantattentionwas actingwatchingspeaking with that excited narrowconsciousness which reminds one of an animal with fierce eyes andretractile claws.

Lydgateby betting on his own strokeshad won sixteen pounds; but youngHawley's arrival had changed the poise of things.  He madefirst-rate strokes himselfand began to bet against Lydgate'sstrokesthe strain of whose nerves was thus changed from simpleconfidence in his own movements to defying another person's doubt inthem. The defiance was more exciting than the confidencebut it wasless sure. He continued to bet on his own playbut began often tofail.  Still he went onfor his mind was as utterly narrowedinto that precipitous crevice of play as if he had been the mostignorant lounger there. Fred observed that Lydgate was losing fastand found himself in the new situation of puzzling his brains tothink of some device by whichwithout being offensivehe couldwithdraw Lydgate's attentionand perhaps suggest to him a reason forquitting the room.  He saw that others were observing Lydgate'sstrange unlikeness to himselfand it occurred to him that merely totouch his elbow and call him aside for a moment might rouse him fromhis absorption. He could think of nothing cleverer than the daringimprobability of saying that he wanted to see Rosyand wished toknow if she were at home this evening; and he was going desperatelyto carry out this weak devicewhen a waiter came up to him with amessagesaying that Mr. Farebrother was belowand begged to speakwith him.

Fred wassurprisednot quite comfortablybut sending word that he would bedown immediatelyhe went with a new impulse up to Lydgatesaid"Can I speak to you a moment?" and drew him aside.

"Farebrotherhas just sent up a message to say that he wants to speak to me. He is below.  I thought you might like to know he was thereifyou had anything to say to him."

Fred hadsimply snatched up this pretext for speakingbecause he could notsay"You are losing confoundedlyand are making everybodystare at you; you had better come away."  But inspirationcould hardly have served him better.  Lydgate had not beforeseen that Fred was presentand his sudden appearance with anannouncement of Mr. Farebrother had the effect of a sharp concussion.

"Nono" said Lydgate; "I have nothing particular to say tohim. But--the game is up--I must be going--I came in just to seeBambridge."

"Bambridgeis over therebut he is making a row--I don't think he's ready forbusiness.  Come down with me to Farebrother. I expect he isgoing to blow me upand you will shield me" said Fredwithsome adroitness.

Lydgatefelt shamebut could not bear to act as if he felt itby refusingto see Mr. Farebrother; and he went down.  They merely shookhandshoweverand spoke of the frost; and when all three had turnedinto the streetthe Vicar seemed quite willing to say good-by toLydgate.  His present purpose was clearly to talk with Fredaloneand he saidkindly"I disturbed youyoung gentlemanbecause I have some pressing business with you. Walk with me to St.Botolph'swill you?"

It was afine nightthe sky thick with starsand Mr. Farebrother proposedthat they should make a circuit to the old church by the Londonroad.  The next thing he said was--

"Ithought Lydgate never went to the Green Dragon?"

"Sodid I" said Fred.  "But he said that he went to seeBambridge."

"Hewas not playingthen?"

Fred hadnot meant to tell thisbut he was obliged now to say"Yeshewas.  But I suppose it was an accidental thing.  I havenever seen him there before."

"Youhave been going often yourselfthenlately?"

"Ohabout five or six times."

"Ithink you had some good reason for giving up the habit of goingthere?"

"Yes. You know all about it" said Frednot liking to be catechisedin this way.  "I made a clean breast to you."

"Isuppose that gives me a warrant to speak about the matter now. It isunderstood between usis it not?--that we are on a footing of openfriendship:  I have listened to youand you will be willing tolisten to me.  I may take my turn in talking a little aboutmyself?"

"I amunder the deepest obligation to youMr. Farebrother" saidFredin a state of uncomfortable surmise.

"Iwill not affect to deny that you are under some obligation to me. ButI am going to confess to youFredthat I have been tempted toreverse all that by keeping silence with you just now. When somebodysaid to me`Young Vincy has taken to being at the billiard-tableevery night again--he won't bear the curb long;' I was tempted to dothe opposite of what I am doing--to hold my tongue and wait while youwent down the ladder againbetting first and then--"

"Ihave not made any bets" said Fredhastily.

"Gladto hear it.  But I saymy prompting was to look on and see youtake the wrong turningwear out Garth's patienceand lose the bestopportunity of your life--the opportunity which you made some ratherdifficult effort to secure.  You can guess the feeling whichraised that temptation in me--I am sure you know it. I am sure youknow that the satisfaction of your affections stands in the way ofmine."

There wasa pause.  Mr. Farebrother seemed to wait for a recognition ofthe fact; and the emotion perceptible in the tones of his fine voicegave solemnity to his words.  But no feeling could quell Fred'salarm.

"Icould not be expected to give her up" he saidafter a moment'shesitation:  it was not a case for any pretence of generosity.

"Clearlynotwhen her affection met yours.  But relations of this sorteven when they are of long standingare always liable to change. Ican easily conceive that you might act in a way to loosen the tie shefeels towards you--it must be remembered that she is onlyconditionally bound to you--and that in that easeanother manwhomay flatter himself that he has a hold on her regardmight succeedin winning that firm place in her love as well as respect which youhad let slip.  I can easily conceive such a result"repeated Mr. Farebrotheremphatically.  "There is acompanionship of ready sympathywhich might get the advantage evenover the longest associations."  It seemed to Fred that ifMr. Farebrother had had a beak and talons instead of his very capabletonguehis mode of attack could hardly be more cruel. He had ahorrible conviction that behind all this hypothetic statement therewas a knowledge of some actual change in Mary's feeling.

"Ofcourse I know it might easily be all up with me" he saidin atroubled voice.  "If she is beginning to compare--" He broke offnot liking to betray all he feltand then saidby thehelp of a little bitterness"But I thought you were friendly tome."

"So Iam; that is why we are here.  But I have had a strongdisposition to be otherwise.  I have said to myself`If thereis a likelihood of that youngster doing himself harmwhy should youinterfere? Aren't you worth as much as he isand don't your sixteenyears over and above hisin which you have gone rather hungrygiveyou more right to satisfaction than he has?  If there's a chanceof his going to the dogslet him--perhaps you could nohow hinderit-- and do you take the benefit.'"

There wasa pausein which Fred was seized by a most uncomfortable chill. What was coming next?  He dreaded to hear that something hadbeen said to Mary--he felt as if he were listening to a threat ratherthan a warning.  When the Vicar began again there was a changein his tone like the encouraging transition to a major key.

"ButI had once meant better than thatand I am come back to my oldintention.  I thought that I could hardly SECURE MYSELF in itbetterFredthan by telling you just what had gone on in me. Andnowdo you understand me? want you to make the happiness of her lifeand your ownand if there is any chance that a word of warning fromme may turn aside any risk to the contrary--wellI have uttered it."

There wasa drop in the Vicar's voice when he spoke the last words Hepaused--they were standing on a patch of green where the roaddiverged towards St. Botolph'sand he put out his handas if toimply that the conversation was closed.  Fred was moved quitenewly. Some one highly susceptible to the contemplation of a fine acthas saidthat it produces a sort of regenerating shudder through theframeand makes one feel ready to begin a new life. A good degree ofthat effect was just then present in Fred Vincy.

"Iwill try to be worthy" he saidbreaking off before he couldsay "of you as well as of her."  And meanwhile Mr.Farebrother had gathered the impulse to say something more.

"Youmust not imagine that I believe there is at present any decline inher preference of youFred.  Set your heart at restthat ifyou keep rightother things will keep right."

"Ishall never forget what you have done" Fred answered. "Ican't say anything that seems worth saying--only I will try that yourgoodness shall not be thrown away."

"That'senough.  Good-byand God bless you."

In thatway they parted.  But both of them walked about a long whilebefore they went out of the starlight.  Much of Fred'srumination might be summed up in the words"It certainly wouldhave been a fine thing for her to marry Farebrother--but if she lovesme best and I am a good husband?"

PerhapsMr. Farebrother's might be concentrated into a single shrug and onelittle speech.  "To think of the part one little woman canplay in the life of a manso that to renounce her may be a very goodimitation of heroismand to win her may be a discipline!"

CHAPTERLXVII

  Now is there civil war within the soul:
   Resolve isthrust from off the sacred throne
   By clamorous Needsand Pride the grand-vizier
   Makes humble compactplays the supple part
   Of envoy and deft-tonguedapologist
   For hungry rebels.

HappilyLydgate had ended by losing in the billiard-roomand brought away noencouragement to make a raid on luck.  On the contraryhe feltunmixed disgust with himself the next day when he had to pay four orfive pounds over and above his gainsand he carried about with him amost unpleasant vision of the figure he had madenot only rubbingelbows with the men at the Green Dragon but behaving just as theydid.  A philosopher fallen to betting is hardly distinguishablefrom a Philistine under the same circumstances: the difference willchiefly be found in his subsequent reflectionsand Lydgate chewed avery disagreeable cud in that way.  His reason told him how theaffair might have been magnified into ruin by a slight change ofscenery--if it had been a gambling-house that he had turned intowhere chance could be clutched with both hands instead of beingpicked up with thumb and fore-finger. Neverthelessthough reasonstrangled the desire to gamblethere remained the feeling thatwithan assurance of luck to the needful amounthe would have liked togamblerather than take the alternative which was beginning to urgeitself as inevitable.

Thatalternative was to apply to Mr. Bulstrode.  Lydgate had so manytimes boasted both to himself and others that he was totallyindependent of Bulstrodeto whose plans he had lent himself solelybecause they enabled him to carry out his own ideas of professionalwork and public benefit--he had so constantly in their personalintercourse had his pride sustained by the sense that he was making agood social use of this predominating bankerwhose opinions hethought contemptible and whose motives often seemed to him an absurdmixture of contradictory impressions-- that he had been creating forhimself strong ideal obstacles to the proffering of any considerablerequest to him on his own account.

Stillearly in March his affairs were at that pass in which men begin tosay that their oaths were delivered in ignoranceand to perceivethat the act which they had called impossible to them is becomingmanifestly possible.  With Dover's ugly security soon to be putin forcewith the proceeds of his practice immediately absorbed inpaying back debtsand with the chanceif the worst were knownofdaily supplies being refused on creditabove all with the vision ofRosamond's hopeless discontent continually haunting himLydgate hadbegun to see that he should inevitably bend himself to ask help fromsomebody or other.  At first he had considered whether he shouldwrite to Mr. Vincy; but on questioning Rosamond he found thatas hehad suspectedshe had already applied twice to her fatherthe lasttime being since the disappointment from Sir Godwin; and papa hadsaid that Lydgate must look out for himself.  "Papa said hehad comewith one bad year after anotherto trade more and more onborrowed capitaland had had to give up many indulgences; he couldnot spare a single hundred from the charges of his family. He saidlet Lydgate ask Bulstrode:  they have always been hand andglove."

IndeedLydgate himself had come to the conclusion that if he must end byasking for a free loanhis relations with Bulstrodemore at leastthan with any other manmight take the shape of a claim which wasnot purely personal.  Bulstrode had indirectly helped to causethe failure of his practiceand had also been highly gratified bygetting a medical partner in his plans:-- but who among us everreduced himself to the sort of dependence in which Lydgate now stoodwithout trying to believe that he had claims which diminished thehumiliation of asking?  It was true that of late there hadseemed to be a new languor of interest in Bulstrode about theHospital; but his health had got worseand showed signs of adeep-seated nervous affection.  In other respects he did notappear to be changed:  he had always been highly politebutLydgate had observed in him from the first a marked coldness abouthis marriage and other private circumstancesa coldness which he hadhitherto preferred to any warmth of familiarity between them. Hedeferred the intention from day to dayhis habit of acting on hisconclusions being made infirm by his repugnance to every possibleconclusion and its consequent act.  He saw Mr. Bulstrode oftenbut he did not try to use any occasion for his private purpose. Atone moment he thought"I will write a letter:  I preferthat to any circuitous talk;" at another he thought"No;if I were talking to himI could make a retreat before any signs ofdisinclination."

Still thedays passed and no letter was writtenno special interview sought. In his shrinking from the humiliation of a dependent attitude towardsBulstrodehe began to familiarize his imagination with another stepeven more unlike his remembered self. He began spontaneously toconsider whether it would be possible to carry out that puerilenotion of Rosamond's which had often made him angrynamelythatthey should quit Middlemarch without seeing anything beyond thatpreface.  The question came--"Would any man buy thepractice of me even nowfor as little as it is worth? Then the salemight happen as a necessary preparation for going away."

Butagainst his taking this stepwhich he still felt to be acontemptible relinquishment of present worka guilty turning asidefrom what was a real and might be a widening channel for worthyactivityto start again without any justified destinationthere wasthis obstaclethat the purchaserif procurable at allmight not bequickly forthcoming.  And afterwards?  Rosamond in a poorlodgingthough in the largest city or most distant townwould notfind the life that could save her from gloomand save him from thereproach of having plunged her into it. For when a man is at the footof the hill in his fortuneshe may stay a long while there in spiteof professional accomplishment. In the British climate there is noincompatibility between scientific insight and furnished lodgings: the incompatibility is chiefly between scientific ambition and a wifewho objects to that kind of residence.

But in themidst of his hesitationopportunity came to decide him. A note fromMr. Bulstrode requested Lydgate to call on him at the Bank.  Ahypochondriacal tendency had shown itself in the banker'sconstitution of late; and a lack of sleepwhich was really only aslight exaggeration of an habitual dyspeptic symptomhad been dwelton by him as a sign of threatening insanity. He wanted to consultLydgate without delay on that particular morningalthough he hadnothing to tell beyond what he had told before. He listened eagerlyto what Lydgate had to say in dissipation of his fearsthough thistoo was only repetition; and this moment in which Bulstrode wasreceiving a medical opinion with a sense of comfortseemed to makethe communication of a personal need to him easier than it had beenin Lydgate's contemplation beforehand. He had been insisting that itwould be well for Mr. Bulstrode to relax his attention to business.

"Onesees how any mental strainhowever slightmay affect a delicateframe" said Lydgate at that stage of the consultation when theremarks tend to pass from the personal to the general"by thedeep stamp which anxiety will make for a time even on the young andvigorous.  I am naturally very strong; yet I have beenthoroughly shaken lately by an accumulation of trouble."

"Ipresume that a constitution in the susceptible state in which mine atpresent iswould be especially liable to fall a victim to choleraif it visited our district.  And since its appearance nearLondonwe may well besiege the Mercy-seat for our protection"said Mr. Bulstrodenot intending to evade Lydgate's allusionbutreally preoccupied with alarms about himself.

"Youhave at all events taken your share in using good practicalprecautions for the townand that is the best mode of asking forprotection" said Lydgatewith a strong distaste for the brokenmetaphor and bad logic of the banker's religionsomewhat increasedby the apparent deafness of his sympathy. But his mind had taken upits long-prepared movement towards getting helpand was not yetarrested.  He added"The town has done well in the way ofcleansingand finding appliances; and I think that if the cholerashould comeeven our enemies will admit that the arrangements in theHospital are a public good."

"Truly"said Mr. Bulstrodewith some coldness.  "With regard towhat you sayMr. Lydgateabout the relaxation of my mental laborIhave for some time been entertaining a purpose to that effect-- apurpose of a very decided character.  I contemplate at least atemporary withdrawal from the management of much businesswhetherbenevolent or commercial.  Also I think of changing my residencefor a time:  probably I shall close or let `The Shrubs' andtake some place near the coast--under advice of course as tosalubrity. That would be a measure which you would recommend?"

"Ohyes" said Lydgatefalling backward in his chairwithill-repressed impatience under the banker's pale earnest eyes andintense preoccupation with himself.

"Ihave for some time felt that I should open this subject with you inrelation to our Hospital" continued Bulstrode.  "Underthe circumstances I have indicatedof course I must cease to haveany personal share in the managementand it is contrary to my viewsof responsibility to continue a large application of means to aninstitution which I cannot watch over and to some extent regulate. I shall thereforein case of my ultimate decision to leaveMiddlemarchconsider that I withdraw other support to the NewHospital than that which will subsist in the fact that I chieflysupplied the expenses of building itand have contributed furtherlarge sums to its successful working."

Lydgate'sthoughtwhen Bulstrode paused according to his wontwas"Hehas perhaps been losing a good deal of money." This was the mostplausible explanation of a speech which had caused rather a startlingchange in his expectations.  He said in reply--

"Theloss to the Hospital can hardly be made upI fear."

"Hardly"returned Bulstrodein the same deliberatesilvery tone; "exceptby some changes of plan.  The only person who may be certainlycounted on as willing to increase her contributions is Mrs. Casaubon.I have had an interview with her on the subjectand I have pointedout to heras I am about to do to youthat it will be desirable towin a more general support to the New Hospital by a change ofsystem." Another pausebut Lydgate did not speak.

"Thechange I mean is an amalgamation with the Infirmaryso that the NewHospital shall be regarded as a special addition to the elderinstitutionhaving the same directing board. It will be necessaryalsothat the medical management of the two shall be combined. In this way any difficulty as to the adequate maintenance of our newestablishment will be removed; the benevolent interests of the townwill cease to be divided."

Mr.Bulstrode had lowered his eyes from Lydgate's face to the buttons ofhis coat as he again paused.

"Nodoubt that is a good device as to ways and means" said Lydgatewith an edge of irony in his tone.  "But I can't beexpected to rejoice in it at oncesince one of the first resultswill be that the other medical men will upset or interrupt mymethodsif it were only because they are mine."

"Imyselfas you knowMr. Lydgatehighly valued the opportunity ofnew and independent procedure which you have diligently employed: theoriginal planI confesswas one which I had much at heartundersubmission to the Divine Will.  But since providentialindications demand a renunciation from meI renounce."

Bulstrodeshowed a rather exasperating ability in this conversation. The brokenmetaphor and bad logic of motive which had stirred his hearer'scontempt were quite consistent with a mode of putting the facts whichmade it difficult for Lydgate to vent his own indignation anddisappointment.  After some rapid reflectionhe only asked--

"Whatdid Mrs. Casaubon say?"

"Thatwas the further statement which I wished to make to you" saidBulstrodewho had thoroughly prepared his ministerial explanation."She isyou are awarea woman of most munificent dispositionand happily in possession--not I presume of great wealthbut offunds which she can well spare.  She has informed me that thoughshe has destined the chief part of those funds to another purposeshe is willing to consider whether she cannot fully take my place inrelation to the Hospital.  But she wishes for ample time tomature her thoughts on the subjectand I have told her that there isno need for haste--thatin factmy own plans are not yet absolute."

Lydgatewas ready to say"If Mrs. Casaubon would take your placetherewould be gaininstead of loss."  But there was still aweight on his mind which arrested this cheerful candor. He replied"I supposethenthat I may enter into the subject with Mrs.Casaubon."

"Precisely;that is what she expressly desires.  Her decisionshe sayswill much depend on what you can tell her.  But not at present: she isI believejust setting out on a journey. I have her letterhere" said Mr. Bulstrodedrawing it outand reading from it. "`I am immediately otherwise engaged' she says. `I am goinginto Yorkshire with Sir James and Lady Chettam; and the conclusions Icome to about some land which I am to see there may affect my powerof contributing to the Hospital.'  ThusMr. Lydgatethere isno haste necessary in this matter; but I wished to apprise youbeforehand of what may possibly occur."

Mr.Bulstrode returned the letter to his side-pocketand changed hisattitude as if his business were closed.  Lydgatewhose renewedhope about the Hospital only made him more conscious of the factswhich poisoned his hopefelt that his effort after helpif made atallmust be made now and vigorously.

"I ammuch obliged to you for giving me full notice" he saidwith afirm intention in his toneyet with an interruptedness in hisdelivery which showed that he spoke unwillingly.  "Thehighest object to me is my professionand I had identified theHospital with the best use I can at present make of my profession. But the best use is not always the same with monetary success. Everything which has made the Hospital unpopular has helped withother causes-- I think they are all connected with my professionalzeal--to make me unpopular as a practitioner.  I get chieflypatients who can't pay me. I should like them bestif I had nobodyto pay on my own side." Lydgate waited a littlebut Bulstrodeonly bowedlooking at him fixedlyand he went on with the sameinterrupted enunciation-- as if he were biting an objectional leek.

"Ihave slipped into money difficulties which I can see no way out ofunless some one who trusts me and my future will advance me a sumwithout other security.  I had very little fortune left when Icame here.  I have no prospects of money from my own family. Myexpensesin consequence of my marriagehave been very much greaterthan I had expected.  The result at this moment is that it wouldtake a thousand pounds to clear me.  I meanto free me from therisk of having all my goods sold in security of my largest debt-- aswell as to pay my other debts--and leave anything to keep us a littlebeforehand with our small income.  I find that it is out of thequestion that my wife's father should make such an advance. That iswhy I mention my position to--to the only other man who may be heldto have some personal connection with my prosperity or ruin."

Lydgatehated to hear himself.  But he had spoken nowand had spokenwith unmistakable directness.  Mr. Bulstrode replied withouthastebut also without hesitation.

"I amgrievedthoughI confessnot surprised by this informationMr.Lydgate.  For my own partI regretted your alliance with mybrother-in-law's familywhich has always been of prodigal habitsand which has already been much indebted to me for sustainment in itspresent position.  My advice to youMr. Lydgatewould bethatinstead of involving yourself in further obligationsand continuinga doubtful struggleyou should simply become a bankrupt."

"Thatwould not improve my prospect" said Lydgaterising andspeaking bitterly"even if it were a more agreeable thing initself."

"Itis always a trial" said Mr. Bulstrode; "but trialmy dearsiris our portion hereand is a needed corrective.  Irecommend you to weigh the advice I have given."

"Thankyou" said Lydgatenot quite knowing what he said. "I haveoccupied you too long.  Good-day."

CHAPTERLXVIII

  "What suit of grace hath Virtue to put on
   IfVice shall wear as goodand do as well?
   If WrongifCraftif Indiscretion
   Act as fair parts with ends aslaudable?
   Which all this mighty volume of events
  The worldthe universal map of deeds
   Stronglycontrolsand proves from all descents
   That thedirectest course still best succeeds.
   For should notgrave and learn'd Experience
   That looks with the eyesof all the world beside
   And with all ages holdsintelligence
   Go safer than Deceit without aguide!
     --DANIEL:  Musophilus.

Thatchange of plan and shifting of interest which Bulstrode stated orbetrayed in his conversation with Lydgatehad been determined in himby some severe experience which he had gone through since the epochof Mr. Larcher's salewhen Raffles had recognized Will Ladislawandwhen the banker had in vain attempted an act of restitution whichmight move Divine Providence to arrest painful consequences.

Hiscertainty that Rafflesunless he were deadwould return toMiddlemarch before longhad been justified.  On Christmas Evehe had reappeared at The Shrubs.  Bulstrode was at home toreceive himand hinder his communication with the rest of thefamilybut he could not altogether hinder the circumstances of thevisit from compromising himself and alarming his wife.  Rafflesproved more unmanageable than he had shown himself to be in hisformer appearanceshis chronic state of mental restlessnessthegrowing effect of habitual intemperancequickly shaking off everyimpression from what was said to him.  He insisted on staying inthe houseand Bulstrodeweighing two sets of evilsfelt that thiswas at least not a worse alternative than his going into the town. Hekept him in his own room for the evening and saw him to bedRafflesall the while amusing himself with the annoyance he was causing thisdecent and highly prosperous fellow-sinneran amusement which hefacetiously expressed as sympathy with his friend's pleasure inentertaining a man who had been serviceable to himand who had nothad all his earnings.  There was a cunning calculation underthis noisy joking--a cool resolve to extract something the handsomerfrom Bulstrode as payment for release from this new application oftorture.  But his cunning had a little overcast its mark.

Bulstrodewas indeed more tortured than the coarse fibre of Raffles couldenable him to imagine.  He had told his wife that he was simplytaking care of this wretched creaturethe victim of vicewho mightotherwise injure himself; he impliedwithout the direct form offalsehoodthat there was a family tie which bound him to this careand that there were signs of mental alienation in Raffles which urgedcaution. He would himself drive the unfortunate being away the nextmorning. In these hints he felt that he was supplying Mrs. Bulstrodewith precautionary information for his daughters and servantsandaccounting for his allowing no one but himself to enter the room evenwith food and drink.  But he sat in an agony of fear lestRaffles should be overheard in his loud and plain references to pastfacts-- lest Mrs. Bulstrode should be even tempted to listen at thedoor. How could he hinder herhow betray his terror by opening thedoor to detect her?  She was a woman of honest direct habitsand little likely to take so low a course in order to arrive atpainful knowledge; but fear was stronger than the calculation ofprobabilities.

In thisway Raffles had pushed the torture too farand produced an effectwhich had not been in his plan.  By showing himself hopelesslyunmanageable he had made Bulstrode feel that a strong defiance wasthe only resource left.  After taking Raffles to bed that nightthe banker ordered his closed carriage to be ready at half-past seventhe next morning.  At six o'clock he had already been longdressedand had spent some of his wretchedness in prayerpleadinghis motives for averting the worst evil if in anything he had usedfalsity and spoken what was not true before God.  For Bulstrodeshrank from a direct lie with an intensity disproportionate to thenumber of his more indirect misdeeds.  But many of thesemisdeeds were like the subtle muscular movements which are not takenaccount of in the consciousnessthough they bring about the end thatwe fix our mind on and desire.  And it is only what we arevividly conscious of that we can vividly imagine to be seen byOmniscience.

Bulstrodecarried his candle to the bedside of Raffleswho was apparently in apainful dream.  He stood silenthoping that the presence of thelight would serve to waken the sleeper gradually and gentlyfor hefeared some noise as the consequence of a too sudden awakening. Hehad watched for a couple of minutes or more the shudderings andpantings which seemed likely to end in wakingwhen Raffleswith along half-stifled moanstarted up and stared round him in terrortrembling and gasping.  But he made no further noiseandBulstrodesetting down the candleawaited his recovery.

It was aquarter of an hour later before Bulstrodewith a cold peremptorinessof manner which he had not before shownsaid"I came to callyou thus earlyMr. Rafflesbecause I have ordered the carriage tobe ready at half-past sevenand intend myself to conduct you as faras Ilselywhere you can either take the railway or await a coach."Raffles was about to speakbut Bulstrode anticipated him imperiouslywith the words"Be silentsirand hear what I have to say. Ishall supply you with money nowand I will furnish you with areasonable sum from time to timeon your application to me byletter; but if you choose to present yourself here againif youreturn to Middlemarchif you use your tongue in a manner injuriousto meyou will have to live on such fruits as your malice can bringyouwithout help from me.  Nobody will pay you well forblasting my name: I know the worst you can do against meand I shallbrave it if you dare to thrust yourself upon me again.  Get upsirand do as I order youwithout noiseor I will send for apoliceman to take you off my premisesand you may carry your storiesinto every pothouse in the townbut you shall have no sixpence fromme to pay your expenses there."

Bulstrodehad rarely in his life spoken with such nervous energy: he had beendeliberating on this speech and its probable effects through a largepart of the night; and though he did not trust to its ultimatelysaving him from any return of Raffleshe had concluded that it wasthe best throw he could make.  It succeeded in enforcingsubmission from the jaded man this morning:  his empoisonedsystem at this moment quailed before Bulstrode's coldresolutebearingand he was taken off quietly in the carriage before thefamily breakfast time.  The servants imagined him to be a poorrelationand were not surprised that a strict man like their masterwho held his head high in the worldshould be ashamed of such acousin and want to get rid of him.  The banker's drive of tenmiles with his hated companion was a dreary beginning of theChristmas day; but at the end of the driveRaffles had recovered hisspiritsand parted in a contentment for which there was the goodreason that the banker had given him a hundred pounds.  Variousmotives urged Bulstrode to this open-handednessbut he did nothimself inquire closely into all of them.  As he had stoodwatching Raffles in his uneasy sleepit had certainly entered hismind that the man had been much shattered since the first gift of twohundred pounds.

He hadtaken care to repeat the incisive statement of his resolve not to beplayed on any more; and had tried to penetrate Raffles with the factthat he had shown the risks of bribing him to be quite equal to therisks of defying him.  But whenfreed from his repulsivepresenceBulstrode returned to his quiet homehe brought with himno confidence that he had secured more than a respite. It was as ifhe had had a loathsome dreamand could not shake off its images withtheir hateful kindred of sensations--as if on all the pleasantsurroundings of his life a dangerous reptile had left his slimytraces.

Who canknow how much of his most inward life is made up of the thoughts hebelieves other men to have about himuntil that fabric of opinion isthreatened with ruin?

Bulstrodewas only the more conscious that there was a deposit of uneasypresentiment in his wife's mindbecause she carefully avoided anyallusion to it.  He had been used every day to taste the flavorof supremacy and the tribute of complete deference: and the certaintythat he was watched or measured with a hidden suspicion of his havingsome discreditable secretmade his voice totter when he was speakingto edification.  Foreseeingto men of Bulstrode's anxioustemperamentis often worse than seeing; and his imaginationcontinually heightened the anguish of an imminent disgrace. Yesimminent; for if his defiance of Raffles did not keep the manaway--and though he prayed for this result he hardly hoped forit--the disgrace was certain.  In vain he said to himself thatif permittedit would be a divine visitationa chastisementapreparation; he recoiled from the imagined burning; and he judgedthat it must be more for the Divine glory that he should escapedishonor.  That recoil had at last urged him to makepreparations for quitting Middlemarch.  If evil truth must bereported of himhe would then be at a less scorching distance fromthe contempt of his old neighbors; and in a new scenewhere his lifewould not have gathered the same wide sensibilitythe tormentorifhe pursued himwould be less formidable.  To leave the placefinally wouldhe knewbe extremely painful to his wifeand onother grounds he would have preferred to stay where he had struckroot. Hence he made his preparations at first in a conditional waywishing to leave on all sides an opening for his return after briefabsenceif any favorable intervention of Providence should dissipatehis fears.  He was preparing to transfer his management of theBankand to give up any active control of other commercial affairsin the neighborhoodon the ground of his failing healthbut withoutexcluding his future resumption of such work.  The measure wouldcause him some added expense and some diminution of income beyondwhat he had already undergone from the general depression of trade;and the Hospital presented itself as a principal object of outlay onwhich he could fairly economize.

This wasthe experience which had determined his conversation with Lydgate. But at this time his arrangements had most of them gone no fartherthan a stage at which he could recall them if they proved to beunnecessary.  He continually deferred the final steps; in themidst of his fearslike many a man who is in danger of shipwreck orof being dashed from his carriage by runaway horseshe had aclinging impression that something would happen to hinder the worstand that to spoil his life by a late transplantation might beover-hasty--especially since it was difficult to accountsatisfactorily to his wife for the project of their indefinite exilefrom the only place where she would like to live.

Among theaffairs Bulstrode had to care forwas the management of the farm atStone Court in case of his absence; and on this as well as on allother matters connected with any houses and land he possessed in orabout Middlemarchhe had consulted Caleb Garth. Like every one elsewho had business of that sorthe wanted to get the agent who wasmore anxious for his employer's interests than his own. With regardto Stone Courtsince Bulstrode wished to retain his hold on thestockand to have an arrangement by which he himself couldif hechoseresume his favorite recreation of superintendenceCaleb hadadvised him not to trust to a mere bailiffbut to let the landstockand implements yearlyand take a proportionate share of theproceeds.

"MayI trust to you to find me a tenant on these termsMr. Garth?"said Bulstrode.  "And will you mention to me the yearly sumwhich would repay you for managing these affairs which we havediscussed together?"

"I'llthink about it" said Calebin his blunt way.  "I'llsee how I can make it out."

If it hadnot been that he had to consider Fred Vincy's futureMr. Garth wouldnot probably have been glad of any addition to his workof which hiswife was always fearing an excess for him as he grew older. But onquitting Bulstrode after that conversationa very alluring ideaoccurred to him about this said letting of Stone Court. What ifBulstrode would agree to his placing Fred Vincy there on theunderstanding that heCaleb Garthshould be responsible for themanagement?  It would be an excellent schooling for Fred; hemight make a modest income thereand still have time left to getknowledge by helping in other business.  He mentioned his notionto Mrs. Garth with such evident delight that she could not bear tochill his pleasure by expressing her constant fear of his undertakingtoo much.

"Thelad would be as happy as two" he saidthrowing himself back inhis chairand looking radiant"if I could tell him it was allsettled.  Think; Susan!  His mind had been running on thatplace for years before old Featherstone died.  And it would beas pretty a turn of things as could be that he should hold the placein a good industrious way after all--by his taking to business. For it's likely enough Bulstrode might let him go onand graduallybuy the stock.  He hasn't made up his mindI can seewhetheror not he shall settle somewhere else as a lasting thing. I never wasbetter pleased with a notion in my life.  And then the childrenmight be married by-and-bySusan."

"Youwill not give any hint of the plan to Freduntil you are sure thatBulstrode would agree to the plan?" said Mrs. Garthin a toneof gentle caution.  "And as to marriageCalebwe oldpeople need not help to hasten it."

"OhI don't know" said Calebswinging his head aside. "Marriageis a taming thing.  Fred would want less of my bit and bridle. HoweverI shall say nothing till I know the ground I'm treading on. I shall speak to Bulstrode again."

He tookhis earliest opportunity of doing so.  Bulstrode had anythingbut a warm interest in his nephew Fred Vincybut he had a strongwish to secure Mr. Garth's services on many scattered points ofbusiness at which he was sure to be a considerable loserif theywere under less conscientious management.  On that ground hemade no objection to Mr. Garth's proposal; and there was also anotherreason why he was not sorry to give a consent which was to benefitone of the Vincy family.  It was that Mrs. Bulstrodehavingheard of Lydgate's debtshad been anxious to know whether herhusband could not do something for poor Rosamondand had been muchtroubled on learning from him that Lydgate's affairs were not easilyremediableand that the wisest plan was to let them "take theircourse." Mrs. Bulstrode had then said for the first time"Ithink you are always a little hard towards my familyNicholas. And I am sure I have no reason to deny any of my relatives.  Tooworldly they may bebut no one ever had to say that they were notrespectable."

"Mydear Harriet" said Mr. Bulstrodewincing under his wife'seyeswhich were filling with tears"I have supplied yourbrother with a great deal of capital.  I cannot be expected totake care of his married children."

Thatseemed to be trueand Mrs. Bulstrode's remonstrance subsided intopity for poor Rosamondwhose extravagant education she had alwaysforeseen the fruits of.

Butremembering that dialogueMr. Bulstrode felt that when he had totalk to his wife fully about his plan of quitting Middlemarchheshould be glad to tell her that he had made an arrangement whichmight be for the good of her nephew Fred.  At present he hadmerely mentioned to her that he thought of shutting up The Shrubs fora few monthsand taking a house on the Southern Coast.

Hence Mr.Garth got the assurance he desirednamelythat in case ofBulstrode's departure from Middlemarch for an indefinite timeFredVincy should be allowed to have the tenancy of Stone Court on theterms proposed.

Caleb wasso elated with his hope of this "neat turn" being given tothingsthat if his self-control had not been braced by a littleaffectionate wifely scoldinghe would have betrayed everything toMarywanting "to give the child comfort."  Howeverhe restrained himselfand kept in strict privacy from Fred certainvisits which he was making to Stone Courtin order to look morethoroughly into the state of the land and stockand take apreliminary estimate. He was certainly more eager in these visitsthan the probable speed of events required him to be; but he wasstimulated by a fatherly delight in occupying his mind with this bitof probable happiness which he held in store like a hidden birthdaygift for Fred and Mary.

"Butsuppose the whole scheme should turn out to be a castle in the air?"said Mrs. Garth.

"Wellwell" replied Caleb; "the castle will tumble aboutnobody's head."

CHAPTERLXIX

  "If thou hast heard a wordlet it die with thee."
  --Ecclesiasticus. 

Mr.Bulstrode was still seated in his manager's room at the Bankaboutthree o'clock of the same day on which he had received Lydgate therewhen the clerk entered to say that his horse was waitingand alsothat Mr. Garth was outside and begged to speak with him.

"Byall means" said Bulstrode; and Caleb entered.  "Praysit downMr. Garth" continued the bankerin his suavest tone.

"I amglad that you arrived just in time to find me here. I know you countyour minutes."

"Oh"said Calebgentlywith a slow swing of his head on one sideas heseated himself and laid his hat on the floor.

He lookedat the groundleaning forward and letting his long fingers droopbetween his legswhile each finger moved in successionas if itwere sharing some thought which filled his large quiet brow.

Mr.Bulstrodelike every one else who knew Calebwas used to hisslowness in beginning to speak on any topic which he felt to beimportantand rather expected that he was about to recur to thebuying of some houses in Blindman's Courtfor the sake of pullingthem downas a sacrifice of property which would be well repaid bythe influx of air and light on that spot.  It was bypropositions of this kind that Caleb was sometimes troublesome to hisemployers; but he had usually found Bulstrode ready to meet him inprojects of improvementand they had got on well together. When hespoke againhoweverit was to sayin rather a subdued voice--

"Ihave just come away from Stone CourtMr. Bulstrode."

"Youfound nothing wrong thereI hope" said the banker; "I wasthere myself yesterday.  Abel has done well with the lambs thisyear."

"Whyyes" said Caleblooking up gravely"there is somethingwrong-- a strangerwho is very illI think.  He wants adoctorand I came to tell you of that.  His name is Raffles."

He saw theshock of his words passing through Bulstrode's frame. On this subjectthe banker had thought that his fears were too constantly on thewatch to be taken by surprise; but he had been mistaken.

"Poorwretch!" he said in a compassionate tonethough his lipstrembled a little.  "Do you know how he came there?"

"Itook him myself" said Calebquietly--"took him up in mygig. He had got down from the coachand was walking a little beyondthe turning from the toll-houseand I overtook him. He rememberedseeing me with you once beforeat Stone Courtand he asked me totake him on.  I saw he was ill:  it seemed to me the rightthing to doto carry him under shelter. And now I think you shouldlose no time in getting advice for him." Caleb took up his hatfrom the floor as he endedand rose slowly from his seat.

"Certainly"said Bulstrodewhose mind was very active at this moment. "Perhapsyou will yourself oblige meMr. Garthby calling at Mr. Lydgate'sas you pass--or stay! he may at this hour probably be at theHospital.  I will first send my man on the horse there with anote this instantand then I will myself ride to Stone Court."

Bulstrodequickly wrote a noteand went out himself to give the commission tohis man.  When he returnedCaleb was standing as before withone hand on the back of the chairholding his hat with the other. In Bulstrode's mind the dominant thought was"Perhaps Rafflesonly spoke to Garth of his illness.  Garth may wonderas hemust have done beforeat this disreputable fellow's claimingintimacy with me; but he will know nothing.  And he is friendlyto me-- I can be of use to him."

He longedfor some confirmation of this hopeful conjecturebut to have askedany question as to what Raffles had said or done would have been tobetray fear.

"I amexceedingly obliged to youMr. Garth" he saidin his usualtone of politeness.  "My servant will be back in a fewminutesand I shall then go myself to see what can be done for thisunfortunate man.  Perhaps you had some other business with me?If sopray be seated."

"Thankyou" said Calebmaking a slight gesture with his right hand towaive the invitation.  "I wish to sayMr. BulstrodethatI must request you to put your business into some other hands thanmine.  I am obliged to you for your handsome way of meeting me--about the letting of Stone Courtand all other business. But I mustgive it up."  A sharp certainty entered like a stab intoBulstrode's soul.

"Thisis suddenMr. Garth" was all he could say at first.

"Itis" said Caleb; "but it is quite fixed.  I must giveit up."

He spokewith a firmness which was very gentleand yet he could see thatBulstrode seemed to cower under that gentlenesshis face lookingdried and his eyes swerving away from the glance which rested on him.Caleb felt a deep pity for himbut he could have used no pretexts toaccount for his resolveeven if they would have been of any use.

"Youhave been led to thisI apprehendby some slanders concerning meuttered by that unhappy creature" said Bulstrodeanxious nowto know the utmost.

"Thatis true.  I can't deny that I act upon what I heard from him."

"Youare a conscientious manMr. Garth--a manI trustwho feels himselfaccountable to God.  You would not wish to injure me by beingtoo ready to believe a slander" said Bulstrodecasting aboutfor pleas that might be adapted to his hearer's mind. "That is apoor reason for giving up a connection which I think I may say willbe mutually beneficial."

"Iwould injure no man if I could help it" said Caleb; "evenif I thought God winked at it.  I hope I should have a feelingfor my fellow-creature. Butsir--I am obliged to believe that thisRaffles has told me the truth.  And I can't be happy in workingwith youor profiting by you.  It hurts my mind.  I mustbeg you to seek another agent."

"VerywellMr. Garth.  But I must at least claim to know the worstthat he has told you.  I must know what is the foul speech thatI am liable to be the victim of" said Bulstrodea certainamount of anger beginning to mingle with his humiliation before thisquiet man who renounced his benefits.

"That'sneedless" said Calebwaving his handbowing his headslightlyand not swerving from the tone which had in it the mercifulintention to spare this pitiable man.  "What he has said tome will never pass from my lipsunless something now unknown forcesit from me. If you led a harmful life for gainand kept others outof their rights by deceitto get the more for yourselfI dare sayyou repent-- you would like to go backand can't: that must be abitter thing"-- Caleb paused a moment and shook his head--"itis not for me to make your life harder to you."

"Butyou do--you do make it harder to me" said Bulstrode constrainedinto a genuinepleading cry.  "You make it harder to me byturning your back on me."

"ThatI'm forced to do" said Calebstill more gentlylifting up hishand.  "I am sorry.  I don't judge you and sayhe iswickedand I am righteous.  God forbid.  I don't knoweverything.  A man may do wrongand his will may rise clear outof itthough he can't get his life clear.  That's a badpunishment.  If it is so with you-- wellI'm very sorry foryou.  But I have that feeling inside methat I can't go onworking with you.  That's allMr. Bulstrode. Everything else isburiedso far as my will goes.  And I wish you good-day."

"OnemomentMr. Garth!" said Bulstrodehurriedly.  "I maytrust then to your solemn assurance that you will not repeat eitherto man or woman what--even if it have any degree of truth in it-- isyet a malicious representation?"  Caleb's wrath wasstirredand he saidindignantly--

"Whyshould I have said it if I didn't mean it?  I am in no fear ofyou.  Such tales as that will never tempt my tongue."

"Excuseme--I am agitated--I am the victim of this abandoned man."

"Stopa bit! you have got to consider whether you didn't help to make himworsewhen you profited by his vices."

"Youare wronging me by too readily believing him" said Bulstrodeoppressedas by a nightmarewith the inability to deny flatly whatRaffles might have said; and yet feeling it an escape that Caleb hadnot so stated it to him as to ask for that flat denial.

"No"said Caleblifting his hand deprecatingly; "I am ready tobelieve betterwhen better is proved.  I rob you of no goodchance. As to speakingI hold it a crime to expose a man's sinunless I'm clear it must be done to save the innocent.  That ismy way of thinkingMr. Bulstrodeand what I sayI've no need toswear. I wish you good-day."

Some hourslaterwhen he was at homeCaleb said to his wifeincidentallythat he had had some little differences with Bulstrodeand that inconsequencehe had given up all notion of taking Stone Courtandindeed had resigned doing further business for him.

"Hewas disposed to interfere too muchwas he?" said Mrs. Garthimagining that her husband had been touched on his sensitive pointand not been allowed to do what he thought right as to materials andmodes of work.

"Oh"said Calebbowing his head and waving his hand gravely. And Mrs.Garth knew that this was a sign of his not intending to speak furtheron the subject.

As forBulstrodehe had almost immediately mounted his horse and set offfor Stone Courtbeing anxious to arrive there before Lydgate.

His mindwas crowded with images and conjectureswhich were a language to hishopes and fearsjust as we hear tones from the vibrations whichshake our whole system.  The deep humiliation with which he hadwinced under Caleb Garth's knowledge of his past and rejection of hispatronagealternated with and almost gave way to the sense of safetyin the fact that Garthand no otherhad been the man to whomRaffles had spoken.  It seemed to him a sort of earnest thatProvidence intended his rescue from worse consequences; the way beingthus left open for the hope of secrecy.  That Raffles should beafflicted with illnessthat he should have been led to Stone Courtrather than elsewhere--Bulstrode's heart fluttered at the vision ofprobabilities which these events conjured up. If it should turn outthat he was freed from all danger of disgrace-- if he could breathein perfect liberty--his life should be more consecrated than it hadever been before.  He mentally lifted up this vow as if it wouldurge the result he longed for-- he tried to believe in the potency ofthat prayerful resolution-- its potency to determine death.  Heknew that he ought to say"Thy will be done;" and he saidit often.  But the intense desire remained that the will of Godmight be the death of that hated man.

Yet whenhe arrived at Stone Court he could not see the change in Raffleswithout a shock.  But for his pallor and feeblenessBulstrodewould have called the change in him entirely mental. Instead of hisloud tormenting moodhe showed an intensevague terrorand seemedto deprecate Bulstrode's angerbecause the money was all gone--hehad been robbed--it had half of it been taken from him. He had onlycome here because he was ill and somebody was hunting him-- somebodywas after him he had told nobody anythinghe had kept his mouthshut.  Bulstrodenot knowing the significance of thesesymptomsinterpreted this new nervous susceptibility into a means ofalarming Raffles into true confessionsand taxed him with falsehoodin saying that he had not told anythingsince he had just told theman who took him up in his gig and brought him to Stone Court. Raffles denied this with solemn adjurations; the fact being that thelinks of consciousness were interrupted in himand that his minuteterror-stricken narrative to Caleb Garth had been delivered under aset of visionary impulses which had dropped back into darkness.

Bulstrode'sheart sank again at this sign that he could get no grasp over thewretched man's mindand that no word of Raffles could be trusted asto the fact which he most wanted to knownamelywhether or not hehad really kept silence to every one in the neighborhood except CalebGarth.  The housekeeper had told him without the leastconstraint of manner that since Mr. Garth leftRaffles had asked herfor beerand after that had not spokenseeming very ill.  Onthat side it might be concluded that there had been no betrayal. Mrs. Abel thoughtlike the servants at The Shrubsthat the strangeman belonged to the unpleasant "kin" who are among thetroubles of the rich; she had at first referred the kinship to Mr.Riggand where there was property leftthe buzzing presence of suchlarge blue-bottles seemed natural enough. How he could be "kin"to Bulstrode as well was not so clearbut Mrs. Abel agreed with herhusband that there was "no knowing" a proposition whichhad a great deal of mental food for herso that she shook her headover it without further speculation.

In lessthan an hour Lydgate arrived.  Bulstrode met him outside thewainscoted parlorwhere Raffles wasand said--

"Ihave called you inMr. Lydgateto an unfortunate man who was oncein my employmentmany years ago.  Afterwards he went toAmericaand returned I fear to an idle dissolute life.  Beingdestitutehe has a claim on me.  He was slightly connected withRiggthe former owner of this placeand in consequence found hisway here. I believe he is seriously ill:  apparently his mind isaffected. I feel bound to do the utmost for him."

Lydgatewho had the remembrance of his last conversation with Bulstrodestrongly upon himwas not disposed to say an unnecessary word tohimand bowed slightly in answer to this account; but just beforeentering the room he turned automatically and said"What is hisname?"--to know names being as much a part of the medical man'saccomplishment as of the practical politician's.

"RafflesJohn Raffles" said Bulstrodewho hoped that whatever became ofRafflesLydgate would never know any more of him.

When hehad thoroughly examined and considered the patientLydgate orderedthat he should go to bedand be kept there in as complete quiet aspossibleand then went with Bulstrode into another room.

"Itis a serious caseI apprehend" said the bankerbefore Lydgatebegan to speak.

"No--andyes" said Lydgatehalf dubiously.  "It is difficultto decide as to the possible effect of long-standing complications;but the man had a robust constitution to begin with.  I shouldnot expect this attack to be fatalthough of course the system is ina ticklish state.  He should be well watched and attended to."

"Iwill remain here myself" said Bulstrode.  "Mrs. Abeland her husband are inexperienced.  I can easily remain here forthe nightif you will oblige me by taking a note for Mrs.Bulstrode."

"Ishould think that is hardly necessary" said Lydgate.  "Heseems tame and terrified enough.  He might become moreunmanageable. But there is a man here--is there not?"

"Ihave more than once stayed here a few nights for the sake ofseclusion" said Bulstrodeindifferently; "I am quitedisposed to do so now.  Mrs. Abel and her husband can relieve oraid meif necessary."

"Verywell.  Then I need give my directions only to you" saidLydgatenot feeling surprised at a little peculiarity in Bulstrode.

"Youthinkthenthat the case is hopeful?" said BulstrodewhenLydgate had ended giving his orders.

"Unlessthere turn out to be further complicationssuch as I have not atpresent detected--yes" said Lydgate.  "He may pass onto a worse stage; but I should not wonder if ho got better in a fewdaysby adhering to the treatment I have prescribed. There must befirmness.  Rememberif he calls for liquors of any sortnot togive them to him.  In my opinionmen in his condition areoftener killed by treatment than by the disease.  Stillnewsymptoms may arise.  I shall come again to-morrow morning."

Afterwaiting for the note to be carried to Mrs. BulstrodeLydgate rodeawayforming no conjecturesin the first instanceabout thehistory of Rafflesbut rehearsing the whole argumentwhich hadlately been much stirred by the publication of Dr. Ware's abundantexperience in Americaas to the right way of treating cases ofalcoholic poisoning such as this.  Lydgatewhen abroadhadalready been interested in this question:  he was stronglyconvinced against the prevalent practice of allowing alcohol andpersistently administering large doses of opium; and he hadrepeatedly acted on this conviction with a favorable result.

"Theman is in a diseased state" he thought"but there's agood deal of wear in him still.  I suppose he is an object ofcharity to Bulstrode. It is curious what patches of hardness andtenderness lie side by side in men's dispositions.  Bulstrodeseems the most unsympathetic fellow I ever saw about some peopleandyet he has taken no end of troubleand spent a great deal of moneyon benevolent objects. I suppose he has some test by which he findsout whom Heaven cares for--he has made up his mind that it doesn'tcare for me."

Thisstreak of bitterness came from a plenteous sourceand kept wideningin the current of his thought as he neared Lowick Gate. He had notbeen there since his first interview with Bulstrode in the morninghaving been found at the Hospital by the banker's messenger; and forthe first time he was returning to his home without the vision of anyexpedient in the background which left him a hope of raising moneyenough to deliver him from the coming destitution of everything whichmade his married life tolerable-- everything which saved him andRosamond from that bare isolation in which they would be forced torecognize how little of a comfort they could be to each other. It was more bearable to do without tenderness for himself than to seethat his own tenderness could make no amends for the lack of otherthings to her.  The sufferings of his own pride fromhumiliations past and to come were keen enoughyet they were hardlydistinguishable to himself from that more acute pain which dominatedthem--the pain of foreseeing that Rosamond would come to regard himchiefly as the cause of disappointment and unhappiness to her. He had never liked the makeshifts of povertyand they had neverbefore entered into his prospects for himself; but he was beginningnow to imagine how two creatures who loved each otherand had astock of thoughts in commonmight laugh over their shabby furnitureand their calculations how far they could afford butter and eggs. But the glimpse of that poetry seemed as far off from him as thecarelessness of the golden age; in poor Rosamond's mind there was notroom enough for luxuries to look small in.  He got down from hishorse in a very sad moodand went into the housenot expecting tobe cheered except by his dinnerand reflecting that before theevening closed it would be wise to tell Rosamond of his applicationto Bulstrode and its failure. It would be well not to lose time inpreparing her for the worst.

But hisdinner waited long for him before he was able to eat it. For onentering he found that Dover's agent had already put a man in thehouseand when he asked where Mrs. Lydgate washe was told that shewas in her bedroom.  He went up and found her stretched on thebed pale and silentwithout an answer even in her face to any wordor look of his.  He sat down by the bed and leaning over hersaid with almost a cry of prayer--

"Forgiveme for this miserymy poor Rosamond!  Let us only love oneanother."

She lookedat him silentlystill with the blank despair on her face; but thenthe tears began to fill her blue eyesand her lip trembled. Thestrong man had had too much to bear that day.  He let his headfall beside hers and sobbed.

He did nothinder her from going to her father early in the morning-- it seemednow that he ought not to hinder her from doing as she pleased. Inhalf an hour she came backand said that papa and mamma wished herto go and stay with them while things were in this miserable state.Papa said he could do nothing about the debt--if he paid thistherewould be half-a-dozen more.  She had better come back home againtill Lydgate had got a comfortable home for her. "Do you objectTertius?"

"Doas you like" said Lydgate.  "But things are notcoming to a crisis immediately.  There is no hurry."

"Ishould not go till to-morrow" said Rosamond; "I shall wantto pack my clothes."

"OhI would wait a little longer than to-morrow--there is no knowing whatmay happen" said Lydgatewith bitter irony. "I may get myneck brokenand that may make things easier to you."

It wasLydgate's misfortune and Rosamond's toothat his tenderness towardsherwhich was both an emotional prompting and a well-consideredresolvewas inevitably interrupted by these outbursts of indignationeither ironical or remonstrant.  She thought them totallyunwarrantedand the repulsion which this exceptional severityexcited in her was in danger of making the more persistent tendernessunacceptable.

"Isee you do not wish me to go" she saidwith chill mildness;"why can you not say sowithout that kind of violence?  Ishall stay until you request me to do otherwise."

Lydgatesaid no morebut went out on his rounds.  He felt bruised andshatteredand there was a dark line under his eyes which Rosamondhad not seen before.  She could not bear to look at him. Tertiushad a way of taking things which made them a great deal worse forher.

CHAPTERLXX

  “Our deeds still travel with us from afar
   Andwhat we have been makes us what we are."

Bulstrode'sfirst object after Lydgate had left Stone Court was to examineRaffles's pocketswhich he imagined were sure to carry signs in theshape of hotel-bills of the places he had stopped inif he had nottold the truth in saying that he had come straight from Liverpoolbecause he was ill and had no money.  There were various billscrammed into his pocketbookbut none of a later date than Christmasat any other placeexcept onewhich bore date that morning. This was crumpled up with a hand-bill about a horse-fair in one ofhis tail-pocketsand represented the cost of three days' stay at aninn at Bilkleywhere the fair was held-- a town at least forty milesfrom Middlemarch.  The bill was heavyand since Raffles had noluggage with himit seemed probable that he had left his portmanteaubehind in paymentin order to save money for his travelling fare;for his purse was emptyand he had only a couple of sixpences andsome loose pence in his pockets.

Bulstrodegathered a sense of safety from these indications that Raffles hadreally kept at a distance from Middlemarch since his memorable visitat Christmas.  At a distance and among people who were strangersto Bulstrodewhat satisfaction could there be to Raffles'stormentingself-magnifying vein in telling old scandalous storiesabout a Middlemarch banker?  And what harm if he did talk? Thechief point now was to keep watch over him as long as there was anydanger of that intelligible ravingthat unaccountable impulse totellwhich seemed to have acted towards Caleb Garth; and Bulstrodefelt much anxiety lest some such impulse should come over him at thesight of Lydgate.  He sat up alone with him through the nightonly ordering the housekeeper to lie down in her clothesso as to beready when he called heralleging his own indisposition to sleepand his anxiety to carry out the doctor's orders. He did carry themout faithfullyalthough Raffles was incessantly asking for brandyand declaring that he was sinking away-- that the earth was sinkingaway from under him.  He was restless and sleeplessbut stillquailing and manageable.  On the offer of the food ordered byLydgatewhich he refusedand the denial of other things which hedemandedhe seemed to concentrate all his terror on Bulstrodeimploringly deprecating his angerhis revenge on him by starvationand declaring with strong oaths that he had never told any mortal aword against him.  Even this Bulstrode felt that he would nothave liked Lydgate to hear; but a more alarming sign of fitfulalternation in his delirium wasthat in-the morning twilight Rafflessuddenly seemed to imagine a doctor presentaddressing him anddeclaring that Bulstrode wanted to starve him to death out of revengefor tellingwhen he never had told.

Bulstrode'snative imperiousness and strength of determination served him well. This delicate-looking manhimself nervously perturbedfound theneeded stimulus in his strenuous circumstancesand through thatdifficult night and morningwhile he had the air of an animatedcorpse returned to movement without warmthholding the mastery byits chill impassibility his mind was intensely at work thinking ofwhat he had to guard against and what would win him security.Whatever prayers he might lift upwhatever statements he mightinwardly make of this man's wretched spiritual conditionand theduty he himself was under to submit to the punishment divinelyappointed for him rather than to wish for evil to another--throughall this effort to condense words into a solid mental statetherepierced and spread with irresistible vividness the images of theevents he desired. And in the train of those images came theirapology.  He could not but see the death of Rafflesand see init his own deliverance. What was the removal of this wretchedcreature?  He was impenitent-- but were not public criminalsimpenitent?--yet the law decided on their fate.  ShouldProvidence in this case award deaththere was no sin incontemplating death as the desirable issue-- if he kept his handsfrom hastening it--if he scrupulously did what was prescribed. Even here there might be a mistake: human prescriptions were falliblethings:  Lydgate had said that treatment had hasteneddeath--why not his own method of treatment? But of course intentionwas everything in the question of right and wrong.

AndBulstrode set himself to keep his intention separate from hisdesire.  He inwardly declared that he intended to obey orders.Why should he have got into any argument about the validity of theseorders?  It was only the common trick of desire--which availsitself of any irrelevant scepticismfinding larger room for itselfin all uncertainty about effectsin every obscurity that looks likethe absence of law.  Stillhe did obey the orders.

Hisanxieties continually glanced towards Lydgateand his remembrance ofwhat had taken place between them the morning before was accompaniedwith sensibilities which had not been roused at all during the actualscene.  He had then cared but little about Lydgate's painfulimpressions with regard to the suggested change in the Hospitalorabout the disposition towards himself which what he held to be hisjustifiable refusal of a rather exorbitant request might call forth.He recurred to the scene now with a perception that he had probablymade Lydgate his enemyand with an awakened desire to propitiatehimor rather to create in him a strong sense of personalobligation. He regretted that he had not at once made even anunreasonable money-sacrifice. For in case of unpleasant suspicionsor even knowledge gathered from the raving of RafflesBulstrodewould have felt that he had a defence in Lydgate's mind by havingconferred a momentous benefit on him.  Bat the regret hadperhaps come too late.

Strangepiteous conflict in the soul of this unhappy manwho had longed foryears to be better than he was--who had taken his selfish passionsinto discipline and clad them in severe robesso that he had walkedwith them as a devout choirtill now that a terror had risen amongthemand they could chant no longerbut threw out their commoncries for safety.

It wasnearly the middle of the day before Lydgate arrived: he had meant tocome earlierbut had been detainedhe said; and his shattered lookswere noticed by Balstrode.  But he immediately threw himselfinto the consideration of the patientand inquired strictly into allthat had occurred.  Raffles was worsewould take hardly anyfoodwas persistently wakeful and restlessly raving; but still notviolent.  Contrary to Bulstrode's alarmed expectationhe tooklittle notice of Lydgate's presenceand continued to talk or murmurincoherently.

"Whatdo you think of him?" said Bulstrodein private.

"Thesymptoms are worse."

"Youare less hopeful?"

"No;I still think he may come round.  Are you going to stay hereyourself?" said Lydgatelooking at Bulstrode with an abruptquestionwhich made him uneasythough in reality it was not due toany suspicious conjecture. 

"YesI think so" said Bulstrodegoverning himself and speaking withdeliberation.  "Mrs. Bulstrode is advised of the reasonswhich detain me.  Mrs. Abel and her husband are not experiencedenough to be left quite aloneand this kind of responsibility isscarcely included in their service of me.  You have some freshinstructionsI presume."

The chiefnew instruction that Lydgate had to give was on the administration ofextremely moderate doses of opiumin case of the sleeplessnesscontinuing after several hours. He had taken the precaution ofbringing opium in his pocketand he gave minute directions toBulstrode as to the dosesand the point at which they should cease. He insisted on the risk of not ceasing; and repeated his order thatno alcohol should be given.

"Fromwhat I see of the case" he ended"narcotism is the onlything I should be much afraid of.  He may wear through evenwithout much food.  There's a good deal of strength in him."

"Youlook ill yourselfMr. Lydgate--a most unusualI may sayunprecedented thing in my knowledge of you" said Bulstrodeshowing a solicitude as unlike his indifference the day beforeashis present recklessness about his own fatigue was unlike hishabitual self-cherishing anxiety.  "I fear you areharassed."

"YesI am" said Lydgatebrusquelyholding his hatand ready togo.

"SomethingnewI fear" said Bulstrodeinquiringly.  "Pray beseated."

"Nothank you" said Lydgatewith some hauteur. "I mentionedto you yesterday what was the state of my affairs.  There isnothing to addexcept that the execution has since then beenactually put into my house.  One can tell a good deal of troublein a short sentence. I will say good morning."

"StayMr. Lydgatestay" said Bulstrode; "I have beenreconsidering this subject.  I was yesterday taken by surpriseand saw it superficially.  Mrs. Bulstrode is anxious for hernieceand I myself should grieve at a calamitous change in yourposition. Claims on me are numerousbut on reconsiderationI esteemit right that I should incur a small sacrifice rather than leave youunaided. You saidI thinkthat a thousand pounds would sufficeentirely to free you from your burthensand enable you to recover afirm stand?"

"Yes"said Lydgatea great leap of joy within him surmounting every otherfeeling; "that would pay all my debtsand leave me a little onhand.  I could set about economizing in our way of living. Andby-and-by my practice might look up."

"Ifyou will wait a momentMr. LydgateI will draw a cheek to thatamount.  I am aware that helpto be effectual in these casesshould be thorough."

WhileBulstrode wroteLydgate turned to the window thinking of his home--thinking of his life with its good start saved from frustrationitsgood purposes still unbroken.

"Youcan give me a note of hand for thisMr. Lydgate" said thebankeradvancing towards him with the check.  "Andby-and-byI hopeyou may be in circumstances gradually to repayme.  MeanwhileI have pleasure in thinking that you will bereleased from further difficulty."

"I amdeeply obliged to you" said Lydgate.  "You haverestored to me the prospect of working with some happiness and somechance of good."

Itappeared to him a very natural movement in Bulstrode that he shouldhave reconsidered his refusal:  it corresponded with the moremunificent side of his character.  But as he put his hack into acanterthat he might get the sooner homeand tell the good news toRosamondand get cash at the bank to pay over to Dover's agentthere crossed his mindwith an unpleasant impressionas from adark-winged flight of evil augury across his visionthe thought ofthat contrast in himself which a few months had brought--that heshould be overjoyed at being under a strong personal obligation--that he should be overjoyed at getting money for himself fromBulstrode.

The bankerfelt that he had done something to nullify one cause of uneasinessand yet he was scarcely the easier.  He did not measure thequantity of diseased motive which had made him wish for Lydgate'sgood-willbut the quantity was none the less actively therelike anirritating agent in his blood.  A man vowsand yet will noteast away the means of breaking his vow.  Is it that hedistinctly means to break it?  Not at all; but the desires whichtend to break it are at work in him dimlyand make their way intohis imaginationand relax his muscles in the very moments when he istelling himself over again the reasons for his vow.  Rafflesrecovering quicklyreturning to the free use of his odiouspowers--how could Bulstrode wish for that?  Raffles dead was theimage that brought releaseand indirectly he prayed for that way ofreleasebeseeching thatif it were possiblethe rest of his dayshere below might be freed from the threat of an ignominy which wouldbreak him utterly as an instrument of God's service.  Lydgate'sopinion was not on the side of promise that this prayer would befulfilled; and as the day advancedBulstrode felt himself gettingirritated at the persistent life in this manwhom he would fain haveseen sinking into the silence of death imperious will stirredmurderous impulses towards this brute lifeover which willbyitselfhad no power.  He said inwardly that he was getting toomuch worn; he would not sit up with the patient to-nightbut leavehim to Mrs. Abelwhoif necessarycould call her husband.

At sixo'clockRaffleshaving had only fitful perturbed snatches of sleepfrom which he waked with fresh restlessness and perpetual cries thathe was sinking awayBulstrode began to administer the opiumaccording to Lydgate's directions. At the end of half an hour or morehe called Mrs. Abel and told her that he found himself unfit forfurther watching.  He must now consign the patient to her care;and he proceeded to repeat to her Lydgate's directions as to thequantity of each dose. Mrs. Abel had not before known anything ofLydgate's prescriptions; she had simply prepared and brought whateverBulstrode orderedand had done what he pointed out to her.  Shebegan now to ask what else she should do besides administering theopium.

"Nothingat presentexcept the offer of the soup or the soda-water: you cancome to me for further directions.  Unless there is anyimportant changeI shall not come into the room again to-night. Youwill ask your husband for help if necessary.  I must go to bedearly."

"You'vemuch needsirI'm sure" said Mrs. Abel"and to takesomething more strengthening than what you've done.

Bulstrodewent-away now without anxiety as to what Raffles might say in hisravingwhich had taken on a muttering incoherence not likely tocreate any dangerous belief.  At any rate he must risk this. Hewent down into the wainscoted parlor firstand began to considerwhether he would not have his horse saddled and go home by themoonlightand give up caring for earthly consequences. Thenhewished that he had begged Lydgate to come again that evening. Perhaps he might deliver a different opinionand think that Raffleswas getting into a less hopeful state. Should he send for Lydgate? If Raffles were really getting worseand slowly dyingBulstrodefelt that he could go to bed and sleep in gratitude to Providence. But was he worse?  Lydgate might come and simply say that he wasgoing on as he expectedand predict that he would by-and-by fallinto a good sleepand get well. What was the use of sending forhim?  Bulstrode shrank from that result. No ideas or opinionscould hinder him from seeing the one probability to bethat Rafflesrecovered would be just the same man as beforewith his strength asa tormentor renewedobliging him to drag away his wife to spend heryears apart from her friends and native placecarrying an alienatingsuspicion against him in her heart.

He had satan hour and a half in this conflict by the firelight onlywhen asudden thought made him rise and light the bed-candlewhich he hadbrought down with him.  The thought wasthat he had not toldMrs. Abel when the doses of opium must cease.

He tookhold of the candlestickbut stood motionless for a long while. Shemight already have given him more than Lydgate had prescribed. But itwas excusable in himthat he should forget part of an orderin hispresent wearied condition.  He walked up-stairscandle in handnot knowing whether he should straightway enter his own room and goto bedor turn to the patient's room and rectify his omission. He paused in the passagewith his face turned towards Raffles'sroomand he could hear him moaning and murmuring. He was not asleepthen.  Who could know that Lydgate's prescription would not bebetter disobeyed than followedsince there was still no sleep?

He turnedinto his own room.  Before he had quite undressedMrs. Abelrapped at the door; he opened it an inchso that he could hear herspeak low.

"Ifyou pleasesirshould I have no brandy nor nothing to give the poorcreetur?  He feels sinking awayand nothing else will heswaller--and but little strength in itif he did--only the opium.And he says more and more he's sinking down through the earth."

To hersurpriseMr. Bulstrode did not answer.  A struggle was going onwithin him.

"Ithink he must die for want o' supportif he goes on in that way.When I nursed my poor masterMr. RobissonI had to give himport-wine and brandy constantand a big glass at a time" addedMrs. Abelwith a touch of remonstrance in her tone.

But againMr. Bulstrode did not answer immediatelyand she continued"It'snot a time to spare when people are at death's doornor would youwish itsirI'm sure.  Else I should give him our own bottleo' rum as we keep by us.  But a sitter-up so as you've beenanddoing everything as laid in your power--"

Here a keywas thrust through the inch of doorwayand Mr. Bulstrode saidhuskily"That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will findplenty of brandy there."

Early inthe morning--about six--Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some time inprayer.  Does any one suppose that private prayer is necessarilycandid--necessarily goes to the roots of action? Private prayer isinaudible speechand speech is representative: who can representhimself just as he iseven in his own reflections? Bulstrode had notyet unravelled in his thought the confused promptings of the lastfour-and-twenty hours.

Helistened in the passageand could hear hard stertorous breathing.Then he walked out in the gardenand looked at the early rime on thegrass and fresh spring leaves.  When he re-entered the househefelt startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel.

"Howis your patient--asleepI think?" he saidwith an attempt atcheerfulness in his tone.

"He'sgone very deepsir" said Mrs. Abel.  "He went offgradual between three and four o'clock.  Would you please to goand look at him?  I thought it no harm to leave him.  Myman's gone afieldand the little girl's seeing to the kettles."

Bulstrodewent up.  At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in the sleepwhich brings revivalbut in the sleep which streams deeper anddeeper into the gulf of death.

He lookedround the room and saw a bottle with some brandy in itand thealmost empty opium phial.  He put the phial out of sightandcarried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with himlocking it again inthe wine-cooler.

Whilebreakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarch atonceor wait for Lydgate's arrival.  He decided to waitandtold Mrs. Abel that she might go about her work-- he could watch inthe bed-chamber.

As he satthere and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocably intosilencehe felt more at rest than he had done for many months. Hisconscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecywhich seemedjust then like an angel sent down for his relief. He drew out hispocket-book to review various memoranda there as to the arrangementshe had projected and partly carried out in the prospect of quittingMiddlemarchand considered how far he would let them stand or recallthemnow that his absence would be brief. Some economies which hefelt desirable might still find a suitable occasion in his temporarywithdrawal from managementand he hoped still that Mrs. Casaubonwould take a large share in the expenses of the Hospital.  Inthat way the moments passeduntil a change in the stertorousbreathing was marked enough to draw his attention wholly to the bedand forced him to think of the departing lifewhich had once beensubservient to his own--which he had once been glad to find baseenough for him to act on as he would.  It was his gladness thenwhich impelled him now to be glad that the life was at an end.

And whocould say that the death of Raffles had been hastened? Who knew whatwould have saved him?

Lydgatearrived at half-past tenin time to witness the final pause of thebreath.  When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a suddenexpression in his facewhich was not so much surprise as arecognition that he had not judged correctly.  He stood by thebed in silence for some timewith his eyes turned on the dying manbut with that subdued activity of expression which showed that he wascarrying on an inward debate.

"Whendid this change begin?" said helooking at Bulstrode.

"Idid not watch by him last night" said Bulstrode. "I wasover-wornand left him under Mrs. Abel's care. She said that he sankinto sleep between three and four o'clock. When I came in beforeeight he was nearly in this condition."

Lydgatedid not ask another questionbut watched in silence until he said"It's all over."

Thismorning Lydgate was in a state of recovered hope and freedom. He hadset out on his work with all his old animationand felt himselfstrong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life. Andhe was conscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him. But hewas uneasy about this case.  He had not expected it to terminateas it had done.  Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on thesubject to Bulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if heexamined the housekeeper--whythe man was dead. There seemed to beno use in implying that somebody's ignorance or imprudence had killedhim.  And after allhe himself might be wrong.

He andBulstrode rode back to Middlemarch togethertalking of manythings--chiefly cholera and the chances of the Reform Bill in theHouse of Lordsand the firm resolve of the political Unions. Nothingwas said about Rafflesexcept that Bulstrode mentioned the necessityof having a grave for him in Lowick churchyardand observed thatsofar as he knewthe poor man had no connectionsexcept Riggwhom hehad stated to be unfriendly towards him.

Onreturning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother.  TheVicar had not been in the town the day beforebut the news thatthere was an execution in Lydgate's house had got to Lowick by theeveninghaving been carried by Mr. Spicershoemaker andparish-clerkwho had it from his brotherthe respectablebell-hanger in Lowick Gate. Since that evening when Lydgate had comedown from the billiard room with Fred VincyMr. Farebrother'sthoughts about him had been rather gloomy.  Playing at the GreenDragon once or oftener might have been a trifle in another man; butin Lydgate it was one of several signs that he was getting unlike hisformer self. He was beginning to do things for which he had formerlyeven an excessive scorn.  Whatever certain dissatisfactions inmarriagewhich some silly tinklings of gossip had given him hintsofmight have to do with this changeMr. Farebrother felt sure thatit was chiefly connected with the debts which were being more andmore distinctly reportedand he began to fear that any notion ofLydgate's having resources or friends in the background must be quiteillusory.  The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt towin Lydgate's confidencedisinclined him to a second; but this newsof the execution being actually in the housedetermined the Vicar toovercome his reluctance.

Lydgatehad just dismissed a poor patientin whom he was much interestedand he came forward to put out his hand--with an open cheerfulnesswhich surprised Mr. Farebrother.  Could this too be a proudrejection of sympathy and help?  Never mind; the sympathy andhelp should be offered.

"Howare youLydgate?  I came to see you because I had heardsomething which made me anxious about you" said the Vicarinthe tone of a good brotheronly that there was no reproach in it.They were both seated by this timeand Lydgate answeredimmediately--

"Ithink I know what you mean.  You had heard that there was anexecution in the house?"

"Yes;is it true?"

"Itwas true" said Lydgatewith an air of freedomas if he didnot mind talking about the affair now.  "But the danger isover; the debt is paid.  I am out of my difficulties now: I shall be freed from debtsand ableI hopeto start afresh on abetter plan."

"I amvery thankful to hear it" said the Vicarfalling back in hischairand speaking with that low-toned quickness which often followsthe removal of a load.  "I like that better than all thenews in the `Times.' I confess I came to you with a heavy heart."

"Thankyou for coming" said Lydgatecordially.  "I canenjoy the kindness all the more because I am happier.  I havecertainly been a good deal crushed.  I'm afraid I shall find thebruises still painful by-and by" he addedsmiling rathersadly; "but just now I can only feel that the torture-screw isoff."

Mr.Farebrother was silent for a momentand then said earnestly"Mydear fellowlet me ask you one question.  Forgive me if I takea liberty."

"Idon't believe you will ask anything that ought to offend me."

"Then--thisis necessary to set my heart quite at rest--you have not-- haveyou?--in order to pay your debtsincurred another debt which mayharass you worse hereafter?"

"No"said Lydgatecoloring slightly.  "There is no reason why Ishould not tell you--since the fact is so--that the person to whom Iam indebted is Bulstrode.  He has made me a very handsomeadvance-- a thousand pounds--and he can afford to wait forrepayment."

"Wellthat is generous" said Mr. Farebrothercompelling himself toapprove of the man whom he disliked.  His delicate feelingshrank from dwelling even in his thought on the fact that he hadalways urged Lydgate to avoid any personal entanglement withBulstrode. He added immediately"And Bulstrode must naturallyfeel an interest in your welfareafter you have worked with him in away which has probably reduced your income instead of adding to it. I am glad to think that he has acted accordingly."

Lydgatefelt uncomfortable under these kindly suppositions. They made moredistinct within him the uneasy consciousness which had shown itsfirst dim stirrings only a few hours beforethat Bulstrode's motivesfor his sudden beneficence following close upon the chillestindifference might be merely selfish. He let the kindly suppositionspass.  He could not tell the history of the loanbut it wasmore vividly present with him than everas well as the fact whichthe Vicar delicately ignored--that this relation of personalindebtedness to Bulstrode was what he had once been most resolved toavoid.

He beganinstead of answeringto speak of his projected economiesand of hishaving come to look at his life from a different point of view.

"Ishall set up a surgery" he said.  "I really think Imade a mistaken effort in that respect.  And if Rosamond willnot mindI shall take an apprentice.  I don't like thesethingsbut if one carries them out faithfully they are not reallylowering. I have had a severe galling to begin with:  that willmake the small rubs seem easy."

PoorLydgate! the "if Rosamond will not mind" which had fallenfrom him involuntarily as part of his thoughtwas a significant markof the yoke he bore.  But Mr. Farebrotherwhose hopes enteredstrongly into the same current with Lydgate'sand who knew nothingabout him that could now raise a melancholy presentimentleft himwith affectionate congratulation.

CHAPTERLXXI

  Clown. . . . 'Twas in the Bunch of Grapeswhereindeed
    you have a delight to sithave you not?
  Froth. I have so:  because it is an open roomand good forwinter.
   Clo. Whyvery well then:  I hope herebe truths.
   --Measure for Measure.

Five daysafter the death of RafflesMr. Bambridge was standing at his leisureunder the large archway leading into the yard of the Green Dragon. He was not fond of solitary contemplationbut he had only just comeout of the houseand any human figure standing at ease under thearchway in the early afternoon was as certain to attractcompanionship as a pigeon which has found something worth peekingat.  In this case there was no material object to feed uponbutthe eye of reason saw a probability of mental sustenance in the shapeof gossip.  Mr. Hopkinsthe meek-mannered draper oppositewasthe first to act on this inward visionbeing the more ambitious of alittle masculine talk because his customers were chiefly women. Mr.Bambridge was rather curt to the draperfeeling that Hopkins was ofcourse glad to talk to HIMbut that he was not going to waste muchof his talk on Hopkins.  Soonhoweverthere was a smallcluster of more important listenerswho were either deposited fromthe passers-byor had sauntered to the spot expressly to see ifthere were anything going on at the Green Dragon; and Mr. Bambridgewas finding it worth his while to say many impressive things aboutthe fine studs he had been seeing and the purchases he had made on ajourney in the north from which he had just returned.  Gentlemenpresent were assured that when they could show him anything to cutout a blood marea bayrising fourwhich was to be seen atDoncaster if they chose to go and look at itMr. Bambridge wouldgratify them by being shot "from here to Hereford." Alsoa pair of blacks which he was going to put into the breakrecalled vividly to his mind a pair which he had sold to Faulkner in'19for a hundred guineasand which Faulkner had sold for a hundredand sixty two months later--any gent who could disprove thisstatement being offered the privilege of calling Mr. Bambridge by avery ugly name until the exercise made his throat dry.

When thediscourse was at this point of animationcame up Mr. Frank Hawley. He was not a man to compromise his dignity by lounging at the GreenDragonbut happening to pass along the High Street and seeingBambridge on the other sidehe took some of his long strides acrossto ask the horsedealer whether he had found the first-rate gig-horsewhich he had engaged to look for.  Mr. Hawley was requested towait until he had seen a gray selected at Bilkley:  if that didnot meet his wishes to a hairBambridge did not know a horse when hesaw itwhich seemed to be the highest conceivable unlikelihood. Mr.Hawleystanding with his back to the streetwas fixing a time forlooking at the gray and seeing it triedwhen a horseman passedslowly by.

"Bulstrode!"said two or three voices at once in a low toneone of themwhichwas the draper'srespectfully prefixing the "Mr.;" butnobody having more intention in this interjectural naming than ifthey had said "the Riverston coach" when that vehicleappeared in the distance. Mr. Hawley gave a careless glance round atBulstrode's backbut as Bambridge's eyes followed it he made asarcastic grimace.

"Byjingo! that reminds me" he beganlowering his voice a little"I picked up something else at Bilkley besides your gig-horseMr. Hawley.  I picked up a fine story about Bulstrode. Do youknow how he came by his fortune?  Any gentleman wanting a bit ofcurious informationI can give it him free of expense. If everybodygot their desertsBulstrode might have had to say his prayers atBotany Bay."

"Whatdo you mean?" said Mr. Hawleythrusting his hands into hispocketsand pushing a little forward under the archway. If Bulstrodeshould turn out to be a rascalFrank Hawley had a prophetic soul.

"Ihad it from a party who was an old chum of Bulstrode's. I'll tell youwhere I first picked him up" said Bambridgewith a suddengesture of his fore-finger. "He was at Larcher's salebut Iknew nothing of him then--he slipped through my fingers-- was afterBulstrodeno doubt.  He tells me he can tap Bulstrode to anyamountknows all his secrets.  Howeverhe blabbed to me atBilkley:  he takes a stiff glass.  Damme if I think hemeant to turn king's evidence; but he's that sort of bragging fellowthe bragging runs over hedge and ditch with himtill he'd brag of aspavin as if it 'ud fetch money.  A man should know when to pullup." Mr. Bambridge made this remark with an air of disgustsatisfied that his own bragging showed a fine sense of themarketable.

"What'sthe man's name?  Where can he be found?" said Mr. Hawley.

"Asto where he is to be foundI left him to it at the Saracen's Head;but his name is Raffles."

"Raffles!"exclaimed Mr. Hopkins.  "I furnished his funeral yesterday.He was buried at Lowick.  Mr. Bulstrode followed him.  Avery decent funeral."  There was a strong sensation amongthe listeners. Mr. Bambridge gave an ejaculation in which "brimstone"was the mildest wordand Mr. Hawleyknitting his brows and bendinghis head forwardexclaimed"What?--where did the man die?"

"AtStone Court" said the draper.  "The housekeeper saidhe was a relation of the master's. He came there ill on Friday."

"Whyit was on Wednesday I took a glass with him" interposedBambridge.

"Didany doctor attend him?" said Mr. Hawley

"Yes. Mr. Lydgate.  Mr. Bulstrode sat up with him one night. He diedthe third morning."

"GoonBambridge" said Mr. Hawleyinsistently.  "Whatdid this fellow say about Bulstrode?"

The grouphad already become largerthe town-clerk's presence being aguarantee that something worth listening to was going on there; andMr. Bambridge delivered his narrative in the hearing of seven. It wasmainly what we knowincluding the fact about Will Ladislawwithsome local color and circumstance added:  it was what Bulstrodehad dreaded the betrayal of--and hoped to have buried forever withthe corpse of Raffles--it was that haunting ghost of his earlier lifewhich as he rode past the archway of the Green Dragon he was trustingthat Providence had delivered him from.  YesProvidence. He hadnot confessed to himself yet that he had done anything in the way ofcontrivance to this end; he had accepted what seemed to have beenoffered.  It was impossible to prove that he had done anythingwhich hastened the departure of that man's soul.

But thisgossip about Bulstrode spread through Middlemarch like the smell offire.  Mr. Frank Hawley followed up his information by sending aclerk whom he could trust to Stone Court on a pretext of inquiringabout haybut really to gather all that could be learned aboutRaffles and his illness from Mrs. Abel.  In this way it came tohis knowledge that Mr. Garth had carried the man to Stone Court inhis gig; and Mr. Hawley in consequence took an opportunity of seeingCalebcalling at his office to ask whether he had time to undertakean arbitration if it were requiredand then asking him incidentallyabout Raffles.  Caleb was betrayed into no word injurious toBulstrode beyond the fact which he was forced to admitthat he hadgiven up acting for him within the last week. Mr Hawley drew hisinferencesand feeling convinced that Raffles had told his story toGarthand that Garth had given up Bulstrode's affairs inconsequencesaid so a few hours later to Mr. Toller. The statementwas passed on until it had quite lost the stamp of an inferenceandwas taken as information coming straight from Garthso that even adiligent historian might have concluded Caleb to be the chiefpublisher of Bulstrode's misdemeanors.

Mr. Hawleywas not slow to perceive that there was no handle for the law eitherin the revelations made by Raffles or in the circumstances of hisdeath.  He had himself ridden to Lowick village that he mightlook at the register and talk over the whole matter with Mr.Farebrotherwho was not more surprised than the lawyer that an uglysecret should have come to light about Bulstrodethough he hadalways had justice enough in him to hinder his antipathy from turninginto conclusions.  But while they were talking anothercombination was silently going forward in Mr. Farebrother's mindwhich foreshadowed what was soon to be loudly spoken of inMiddlemarch as a necessary "putting of two and two together." With the reasons which kept Bulstrode in dread of Raffles thereflashed the thought that the dread might have something to do withhis munificence towards his medical man; and though he resisted thesuggestion that it had been consciously accepted in any way as abribehe had a foreboding that this complication of things might beof malignant effect on Lydgate's reputation.  He perceived thatMr. Hawley knew nothing at present of the sudden relief from debtand he himself was careful to glide away from all approaches towardsthe subject.

"Well"he saidwith a deep breathwanting to wind up the illimitablediscussion of what might have beenthough nothing could be legallyproven"it is a strange story.  So our mercurial Ladislawhas a queer genealogy!  A high-spirited young lady and a musicalPolish patriot made a likely enough stock for him to spring frombutI should never have suspected a grafting of the Jew pawnbroker.Howeverthere's no knowing what a mixture will turn out beforehand.Some sorts of dirt serve to clarify."

"It'sjust what I should have expected" said Mr. Hawleymounting hishorse.  "Any cursed alien bloodJewCorsicanor Gypsy."

"Iknow he's one of your black sheepHawley.  But he is really adisinterestedunworldly fellow" said Mr. Farebrothersmiling.

"Ayaythat is your Whiggish twist" said Mr. Hawleywho had beenin the habit of saying apologetically that Farebrother was such adamned pleasant good-hearted fellow you would mistake him for a Tory.

Mr. Hawleyrode home without thinking of Lydgate's attendance on Raffles in anyother light than as a piece of evidence on the side of Bulstrode. But the news that Lydgate had all at once become able not only to getrid of the execution in his house but to pay all his debts inMiddlemarch was spreading fastgathering round it conjectures andcomments which gave it new body and impetusand soon filling theears of other persons besides Mr. Hawleywho were not slow to see asignificant relation between this sudden command of money andBulstrode's desire to stifle the scandal of Raffles.  That themoney came from Bulstrode would infallibly have been guessed even ifthere had been no direct evidence of it; for it had beforehandentered into the gossip about Lydgate's affairsthat neither hisfather-in-law nor his own family would do anything for himanddirect evidence was furnished not only by a clerk at the Bankbut byinnocent Mrs. Bulstrode herselfwho mentioned the loan to Mrs.Plymdalewho mentioned it to her daughter-in-law of the house ofTollerwho mentioned it generally.  The business was felt to beso public and important that it required dinners to feed itand manyinvitations were just then issued and accepted on the strength ofthis scandal concerning Bulstrode and Lydgate; wiveswidowsandsingle ladies took their work and went out to tea oftener than usual;and all public convivialityfrom the Green Dragon to Dollop'sgathered a zest which could not be won from the question whether theLords would throw out the Reform Bill.

For hardlyanybody doubted that some scandalous reason or other was at thebottom of Bulstrode's liberality to Lydgate.  Mr. Hawley indeedin the first instanceinvited a select partyincluding the twophysicianswith Mr Toller and Mr. Wrenchexpressly to hold a closediscussion as to the probabilities of Raffles's illnessreciting tothem all the particulars which had been gathered from Mrs. Abel inconnection with Lydgate's certificatethat the death was due todelirium tremens; and the medical gentlemenwho all stoodundisturbedly on the old paths in relation to this diseasedeclaredthat they could see nothing in these particulars which could betransformed into a positive ground of suspicion.  But the moralgrounds of suspicion remained:  the strong motives Bulstrodeclearly had for wishing to be rid of Rafflesand the fact that atthis critical moment he had given Lydgate the help which he must forsome time have known the need for; the dispositionmoreovertobelieve that Bulstrode would be unscrupulousand the absence of anyindisposition to believe that Lydgate might be as easily bribed asother haughty-minded men when they have found themselves in want ofmoney.  Even if the money had been given merely to make him holdhis tongue about the scandal of Bulstrode's earlier lifethe factthrew an odious light on Lydgatewho had long been sneered at asmaking himself subservient to the banker for the sake of workinghimself into predominanceand discrediting the elder members of hisprofession.  Hencein spite of the negative as to any directsign of guilt in relation to the death at Stone CourtMr. Hawley'sselect party broke up with the sense that the affair had "anugly look."

But thisvague conviction of indeterminable guiltwhich was enough to keep upmuch head-shaking and biting innuendo even among substantialprofessional seniorshad for the general mind all the superior powerof mystery over fact.  Everybody liked better to conjecture howthe thing wasthan simply to know it; for conjecture soon becamemore confident than knowledgeand had a more liberal allowance forthe incompatible.  Even the more definite scandal concerningBulstrode's earlier life wasfor some mindsmelted into the mass ofmysteryas so much lively metal to be poured out in dialogueand totake such fantastic shapes as heaven pleased.

This wasthe tone of thought chiefly sanctioned by Mrs. Dollopthe spiritedlandlady of the Tankard in Slaughter Lanewho had often to resistthe shallow pragmatism of customers disposed to think that theirreports from the outer world were of equal force with what had "comeup" in her mind.  How it had been brought to her she didn'tknowbut it was there before her as if it had been scored with thechalk on the chimney-board--" as Bulstrode should sayhisinside was THAT BLACK as if the hairs of his head knowed the thoughtsof his hearthe'd tear 'em up by the roots."

"That'sodd" said Mr. Limpa meditative shoemakerwith weak eyes anda piping voice.  "WhyI read in the `Trumpet' that waswhat the Duke of Wellington said when he turned his coat and wentover to the Romans."

"Verylike" said Mrs. Dollop.  "If one raskill said itit's more reason why another should.  But hypoCRITE as he'sbeenand holding things with that high handas there was no parsoni' the country good enough for himhe was forced to take Old Harryinto his counseland Old Harry's been too many for him."

"Ayayhe's a 'complice you can't send out o' the country" saidMr. Crabbethe glazierwho gathered much news and groped among itdimly.  "But by what I can make outthere's them saysBulstrode was for running awayfor fear o' being found outbeforenow."

"He'llbe drove awaywhether or no" said Mr. Dillthe barberwhohad just dropped in.  "I shaved FletcherHawley's clerkthis morning--he's got a bad finger--and he says they're all of onemind to get rid of Bulstrode.  Mr. Thesiger is turned againsthimand wants him out o' the parish.  And there's gentlemen inthis town says they'd as soon dine with a fellow from the hulks. `And a deal sooner I would' says Fletcher; `for what's more againstone's stomach than a man coming and making himself bad company withhis religionand giving out as the Ten Commandments are not enoughfor himand all the while he's worse than half the men at thetread-mill?' Fletcher said so himself."

"It'llbe a bad thing for the town thoughif Bulstrode's money goes out ofit" said Mr. Limpquaveringly.

"Ahthere's better folks spend their money worse" said afirm-voiced dyerwhose crimson hands looked out of keeping with hisgood-natured face.

"Buthe won't keep his moneyby what I can make out" said theglazier. "Don't they say as there's somebody can strip it offhim? By what I can understan'they could take every penny off himif they went to lawing."

"Nosuch thing!" said the barberwho felt himself a little abovehis company at Dollop'sbut liked it none the worse.  "Fletchersays it's no such thing.  He says they might prove over and overagain whose child this young Ladislaw wasand they'd do no more thanif they proved I came out of the Fens--he couldn't touch a penny."

"Lookyou there now!" said Mrs. Dollopindignantly.  "Ithank the Lord he took my children to Himselfif that's all the lawcan do for the motherless.  Then by thatit's o' no use whoyour father and mother is.  But as to listening to what onelawyer says without asking another--I wonder at a man o' yourclevernessMr. Dill.  It's well known there's always two sidesif no more; else who'd go to lawI should like to know?  It's apoor talewith all the law as there is up and downif it's no useproving whose child you are.  Fletcher may say that if he likesbut I saydon't Fletcher ME!"

Mr. Dillaffected to laugh in a complimentary way at Mrs. Dollopas a womanwho was more than a match for the lawyers; being disposed to submitto much twitting from a landlady who had a long score against him.

"Ifthey come to lawingand it's all true as folks saythere's more tobe looked to nor money" said the glazier. "There's thispoor creetur as is dead and gone; by what I can make outhe'd seenthe day when he was a deal finer gentleman nor Bulstrode."

"Finergentleman!  I'll warrant him" said Mrs. Dollop; "anda far personabler manby what I can hear.  As I said when Mr.Baldwinthe tax-gatherercomes ina-standing where you sitandsays`Bulstrode got all his money as he brought into this town bythieving and swindling'--I said`You don't make me no wiserMr.Baldwin: it's set my blood a-creeping to look at him ever sin' herehe came into Slaughter Lane a-wanting to buy the house over my head:folks don't look the color o' the dough-tub and stare at you as ifthey wanted to see into your backbone for nothingk.'  That waswhat I saidand Mr. Baldwin can bear me witness."

"Andin the rights of it too" said Mr. Crabbe.  "For bywhat I can make outthis Rafflesas they call himwas a lustyfresh-colored man as you'd wish to seeand the best o'company--though dead he lies in Lowick churchyard sure enough; and bywhat I can understan'there's them knows more than they SHOULD knowabout how he got there."

"I'llbelieve you!" said Mrs. Dallopwith a touch of scorn at Mr.Crabbe's apparent dimness.  "When a man's been 'ticed to alone houseand there's them can pay for hospitals and nurses forhalf the country-side choose to be sitters-up night and dayandnobody to come near but a doctor as is known to stick at nothingkand as poor as he can hang togetherand after that so flush o' moneyas he can pay off Mr. Byles the butcher as his bill has been runningon for the best o' joints since last Michaelmas was a twelvemonth--Idon't want anybody to come and tell me as there's been more going onnor the Prayer-book's got a service for-- I don't want to standwinking and blinking and thinking."

Mrs.Dollop looked round with the air of a landlady accustomed to dominateher company.  There was a chorus of adhesion from the morecourageous; but Mr. Limpafter taking a draughtplaced his fiathands together and pressed them hard between his kneeslooking downat them with blear-eyed contemplationas if the scorching power ofMrs. Dollop's speech had quite dried up and nullified his wits untilthey could be brought round again by further moisture.

"Whyshouldn't they dig the man up and have the Crowner?" said thedyer.  "It's been done many and many's the time. If there'sbeen foul play they might find it out."

"NottheyMr. Jonas!" said Mrs Dollopemphatically."I knowwhat doctors are.  They're a deal too cunning to be found out.And this Doctor Lydgate that's been for cutting up everybody beforethe breath was well out o' their body--it's plain enough what use hewanted to make o' looking into respectable people's insides. He knowsdrugsyou may be sureas you can neither smell nor seeneitherbefore they're swallowed nor after.  WhyI've seen drops myselfordered by Doctor Gambitas is our club doctor and a good charikterand has brought more live children into the world nor ever another i'Middlemarch--I say I've seen drops myself as made no differencewhether they was in the glass or outand yet have griped you thenext day.  So I'll leave your own sense to judge. Don't tellme!  All I say isit's a mercy they didn't take this DoctorLydgate on to our club.  There's many a mother's child might ha'rued it."

The headsof this discussion at "Dollop's" had been the common themeamong all classes in the townhad been carried to Lowick Parsonageon one side and to Tipton Grange on the otherhad come fully to theears of the Vincy familyand had been discussed with sad referenceto "poor Harriet" by all Mrs. Bulstrode's friendsbeforeLydgate knew distinctly why people were looking strangely at himandbefore Bulstrode himself suspected the betrayal of his secrets. Hehad not been accustomed to very cordial relations with his neighborsand hence he could not miss the signs of cordiality; moreoverhe hadbeen taking journeys on business of various kindshaving now made uphis mind that he need not quit Middlemarchand feeling ableconsequently to determine on matters which he had before left insuspense.

"Wewill make a journey to Cheltenham in the course of a month or two"he had said to his wife.  "There are great spiritualadvantages to be had in that town along with the air and the watersand six weeks there will be eminently refreshing to us."

He reallybelieved in the spiritual advantagesand meant that his lifehenceforth should be the more devoted because of those later sinswhich he represented to himself as hypotheticpraying hypotheticallyfor their pardon:--"if I have herein transgressed." as to the Hospitalhe avoided saying anything further to Lydgatefearing to manifest a too sudden change of plans immediately on thedeath of Raffles. In his secret soul he believed that Lydgatesuspected his orders to have been intentionally disobeyedandsuspecting this he must also suspect a motive.  But nothing hadbeen betrayed to him as to the history of Rafflesand Bulstrode wasanxious not to do anything which would give emphasis to his undefinedsuspicions.  As to any certainty that a particular method oftreatment would either save or killLydgate himself was constantlyarguing against such dogmatism; he had no right to speakand he hadevery motive for being silent. Hence Bulstrode felt himselfprovidentially secured.  The only incident he had stronglywinced under had been an occasional encounter with Caleb Garthwhohoweverhad raised his hat with mild gravity.

Meanwhileon the part of the principal townsmen a strong determination wasgrowing against him.

A meetingwas to be held in the Town-Hall on a sanitary question which hadrisen into pressing importance by the occurrence of a cholera case inthe town.  Since the Act of Parliamentwhich had been hurriedlypassedauthorizing assessments for sanitary measuresthere had beena Board for the superintendence of such measures appointed inMiddlemarchand much cleansing and preparation had been concurred inby Whigs and Tories.  The question now waswhether a piece ofground outside the town should be secured as a burial-ground by meansof assessment or by private subscription. The meeting was to be openand almost everybody of importance in the town was expected to bethere.

Mr.Bulstrode was a member of the Boardand just before twelve o'clockhe started from the Bank with the intention of urging the plan ofprivate subscription.  Under the hesitation of his projectshehad for some time kept himself in the backgroundand he felt that heshould this morning resume his old position as a man of action andinfluence in the public affairs of the town where he expected to endhis days.  Among the various persons going in the samedirectionhe saw Lydgate; they joinedtalked over the object of themeetingand entered it together.

It seemedthat everybody of mark had been earlier than they. But there werestill spaces left near the head of the large central tableand theymade their way thither.  Mr. Farebrother sat oppositenot farfrom Mr. Hawley; all the medical men were there; Mr. Thesiger was inthe chairand Mr. Brooke of Tipton was on his right hand.

Lydgatenoticed a peculiar interchange of glances when he and Bulstrode tooktheir seats.

After thebusiness had been fully opened by the chairmanwho pointed out theadvantages of purchasing by subscription a piece of ground largeenough to be ultimately used as a general cemeteryMr. Bulstrodewhose rather high-pitched but subdued and fluent voice the town wasused to at meetings of this sortrose and asked leave to deliver hisopinion.  Lydgate could see again the peculiar interchange ofglances before Mr. Hawley started upand said in his firm resonantvoice"Mr. ChairmanI request that before any one delivers hisopinion on this point I may be permitted to speak on a question ofpublic feelingwhich not only by myselfbut by many gentlemenpresentis regarded as preliminary."

Mr.Hawley's mode of speecheven when public decorum repressed his"awful language" was formidable in its curtness andself-possession. Mr. Thesiger sanctioned the requestMr. Bulstrodesat downand Mr. Hawley continued.

"Inwhat I have to sayMr. ChairmanI am not speaking simply on my ownbehalf:  I am speaking with the concurrence and at the expressrequest of no fewer than eight of my fellow-townsmenwho areimmediately around us.  It is our united sentiment that Mr.Bulstrode should be called upon--and I do now call upon him-- toresign public positions which he holds not simply as a tax-payerbutas a gentleman among gentlemen.  There are practices and thereare acts whichowing to circumstancesthe law cannot visitthoughthey may be worse than many things which are legally punishable.Honest men and gentlemenif they don't want the company of peoplewho perpetrate such actshave got to defend themselves as they bestcanand that is what I and the friends whom I may call my clients inthis affair are determined to do.  I don't say that Mr.Bulstrode has been guilty of shameful actsbut I call upon himeither publicly to deny and confute the scandalous statements madeagainst him by a man now deadand who died in his house--thestatement that he was for many years engaged in nefarious practicesand that he won his fortune by dishonest procedures--or else towithdraw from positions which could only have been allowed him as agentleman among gentlemen."

All eyesin the room were turned on Mr. Bulstrodewhosince the firstmention of his namehad been going through a crisis of feelingalmost too violent for his delicate frame to support.  Lydgatewho himself was undergoing a shock as from the terrible practicalinterpretation of some faint auguryfeltneverthelessthat his ownmovement of resentful hatred was checked by that instinct of theHealer which thinks first of bringing rescue or relief to thesuffererwhen he looked at the shrunken misery of Bulstrode's lividface.

The quickvision that his life was after all a failurethat he was adishonored manand must quail before the glance of those towardswhom he had habitually assumed the attitude of a reprover--that Godhad disowned him before men and left him unscreened to the triumphantscorn of those who were glad to have their hatred justified--thesense of utter futility in that equivocation with his conscience indealing with the life of his accomplicean equivocation which nowturned venomously upon him with the full-grown fang of a discoveredlie:-- all this rushed through him like the agony of terror whichfails to killand leaves the ears still open to the returning waveof execration. The sudden sense of exposure after the re-establishedsense of safety came--not to the coarse organization of a criminalbut to-- the susceptible nerve of a man whose intensest being lay insuch mastery and predominance as the conditions of his life hadshaped for him.

But inthat intense being lay the strength of reaction.  Through allhis bodily infirmity there ran a tenacious nerve of ambitiousself-preserving willwhich had continually leaped out like a flamescattering all doctrinal fearsand whicheven while he sat anobject of compassion for the mercifulwas beginning to stir and glowunder his ashy paleness.  Before the last words were out of Mr.Hawley's mouthBulstrode felt that he should answerand that hisanswer would be a retort.  He dared not get up and say"Iam not guiltythe whole story is false"--even if he had daredthisit would have seemed to himunder his present keen sense ofbetrayalas vain as to pullfor covering to his nakednessa frailrag which would rend at every little strain.

For a fewmoments there was total silencewhile every man in the room waslooking at Bulstrode.  He sat perfectly stillleaning hardagainst the back of his chair; he could not venture to riseand whenhe began to speak he pressed his hands upon the seat on each side ofhim.  But his voice was perfectly audiblethough hoarser thanusualand his words were distinctly pronouncedthough he pausedbetween sentence as if short of breath.  He saidturning firsttoward Mr. Thesigerand then looking at Mr. Hawley--

"Iprotest before yousiras a Christian ministeragainst thesanction of proceedings towards me which are dictated by virulenthatred. Those who are hostile to me are glad to believe any libeluttered by a loose tongue against me.  And their consciencesbecome strict against me.  Say that the evil-speaking of which Iam to be made the victim accuses me of malpractices--" hereBulstrode's voice rose and took on a more biting accenttill itseemed a low cry-- "who shall be my accuser?  Not men whoseown lives are unchristiannayscandalous--not men who themselvesuse low instruments to carry out their ends--whose profession is atissue of chicanery-- who have been spending their income on theirown sensual enjoymentswhile I have been devoting mine to advancethe best objects with regard to this life and the next."

After theword chicanery there was a growing noisehalf of murmurs and half ofhisseswhile four persons started up at once--Mr. HawleyMr.TollerMr. Chichelyand Mr. Hackbutt; but Mr. Hawley's outburst wasinstantaneousand left the others behind in silence.

"Ifyou mean mesirI call you and every one else to the inspection ofmy professional life.  As to Christian or unchristianIrepudiate your canting palavering Christianity; and as to the way inwhich I spend my incomeit is not my principle to maintain thievesand cheat offspring of their due inheritance in order to supportreligion and set myself up as a saintly Killjoy.  I affect noniceness of conscience--I have not found any nice standards necessaryyet to measure your actions bysir.  And I again call upon youto enter into satisfactory explanations concerning the scandalsagainst youor else to withdraw from posts in which we at any ratedecline you as a colleague.  I saysirwe decline toco-operate with a man whose character is not cleared from infamouslights cast upon itnot only by reports but by recent actions."

"AllowmeMr. Hawley" said the chairman; and Mr. Hawleystillfumingbowed half impatientlyand sat down with his hands thrustdeep in his pockets.

"Mr.Bulstrodeit is not desirableI thinkto prolong the presentdiscussion" said Mr. Thesigerturning to the pallid tremblingman; "I must so far concur with what has fallen from Mr. Hawleyin expression of a general feelingas to think it due to yourChristian profession that you should clear yourselfif possiblefrom unhappy aspersions.  I for my part should be willing togive you full opportunity and hearing.  But I must say that yourpresent attitude is painfully inconsistent with those principleswhich you have sought to identify yourself withand for the honor ofwhich I am bound to care.  I recommend you at presentas yourclergymanand one who hopes for your reinstatement in respecttoquit the roomand avoid further hindrance to business."

Bulstrodeafter a moment's hesitationtook his hat from the floor and slowlyrosebut he grasped the corner of the chair so totteringly thatLydgate felt sure there was not strength enough in him to walk awaywithout support.  What could he do? He could not see a man sinkclose to him for want of help. He rose and gave his arm to Bulstrodeand in that way led him out of the room; yet this actwhich mighthave been one of gentle duty and pure compassionwas at this momentunspeakably bitter to him. It seemed as if he were putting hissign-manual to that association of himself with Bulstrodeof whichhe now saw the full meaning as it must have presented itself to otherminds.  He now felt the conviction that this man who was leaningtremblingly on his armhad given him the thousand pounds as a bribeand that somehow the treatment of Raffles had been tampered with froman evil motive. The inferences were closely linked enough; the townknew of the loanbelieved it to be a bribeand believed that hetook it as a bribe.

PoorLydgatehis mind struggling under the terrible clutch of thisrevelationwas all the while morally forced to take Mr. Bulstrode tothe Banksend a man off for his carriageand wait to accompany himhome.

Meanwhilethe business of the meeting was despatchedand fringed off intoeager discussion among various groups concerning this affair ofBulstrode--and Lydgate.

Mr.Brookewho had before heard only imperfect hints of itand was veryuneasy that he had "gone a little too far" in countenancingBulstrodenow got himself fully informedand felt some benevolentsadness in talking to Mr. Farebrother about the ugly light in whichLydgate had come to be regarded. Mr. Farebrother was going to walkback to Lowick.

"Stepinto my carriage" said Mr. Brooke.  "I am going roundto see Mrs. Casaubon.  She was to come back from Yorkshire lastnight. She will like to see meyou know."

So theydrove alongMr. Brooke chatting with good-natured hope that therehad not really been anything black in Lydgate's behavior-- a youngfellow whom he had seen to be quite above the common markwhen hebrought a letter from his uncle Sir Godwin.  Mr. Farebrothersaid little:  he was deeply mournful:  with a keenperception of human weaknesshe could not be confident that underthe pressure of humiliating needs Lydgate had not fallen belowhimself.

When thecarriage drove up to the gate of the ManorDorothea was out on thegraveland came to greet them.

"Wellmy dear" said Mr. Brooke"we have just come from ameeting-- a sanitary meetingyou know."

"WasMr. Lydgate there?" said Dorotheawho looked full of health andanimationand stood with her head bare under the gleaming Aprillights.  "I want to see him and have a great consultationwith him about the Hospital.  I have engaged with Mr. Bulstrodeto do so."

"Ohmy dear" said Mr. Brooke"we have been hearing bad news--bad newsyou know."

Theywalked through the garden towards the churchyard gateMr.Farebrother wanting to go on to the parsonage; and Dorothea heard thewhole sad story.

Shelistened with deep interestand begged to hear twice over the factsand impressions concerning Lydgate.  After a short silencepausing at the churchyard gateand addressing Mr. Farebrothershesaid energetically--

"Youdon't believe that Mr. Lydgate is guilty of anything base? I will notbelieve it.  Let us find out the truth and clear him!"

BOOKVIII

SUNSET ANDSUNRISE

CHAPTERLXXII

  Full souls are double mirrorsmaking still
   Anendless vista of fair things before
   Repeating thingsbehind.

Dorothea'simpetuous generositywhich would have leaped at once to thevindication of Lydgate from the suspicion of having accepted money asa bribeunderwent a melancholy check when she came to consider allthe circumstances of the case by the light of Mr. Farebrother'sexperience.

"Itis a delicate matter to touch" he said.  "How can webegin to inquire into it?  It must be either publicly by settingthe magistrate and coroner to workor privately by questioningLydgate. As to the first proceeding there is no solid ground to gouponelse Hawley would have adopted it; and as to opening thesubject with LydgateI confess I should shrink from it.  Hewould probably take it as a deadly insult.  I have more thanonce experienced the difficulty of speaking to him on personalmatters.  And--one should know the truth about his conductbeforehandto feel very confident of a good result."

"Ifeel convinced that his conduct has not been guilty:  I believethat people are almost always better than their neighbors think theyare" said Dorothea.  Some of her intensest experience inthe last two years had set her mind strongly in opposition to anyunfavorable construction of others; and for the first time she feltrather discontented with Mr. Farebrother.  She disliked thiscautious weighing of consequencesinstead of an ardent faith inefforts of justice and mercywhich would conquer by their emotionalforce. Two days afterwardshe was dining at the Manor with her uncleand the Chettamsand when the dessert was standing uneatentheservants were out of the roomand Mr. Brooke was nodding in a napshe returned to the subject with renewed vivacity.

"Mr.Lydgate would understand that if his friends hear a calumny about himtheir first wish must be to justify him.  What do we live forif it is not to make life less difficult to each other? I cannot beindifferent to the troubles of a man who advised me in MY troubleand attended me in my illness."

Dorothea'stone and manner were not more energetic than they had been when shewas at the head of her uncle's table nearly three years beforeandher experience since had given her more right to express a decidedopinion.  But Sir James Chettam was no longer the diffident andacquiescent suitor:  he was the anxious brother-in-lawwith adevout admiration for his sisterbut with a constant alarm lest sheshould fall under some new illusion almost as bad as marryingCasaubon.  He smiled much less; when he said "Exactly"it was more often an introduction to a dissentient opinion than inthose submissive bachelor days; and Dorothea found to her surprisethat she had to resolve not to be afraid of him--all the more becausehe was really her best friend.  He disagreed with her now.

"ButDorothea" he saidremonstrantly"you can't undertake tomanage a man's life for him in that way.  Lydgate must know-- atleast he will soon come to know how he stands.  If he can clearhimselfhe will.  He must act for himself."

"Ithink his friends must wait till they find an opportunity"added Mr. Farebrother.  "It is possible--I have often feltso much weakness in myself that I can conceive even a man ofhonorable dispositionsuch as I have always believed Lydgate to besuccumbing to such a temptation as that of accepting money which wasoffered more or less indirectly as a bribe to insure his silenceabout scandalous facts long gone by.  I sayI can conceivethisif he were under the pressure of hard circumstances--if he hadbeen harassed as I feel sure Lydgate has been.  I would notbelieve anything worse of him except under stringent proof.  Butthere is the terrible Nemesis following on some errorsthat it isalways possible for those who like it to interpret them into a crime:there is no proof in favor of the man outside his own consciousnessand assertion."

"Ohhow cruel!" said Dorotheaclasping her hands.  "Andwould you not like to be the one person who believed in that man'sinnocenceif the rest of the world belied him?  Besidesthereis a man's character beforehand to speak for him."

"Butmy dear Mrs. Casaubon" said Mr. Farebrothersmiling gently ather ardor"character is not cut in marble--it is not somethingsolid and unalterable.  It is something living and changingandmay become diseased as our bodies do."

"Thenit may be rescued and healed" said Dorothea "I should notbe afraid of asking Mr. Lydgate to tell me the truththat I mighthelp him.  Why should I be afraid?  Now that I am not tohave the landJamesI might do as Mr. Bulstrode proposedand takehis place in providing for the Hospital; and I have to consult Mr.Lydgateto know thoroughly what are the prospects of doing good bykeeping up the present plans.  There is the best opportunity inthe world for me to ask for his confidence; and he would be able totell me things which might make all the circumstances clear. Then wewould all stand by him and bring him out of his trouble. Peopleglorify all sorts of bravery except the bravery they might show onbehalf of their nearest neighbors."  Dorothea's eyes had amoist brightness in themand the changed tones of her voice rousedher unclewho began to listen.

"Itis true that a woman may venture on some efforts of sympathy whichwould hardly succeed if we men undertook them" said Mr.Farebrotheralmost converted by Dorothea's ardor.

"Surelya woman is bound to be cautious and listen to those who know theworld better than she does."  said Sir Jameswith hislittle frown.  "Whatever you do in the endDorotheayoushould really keep back at presentand not volunteer any meddlingwith this Bulstrode business.  We don't know yet what may turnup. You must agree with me?" he endedlooking at Mr.Farebrother.

"I dothink it would be better to wait" said the latter.

"Yesyesmy dear" said Mr. Brookenot quite knowing at what pointthe discussion had arrivedbut coming up to it with a contributionwhich was generally appropriate.  "It is easy to go toofaryou know. You must not let your ideas run away with you. And as to being in a hurry to put money into schemes--it won't doyou know. Garth has drawn me in uncommonly with repairsdrainingthat sort of thing:  I'm uncommonly out of pocket with one thingor another. I must pull up.  As for youChettamyou arespending a fortune on those oak fences round your demesne."

Dorotheasubmitting uneasily to this discouragementwent with Celia into thelibrarywhich was her usual drawing-room.

"NowDododo listen to what James says" said Celia"else youwill be getting into a scrape.  You always didand you alwayswillwhen you set about doing as you please.  And I think it isa mercy now after all that you have got James to think for you. He lets you have your plansonly he hinders you from being taken in.And that is the good of having a brother instead of a husband. Ahusband would not let you have your plans."

"Asif I wanted a husband!" said Dorothea.  "I only wantnot to have my feelings checked at every turn."  Mrs.Casaubon was still undisciplined enough to burst into angry tears.

"NowreallyDodo" said Celiawith rather a deeper guttural thanusual"you ARE contradictory:  first one thing and thenanother. You used to submit to Mr. Casaubon quite shamefully:  Ithink you would have given up ever coming to see me if he had askedyou."

"Ofcourse I submitted to himbecause it was my duty; it was my feelingfor him" said Dorothealooking through the prism of her tears.

"Thenwhy can't you think it your duty to submit a little to what Jameswishes?" said Celiawith a sense of stringency in her argument."Because he only wishes what is for your own good.  Andofcoursemen know best about everythingexcept what women knowbetter." Dorothea laughed and forgot her tears.

"WellI mean about babies and those things" explained Celia. "Ishould not give up to James when I knew he was wrongas you used todo to Mr. Casaubon."

CHAPTERLXXIII

  Pity the laden one; this wandering woe
   May visit youand me.

WhenLydgate had allayed Mrs. Bulstrode's anxiety by telling her that herhusband had been seized with faintness at the meetingbut that hetrusted soon to see him better and would call again the next dayunless she-sent for him earlierhe went directly homegot on hishorseand rode three miles out of the town for the sake of being outof reach.

He felthimself becoming violent and unreasonable as if raging under the painof stings:  he was ready to curse the day on which he had cometo Middlemarch.  Everything that bad happened to him thereseemed a mere preparation for this hateful fatalitywhich had comeas a blight on his honorable ambitionand must make even people whohad only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocablydamaged.  In such moments a man can hardly escape beingunloving.  Lydgate thought of himself as the suffererand ofothers as the agents who had injured his lot.  He had meanteverything to turn out differently; and others had thrust themselvesinto his life and thwarted his purposes.  His marriage seemed anunmitigated calamity; and he was afraid of going to Rosamond beforehe had vented himself in this solitary ragelest the mere sight ofher should exasperate him and make him behave unwarrantably. Thereare episodes in most men's lives in which their highest qualities canonly cast a deterring shadow over the objects that fill their inwardvision:  Lydgate's tenderheartedness was present just then onlyas a dread lest he should offend against itnot as an emotion thatswayed him to tenderness.  For he was very miserable. Only thosewho know the supremacy of the intellectual life-- the life which hasa seed of ennobling thought and purpose within it-- can understandthe grief of one who falls from that serene activity into theabsorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances.

How was heto live on without vindicating himself among people who suspected himof baseness?  How could he go silently away from Middlemarch asif he were retreating before a just condemnation? And yet how was heto set about vindicating himself?

For thatscene at the meetingwhich he had just witnessedalthough it hadtold him no particularshad been enough to make his own situationthoroughly clear to him.  Bulstrode had been in dread ofscandalous disclosures on the part of Raffles. Lydgate could nowconstruct all the probabilities of the case. "He was afraid ofsome betrayal in my hearing:  all he wanted was to bind me tohim by a strong obligation:  that was why he passed on a suddenfrom hardness to liberality.  And he may have tampered with thepatient--he may have disobeyed my orders.  I fear he did. Butwhether he did or notthe world believes that he somehow or otherpoisoned the man and that I winked at the crimeif I didn't help init.  And yet--and yet he may not be guilty of the last offence;and it is just possible that the change towards me may have been agenuine relenting--the effect of second thoughts such as he alleged.What we call the `just possible' is sometimes true and the thing wefind it easier to believe is grossly false.  In his lastdealings with this man Bulstrode may have kept his hands pureinspite of my suspicion to the contrary."

There wasa benumbing cruelty in his position.  Even if he renounced everyother consideration than that of justifying himself-- if he metshrugscold glancesand avoidance as an accusationand made apublic statement of all the facts as he knew themwho would beconvinced?  It would be playing the part of a fool to offer hisown testimony on behalf of himselfand say"I did not take themoney as a bribe."  The circumstances would always bestronger than his assertion.  And besidesto come forward andtell everything about himself must include declarations aboutBulstrode which would darken the suspicions of others against him. Hemust tell that he had not known of Raffles's existence when he firstmentioned his pressing need of money to Bulstrodeand that he tookthe money innocently as a result of that communicationnot knowingthat a new motive for the loan might have arisen on his being calledin to this man.  And after allthe suspicion of Bulstrode'smotives might be unjust.

But thencame the question whether he should have acted in precisely the sameway if he had not taken the money?  Certainlyif Raffles hadcontinued alive and susceptible of further treatment when he arrivedand he had then imagined any disobedience to his orders on the partof Bulstrodehe would have made a strict inquiryand if hisconjecture had been verified he would have thrown up the caseinspite of his recent heavy obligation.  But if he had notreceived any money-- if Bulstrode had never revoked his coldrecommendation of bankruptcy-- would heLydgatehave abstained fromall inquiry even on finding the man dead?--would the shrinking froman insult to Bulstrode-- would the dubiousness of all medicaltreatment and the argument that his own treatment would pass for thewrong with most members of his profession--have had just the sameforce or significance with him?

That wasthe uneasy corner of Lydgate's consciousness while he was reviewingthe facts and resisting all reproach.  If he had beenindependentthis matter of a patient's treatment and the distinctrule that he must do or see done that which he believed best for thelife committed to himwould have been the point on which he wouldhave been the sturdiest.  As it washe had rested in theconsideration that disobedience to his ordershowever it might havearisencould not be considered a crimethat in the dominant opinionobedience to his orders was just as likely to be fataland that theaffair was simply one of etiquette. Whereasagain and againin histime of freedomhe had denounced the perversion of pathologicaldoubt into moral doubt and had said-- "the purest experiment intreatment may still be conscientious: my business is to take care oflifeand to do the best I can think of for it.  Science isproperly more scrupulous than dogma. Dogma gives a charter tomistakebut the very breath of science is a contest with mistakeand must keep the conscience alive." Alas! the scientificconscience had got into the debasing company of money obligation andselfish respects.

"Isthere a medical man of them all in Middlemarch who would questionhimself as I do?" said poor Lydgatewith a renewed outburst ofrebellion against the oppression of his lot.  "And yet theywill all feel warranted in making a wide space between me and themas if I were a leper!  My practice and my reputation are utterlydamned-- I can see that.  Even if I could be cleared by validevidenceit would make little difference to the blessed world here.I have been set down as tainted and should be cheapened to them allthe same."

Alreadythere had been abundant signs which had hitherto puzzled himthatjust when he had been paying off his debts and getting cheerfully onhis feetthe townsmen were avoiding him or looking strangely. athimand in two instances it came to his knowledge that patients ofhis had called in another practitioner.  The reasons were tooplain now.  The general black-balling had begun.

No wonderthat in Lydgate's energetic nature the sense of a hopelessmisconstruction easily turned into a dogged resistance. The scowlwhich occasionally showed itself on his square brow was not ameaningless accident.  Already when he was re-entering the townafter that ride taken in the first hours of stinging painhe wassetting his mind on remaining in Middlemarch in spite of the worstthat could be done against him.  He would not retreat beforecalumnyas if he submitted to it.  He would face it to theutmostand no act of his should show that he was afraid.  Itbelonged to the generosity as well as defiant force of his naturethat he resolved not to shrink from showing to the full his sense ofobligation to Bulstrode. It was true that the association with thisman had been fatal to him-- true that if he had had the thousandpounds still in his hands with all his debts unpaid he would havereturned the money to Bulstrodeand taken beggary rather than therescue which had been sullied with the suspicion of a bribe (forrememberhe was one of the proudest among the sons ofmen)--neverthelesshe would not turn away from this crushedfellow-mortal whose aid he had usedand make a pitiful effort to getacquittal for himself by howling against another. "I shall do asI think rightand explain to nobody.  They will try to starveme outbut--" he was going on with an obstinate resolvebut hewas getting near homeand the thought of Rosamond urged itself againinto that chief place from which it had been thrust by the agonizedstruggles of wounded honor and pride.

How wouldRosamond take it all?  Here was another weight of chain to dragand poor Lydgate was in a bad mood for bearing her dumb mastery. Hehad no impulse to tell her the trouble which must soon be common tothem both.  He preferred waiting for the incidental disclosurewhich events must soon bring about.

CHAPTERLXXIV

  "Mercifully grant that we may grow aged together."
  --BOOK OF TOBIT:  Marriage Prayer.

InMiddlemarch a wife could not long remain ignorant that the town helda bad opinion of her husband.  No feminine intimate might carryher friendship so far as to make a plain statement to the wife of theunpleasant fact known or believed about her husband; but when a womanwith her thoughts much at leisure got them suddenly employed onsomething grievously disadvantageous to her neighborsvarious moralimpulses were called into play which tended to stimulate utterance.Candor was one.  To be candidin Middlemarch phraseologymeantto use an early opportunity of letting your friends know thatyou did not take a cheerful view of their capacitytheir conductortheir position; and a robust candor never waited to be asked for itsopinion.  Thenagainthere was the love of truth--a widephrasebut meaning in this relationa lively objection to seeing awife look happier than her husband's character warrantedor manifesttoo much satisfaction in her lot--the poor thing should have somehint given her that if she knew the truth she would have lesscomplacency in her bonnetand in light dishes for a supper-party.Stronger than allthere was the regard for a friend's moralimprovementsometimes called her soulwhich was likely to bebenefited by remarks tending to gloomuttered with the accompanimentof pensive staring at the furniture and a manner implying that thespeaker would not tell what was on her mindfrom regard to thefeelings of her hearer. On the wholeone might say that an ardentcharity was at work setting the virtuous mind to make a neighborunhappy for her good.

There werehardly any wives in Middlemarch whose matrimonial misfortunes wouldin different ways be likely to call forth more of this moral activitythan Rosamond and her aunt Bulstrode.  Mrs. Bulstrode was not anobject of dislikeand had never consciously injured any humanbeing.  Men had always thought her a handsome comfortable womanand had reckoned it among the signs of Bulstrode's hypocrisy that hehad chosen a red-blooded Vincyinstead of a ghastly and melancholyperson suited to his low esteem for earthly pleasure.  When thescandal about her husband was disclosed they remarked of her--"Ahpoor woman! She's as honest as the day--SHE never suspected anythingwrong in himyou may depend on it."  Womenwho wereintimate with hertalked together much of "poor Harriet"imagined what her feelings must be when she came to know everythingand conjectured how much she had already come to know.  Therewas no spiteful disposition towards her; ratherthere was a busybenevolence anxious to ascertain what it would be well for her tofeel and do under the circumstanceswhich of course kept theimagination occupied with her character and history from the timeswhen she was Harriet Vincy till now. With the review of Mrs.Bulstrode and her position it was inevitable to associate Rosamondwhose prospects were under the same blight with her aunt's. Rosamondwas more severely criticised and less pitiedthough she tooas oneof the good old Vincy family who had always been known inMiddlemarchwas regarded as a victim to marriage with aninterloper.  The Vincys had their weaknessesbut then they layon the surface:  there was never anything bad to be "foundout" concerning them.  Mrs. Bulstrode was vindicated fromany resemblance to her husband.  Harriet's faults were her own.

"Shehas always been showy" said Mrs. Hackbuttmaking tea for asmall party"though she has got into the way of putting herreligion forwardto conform to her husband; she has tried to holdher head up above Middlemarch by making it known that she invitesclergymen and heaven-knows-who from Riverston and those places."

"Wecan hardly blame her for that" said Mrs. Sprague; "becausefew of the best people in the town cared to associate with Balstrodeand she must have somebody to sit down at her table."

"Mr.Thesiger has always countenanced him" said Mrs. Hackbutt. "Ithink he must be sorry now."

"Buthe was never fond of him in his heart--that every one knows"said Mrs. Tom Toller.  "Mr. Thesiger never goes intoextremes. He keeps to the truth in what is evangelical.  It isonly clergymen like Mr. Tykewho want to use Dissenting hymn-booksand that low kind of religionwho ever found Bulstrode to theirtaste."

"IunderstandMr. Tyke is in great distress about him" said Mrs.Hackbutt.  "And well he may be:  they say theBulstrodes have half kept the Tyke family."

"Andof coarse it is a discredit to his doctrines" said Mrs.Spraguewho was elderlyand old-fashioned in her opinions.

"Peoplewill not make a boast of being methodistical in Middlemarch for agood while to come."

"Ithink we must not set down people's bad actions to their religion"said falcon-faced Mrs. Plymdalewho had been listening hitherto.

"Ohmy dearwe are forgetting" said Mrs. Sprague.  "Weought not to be talking of this before you."

"I amsure I have no reason to be partial" said Mrs. Plymdalecoloring.  "It's true Mr. Plymdale has always been on goodterms with Mr. Bulstrodeand Harriet Vincy was my friend long beforeshe married him.  But I have always kept my own opinions andtold her where she was wrongpoor thing.  Stillin point ofreligionI must sayMr. Bulstrode might have done what he hasandworseand yet have been a man of no religion.  I don't say thatthere has not been a little too much of that--I like moderationmyself. But truth is truth.  The men tried at the assizes arenot all over-religiousI suppose."

"Well"said Mrs. Hackbuttwheeling adroitly"all I can say isthat Ithink she ought to separate from him."

"Ican't say that" said Mrs. Sprague.  "She took him forbetter or worseyou know."

"But`worse' can never mean finding out that your husband is fit forNewgate" said Mrs. Hackbutt.  "Fancy living with sucha man! I should expect to be poisoned."

"YesI think myself it is an encouragement to crime if such men are to betaken care of and waited on by good wives" said Mrs. TomToller.

"Anda good wife poor Harriet has been" said Mrs. Plymdale. "Shethinks her husband the first of men.  It's true he has neverdenied her anything."

"Wellwe shall see what she will do" said Mrs. Hackbutt. "Isuppose she knows nothing yetpoor creature.  I do hope andtrust I shall not see herfor I should be frightened to death lest Ishould say anything about her husband.  Do you think any hinthas reached her?"

"Ishould hardly think so" said Mrs. Tom Toller.  "Wehear that he is illand has never stirred out of the house since themeeting on Thursday; but she was with her girls at church yesterdayand they had new Tuscan bonnets.  Her own had a feather in it. Ihave never seen that her religion made any difference in her dress."

"Shewears very neat patterns always" said Mrs. Plymdalea littlestung.  "And that feather I know she got dyed a palelavender on purpose to be consistent.  I must say it of Harrietthat she wishes to do right."

"Asto her knowing what has happenedit can't be kept from her long"said Mrs. Hackbutt.  "The Vincys knowfor Mr. Vincy was atthe meeting. It will he a great blow to him.  There is hisdaughter as well as his sister."

"Yesindeed" said Mrs. Sprague.  "Nobody supposes that Mr.Lydgate can go on holding up his head in Middlemarchthings look soblack about the thousand pounds he took just at that man's death. Itreally makes one shudder."

"Pridemust have a fall" said Mrs. Hackbutt.

"I amnot so sorry for Rosamond Vincy that was as I am for her aunt"said Mrs. Plymdale.  "She needed a lesson."

"Isuppose the Bulstrodes will go and live abroad somewhere" saidMrs. Sprague.  "That is what is generally done when thereis anything disgraceful in a family."

"Anda most deadly blow it will be to Harriet" said Mrs. Plymdale."If ever a woman was crushedshe will be.  I pity her frommy heart. And with all her faultsfew women are better.  From agirl she had the neatest waysand was always good-heartedand asopen as the day. You might look into her drawers when youwould--always the same. And so she has brought up Kate and Ellen. You may think how hard it will be for her to go among foreigners."

"Thedoctor says that is what he should recommend the Lydgates to do"said Mrs. Sprague.  "He says Lydgate ought to have keptamong the French."

"Thatwould suit HER well enoughI dare say" said Mrs. Plymdale;"there is that kind of lightness about her.  But she gotthat from her mother; she never got it from her aunt Bulstrodewhoalways gave her good adviceand to my knowledge would rather havehad her marry elsewhere."

Mrs.Plymdale was in a situation which caused her some complication offeeling.  There had been not only her intimacy with Mrs.Bulstrodebut also a profitable business relation of the greatPlymdale dyeing house with Mr. Bulstrodewhich on the one hand wouldhave inclined her to desire that the mildest view of his charactershould be the true onebut on the othermade her the more afraid ofseeming to palliate his culpability.  Againthe late allianceof her family with the Tollers had brought her in connection with thebest circlewhich gratified her in every direction except in theinclination to those serious views which she believed to be the bestin another sense. The sharp little woman's conscience was somewhattroubled in the adjustment of these opposing "bests" andof her griefs and satisfactions under late eventswhich were likelyto humble those who needed humblingbut also to fall heavily on herold friend whose faults she would have preferred seeing on abackground of prosperity.

Poor Mrs.Bulstrodemeanwhilehad been no further shaken by the oncomingtread of calamity than in the busier stirring of that secretuneasiness which had always been present in her since the last visitof Raffles to The Shrubs.  That the hateful man had come ill toStone Courtand that her husband had chosen to remain there andwatch over himshe allowed to be explained by the fact that Raffleshad been employed and aided in earlier-daysand that this made a tieof benevolence towards him in his degraded helplessness; and she hadbeen since then innocently cheered by her husband's more hopefulspeech about his own health and ability to continue his attention tobusiness.  The calm was disturbed when Lydgate had brought himhome ill from the meetingand in spite of comforting assurancesduring the next few daysshe cried in private from the convictionthat her husband was not suffering from bodily illness merelybutfrom something that afflicted his mind. He would not allow her toread to himand scarcely to sit with himalleging nervoussusceptibility to sounds and movements; yet she suspected that inshutting himself up in his private room he wanted to be busy with hispapers.  Somethingshe felt surehad happened. Perhaps it wassome great loss of money; and she was kept in the dark. Not daring toquestion her husbandshe said to Lydgateon the fifth day after themeetingwhen she had not left home except to go to church--

"Mr.Lydgatepray be open with me:  I like to know the truth. Hasanything happened to Mr. Bulstrode?"

"Somelittle nervous shock" said Lydgateevasively.  He feltthat it was not for him to make the painful revelation.

"Butwhat brought it on?" said Mrs. Bulstrodelooking directly athim with her large dark eyes.

"Thereis often something poisonous in the air of public rooms" saidLydgate.  "Strong men can stand itbut it tells on peoplein proportion to the delicacy of their systems.  It is oftenimpossible to account for the precise moment of an attack--or ratherto say why the strength gives way at a particular moment."

Mrs.Bulstrode was not satisfied with this answer.  There remained inher the belief that some calamity had befallen her husbandof whichshe was to be kept in ignorance; and it was in her nature strongly toobject to such concealment.  She begged leave for her daughtersto sit with their fatherand drove into the town to pay some visitsconjecturing that if anything were known to have gone wrong in Mr.Bulstrode's affairsshe should see or hear some sign of it.

She calledon Mrs. Thesigerwho was not at homeand then drove to Mrs.Hackbutt's on the other side of the churchyard. Mrs. Hackbutt saw hercoming from an up-stairs windowand remembering her former alarmlest she should meet Mrs. Bulstrodefelt almost bound in consistencyto send word that she was not at home; but against thatthere was asudden strong desire within her for the excitement of an interview inwhich she was quite determined not to make the slightest allusion towhat was in her mind.

Hence Mrs.Bulstrode was shown into the drawing-roomand Mrs. Hackbutt went toherwith more tightness of lip and rubbing of her hands than wasusually observable in herthese being precautions adopted againstfreedom of speech.  She was resolved not to ask how Mr.Bulstrode was.

"Ihave not been anywhere except to church for nearly a week" saidMrs. Bulstrodeafter a few introductory remarks. "But Mr.Bulstrode was taken so ill at the meeting on Thursday that I have notliked to leave the house."

Mrs.Hackbutt rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other heldagainst her chestand let her eyes ramble over the pattern on therug.

"WasMr. Hackbutt at the meeting?" persevered Mrs. Bulstrode.

"Yeshe was" said Mrs. Hackbuttwith the same attitude. "Theland is to be bought by subscriptionI believe."

"Letus hope that there will be no more cases of cholera to be buried init" said Mrs. Bulstrode.  "It is an awful visitation.But I always think Middlemarch a very healthy spot.  I supposeit is being used to it from a child; but I never saw the town Ishould like to live at betterand especially our end."

"I amsure I should be glad that you always should live at MiddlemarchMrs. Bulstrode" said Mrs. Hackbuttwith a slight sigh. "Stillwe must learn to resign ourselveswherever our lot maybe east. Though I am sure there will always be people in this townwho will wish you well."

Mrs.Hackbutt longed to say"if you take my advice you will partfrom your husband" but it seemed clear to her that the poorwoman knew nothing of the thunder ready to bolt on her headand sheherself could do no more than prepare her a little. Mrs. Bulstrodefelt suddenly rather chill and trembling:  there was evidentlysomething unusual behind this speech of Mrs. Hackbutt's; but thoughshe had set out with the desire to be fully informedshe foundherself unable now to pursue her brave purposeand turning theconversation by an inquiry about the young Hackbuttsshe soon tookher leave saying that she was going to see Mrs. Plymdale. On her waythither she tried to imagine that there might have been someunusually warm sparring at the meeting between Mr. Bulstrode and someof his frequent opponents--perhaps Mr. Hackbutt might have been oneof them.  That would account for everything.

But whenshe was in conversation with Mrs. Plymdale that comfortingexplanation seemed no longer tenable.  "Selina"received her with a pathetic affectionateness and a disposition togive edifying answers on the commonest topicswhich could hardlyhave reference to an ordinary quarrel of which the most importantconsequence was a perturbation of Mr. Bulstrode's health. Beforehand Mrs. Bulstrode had thought that she would sooner questionMrs. Plymdale than any one else; but she found to her surprise thatan old friend is not always the person whom it is easiest to make aconfidant of:  there was the barrier of remembered communicationunder other circumstances-- there was the dislike of being pitied andinformed by one who had been long wont to allow her the superiority. For certain words of mysterious appropriateness that Mrs. Plymdalelet fall about her resolution never to turn her back on her friendsconvinced Mrs. Bulstrode that what had happened must be some kind ofmisfortuneand instead of being able to say with her nativedirectness"What is it that you have in your mind?" shefound herself anxious to get away before she had heard anything moreexplicit.  She began to have an agitating certainty that themisfortune was something more than the mere loss of moneybeingkeenly sensitive to the fact that Selina nowjust as Mrs. Hackbutthad done beforeavoided noticing what she said about her husbandasthey would have avoided noticing a personal blemish.

She saidgood-by with nervous hasteand told the coachman to drive to Mr.Vincy's warehouse.  In that short drive her dread gathered somuch force from the sense of darknessthat when she entered theprivate counting-house where her brother sat at his deskher kneestrembled and her usually florid face was deathly pale. Something ofthe same effect was produced in him by the sight of her: he rose fromhis seat to meet hertook her by the handand saidwith hisimpulsive rashness--

"Godhelp youHarriet! you know all."

Thatmoment was perhaps worse than any which came after.  Itcontained that concentrated experience which in great crises ofemotion reveals the bias of a natureand is prophetic of theultimate act which will end an intermediate struggle.  Withoutthat memory of Raffles she might still have thought only of monetaryruinbut now along with her brother's look and words there dartedinto her mind the idea of some guilt in her husband--thenunder theworking of terror came the image of her husband exposed to disgrace--and thenafter an instant of scorching shame in which she felt onlythe eyes of the worldwith one leap of her heart she was at his sidein mournful but unreproaching fellowship with shame and isolation. All this went on within her in a mere flash of time-- while she sankinto the chairand raised her eyes to her brotherwho stood overher.  "I know nothingWalter.  What is it?" shesaidfaintly.

He toldher everythingvery inartificiallyin slow fragmentsmaking heraware that the scandal went much beyond proofespecially as to theend of Raffles.

"Peoplewill talk" he said.  "Even if a man has beenacquitted by a jurythey'll talkand nod and wink--and as far asthe world goesa man might often as well be guilty as not. It's a breakdown blowand it damages Lydgate as much as Bulstrode. I don't pretend to say what is the truth.  I only wish we hadnever heard the name of either Bulstrode or Lydgate.  You'dbetter have been a Vincy all your lifeand so had Rosamond." Mrs. Bulstrode made no reply.

"Butyou must bear up as well as you canHarriet.  People don'tblame YOU. And I'll stand by you whatever you make up your mind todo" said the brotherwith rough but well-meaningaffectionateness.

"Giveme your arm to the carriageWalter" said Mrs. Bulstrode. "Ifeel very weak."

And whenshe got home she was obliged to say to her daughter"I am notwellmy dear; I must go and lie down.  Attend to your papa.Leave me in quiet.  I shall take no dinner."

She lockedherself in her room.  She needed time to get used to her maimedconsciousnessher poor lopped lifebefore she could walk steadilyto the place allotted her.  A new searching light had fallen onher husband's characterand she could not judge him leniently: thetwenty years in which she had believed in him and venerated him byvirtue of his concealments came back with particulars that made themseem an odious deceit.  He had married her with that bad pastlife hidden behind himand she had no faith left to protest hisinnocence of the worst that was imputed to him. Her honestostentatious nature made the sharing of a merited dishonor as bitteras it could be to any mortal.

But thisimperfectly taught womanwhose phrases and habits were an oddpatchworkhad a loyal spirit within her.  The man whoseprosperity she had shared through nearly half a lifeand who hadunvaryingly cherished her--now that punishment had befallen him itwas not possible to her in any sense to forsake him. There is aforsaking which still sits at the same board and lies on the samecouch with the forsaken soulwithering it the more by unlovingproximity.  She knewwhen she locked her doorthat she shouldunlock it ready to go down to her unhappy husband and espouse hissorrowand say of his guiltI will mourn and not reproach. But sheneeded time to gather up her strength; she needed to sob out herfarewell to all the gladness and pride of her life. When she hadresolved to go downshe prepared herself by some little acts whichmight seem mere folly to a hard onlooker; they were her way ofexpressing to all spectators visible or invisible that she had beguna new life in which she embraced humiliation. She took off all herornaments and put on a plain black gownand instead of wearing hermuch-adorned cap and large bows of hairshe brushed her hair downand put on a plain bonnet-capwhich made her look suddenly like anearly Methodist.

Bulstrodewho knew that his wife had been out and had come in saying that shewas not wellhad spent the time in an agitation equal to hers. He had looked forward to her learning the truth from othersand hadacquiesced in that probabilityas something easier to him than anyconfession.  But now that he imagined the moment of herknowledge comehe awaited the result in anguish. His daughters hadbeen obliged to consent to leave himand though he had allowed somefood to be brought to himhe had not touched it. He felt himselfperishing slowly in unpitied misery.  Perhaps he should neversee his wife's face with affection in it again. And if he turned toGod there seemed to be no answer but the pressure of retribution.

It waseight o'clock in the evening before the door opened and his wifeentered.  He dared not look up at her.  He sat with hiseyes bent downand as she went towards him she thought he lookedsmaller-- he seemed so withered and shrunken.  A movement of newcompassion and old tenderness went through her like a great waveandputting one hand on his which rested on the arm of the chairand theother on his shouldershe saidsolemnly but kindly--

"LookupNicholas."

He raisedhis eyes with a little start and looked at her half amazed for amoment:  her pale faceher changedmourning dressthetrembling about her mouthall said"I know;" and herhands and eyes rested gently on him.  He burst out crying andthey cried togethershe sitting at his side.  They could notyet speak to each other of the shame which she was bearing with himor of the acts which had brought it down on them.  Hisconfession was silentand her promise of faithfulness was silent. Open-minded as she wasshe nevertheless shrank from the words whichwould have expressed their mutual consciousnessas she would haveshrunk from flakes of fire. She could not say"How much is onlyslander and false suspicion?" and he did not say"I aminnocent."

CHAPTERLXXV

"Lesentiment de la faussete' des plaisirs presentset l'ignorance

dela vanite des plaisirs absentscausent l'inconstance."--PASCAL.

Rosamondhad a gleam of returning cheerfulness when the house was freed fromthe threatening figureand when all the disagreeable creditors werepaid.  But she was not joyous:  her married life hadfulfilled none of her hopesand had been quite spoiled for herimagination. In this brief interval of calmLydgaterememberingthat he had often been stormy in his hours of perturbationandmindful of the pain Rosamond had had to bearwas carefully gentletowards her; but hetoohad lost some of his old spiritand hestill felt it necessary to refer to an economical change in their wayof living as a matter of coursetrying to reconcile her to itgraduallyand repressing his anger when she answered by wishing thathe would go to live in London.  When she did not make thisanswershe listened languidlyand wondered what she had that wasworth living for.  The hard and contemptuous words which hadfallen from her husband in his anger had deeply offended that vanitywhich he had at first called into active enjoyment; and what sheregarded as his perverse way of looking at thingskept up a secretrepulsionwhich made her receive all his tenderness as a poorsubstitute for the happiness he had failed to give her.  Theywere at a disadvantage with their neighborsand there was no longerany outlook towards Quallingham--there was no outlook anywhere exceptin an occasional letter from Will Ladislaw.  She had felt stungand disappointed by Will's resolution to quit Middlemarchfor inspite of what she knew and guessed about his admiration for Dorotheashe secretly cherished the belief that he hador would necessarilycome to havemuch more admiration for herself; Rosamond being one ofthose women who live much in the idea that each man they meet wouldhave preferred them if the preference had not been hopeless. Mrs.Casaubon was all very well; but Will's interest in her dated beforehe knew Mrs. Lydgate.  Rosamond took his way of talking toherselfwhich was a mixture of playful fault-finding andhyperbolical gallantryas the disguise of a deeper feeling; and inhis presence she felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and senseof romantic drama which Lydgate's presence had no longer the magic tocreate. She even fancied--what will not men and women fancy in thesematters?-- that Will exaggerated his admiration for Mrs. Casaubon inorder to pique herself.  In this way poor Rosamond's brain hadbeen busy before Will's departure.  He would have madeshethoughta much more suitable husband for her than she had found inLydgate. No notion could have been falser than thisfor Rosamond'sdiscontent in her marriage was due to the conditions of marriageitselfto its demand for self-suppression and toleranceand not tothe nature of her husband; but the easy conception of an unrealBetter had a sentimental charm which diverted her ennui.  Sheconstructed a little romance which was to vary the flatness of herlife: Will Ladislaw was always to be a bachelor and live near heralways to be at her commandand have an understood though neverfully expressed passion for herwhich would be sending out lambentflames every now and then in interesting scenes.  His departurehad been a proportionate disappointmentand had sadly increased herweariness of Middlemarch; but at first she had the alternative dreamof pleasures in store from her intercourse with the family atQuallingham.  Since then the troubles of her married life haddeepenedand the absence of other relief encouraged her regretfulrumination over that thin romance which she had once fed on. Men andwomen make sad mistakes about their own symptomstaking their vagueuneasy longingssometimes for geniussometimes for religionandoftener still for a mighty love.  Will Ladislaw had writtenchatty lettershalf to her and half to Lydgateand she had replied:their separationshe feltwas not likely to be finaland thechange she now most longed for was that Lydgate should go to live inLondon; everything would be agreeable in London; and she had set towork with quiet determination to win this resultwhen there came asuddendelightful promise which inspirited her.

It cameshortly before the memorable meeting at the town-halland wasnothing less than a letter from Will Ladislaw to Lydgatewhichturned indeed chiefly on his new interest in plans of colonizationbut mentioned incidentallythat he might find it necessary to pay avisit to Middlemarch within the next few weeks--a very pleasantnecessityhe saidalmost as good as holidays to a schoolboy. Hehoped there was his old place on the rugand a great deal of musicin store for him.  But he was quite uncertain as to the time.While Lydgate was reading the letter to Rosamondher face lookedlike a reviving flower--it grew prettier and more blooming. There wasnothing unendurable now:  the debts were paidMr. Ladislaw wascomingand Lydgate would be persuaded to leave Middlemarch andsettle in Londonwhich was "so different from a provincialtown."

That was abright bit of morning.  But soon the sky became black over poorRosamond.  The presence of a new gloom in her husbandaboutwhich he was entirely reserved towards her--for he dreaded to exposehis lacerated feeling to her neutrality and misconception-- soonreceived a painfully strange explanationalien to all her previousnotions of what could affect her happiness.  In the new gayetyof her spiritsthinking that Lydgate had merely a worse fit ofmoodiness than usualcausing him to leave her remarks unansweredand evidently to keep out of her way as much as possibleshe chosea few days after the meetingand without speaking to him on thesubjectto send out notes of invitation for a small evening partyfeeling convinced that this was a judicious stepsince people seemedto have been keeping aloof from themand wanted restoring to the oldhabit of intercourse.  When the invitations had been acceptedshe would tell Lydgateand give him a wise admonition as to how amedical man should behave to his neighbors; for Rosamond had thegravest little airs possible about other people's duties. But all theinvitations were declinedand the last answer came into Lydgate'shands.

"Thisis Chichely's scratch.  What is he writing to you about?"said Lydgatewonderinglyas he handed the note to her. She wasobliged to let him see itandlooking at her severelyhe said--

"Whyon earth have you been sending out invitations without telling meRosamond?  I begI insist that you will not invite any one tothis house.  I suppose you have been inviting othersand theyhave refused too."  She said nothing.

"Doyou hear me?" thundered Lydgate.

"Yescertainly I hear you" said Rosamondturning her head asidewith the movement of a graceful long-necked bird.

Lydgatetossed his head without any grace and walked out of the roomfeelinghimself dangerous.  Rosamond's thought wasthat he was gettingmore and more unbearable--not that there was any new special reasonfor this peremptoriness His indisposition to tell her anything inwhich he was sure beforehand that she would not be interested wasgrowing into an unreflecting habitand she was in ignorance ofeverything connected with the thousand pounds except that the loanhad come from her uncle Bulstrode.  Lydgate's odious humors andtheir neighbors' apparent avoidance of them had an unaccountable datefor her in their relief from money difficulties. If the invitationshad been accepted she would have gone to invite her mamma and therestwhom she had seen nothing of for several days; and she now puton her bonnet to go and inquire what had become of them allsuddenlyfeeling as if there were a conspiracy to leave her in isolation witha husband disposed to offend everybody. It was after the dinner hourand she found her father and mother seated together alone in thedrawing-room. They greeted her with sad lookssaying "Wellmydear!" and no more.  She had never seen her father look sodowncast; and seating herself near him she said--

"Isthere anything the matterpapa?"

He did notanswerbut Mrs. Vincy said"Ohmy dearhave you heardnothing?  It won't be long before it reaches you."

"Isit anything about Tertius?" said Rosamondturning pale. Theidea of trouble immediately connected itself with what had beenunaccountable to her in him.

"Ohmy dearyes.  To think of your marrying into this trouble. Debtwas bad enoughbut this will be worse."

"StaystayLucy" said Mr. Vincy.  "Have you heard nothingabout your uncle BulstrodeRosamond?"

"Nopapa" said the poor thingfeeling as if trouble were notanything she had before experiencedbut some invisible power with aniron grasp that made her soul faint within her.

Her fathertold her everythingsaying at the end"It's better for you toknowmy dear.  I think Lydgate must leave the town. Things havegone against him.  I dare say he couldn't help it. I don'taccuse him of any harm" said Mr. Vincy.  He had alwaysbefore been disposed to find the utmost fault with Lydgate.

The shockto Rosamond was terrible.  It seemed to her that no lot could beso cruelly hard as hers to have married a man who had become thecentre of infamous suspicions.  In many cases it is inevitablethat the shame is felt to be the worst part of crime; and it wouldhave required a great deal of disentangling reflectionsuch as hadnever entered into Rosamond's lifefor her in these moments to feelthat her trouble was less than if her husband had been certainlyknown to have done something criminal. All the shame seemed to bethere.  And she had innocently married this man with the beliefthat he and his family were a glory to her! She showed her usualreticence to her parentsand only saidthat if Lydgate had done asshe wished he would have left Middlemarch long ago.

"Shebears it beyond anything" said her mother when she was gone.

"Ahthank God!" said Mr. Vincywho was much broken down.

ButRosamond went home with a sense of justified repugnance towards herhusband.  What had he really done--how had he really acted? Shedid not know.  Why had he not told her everything?  He didnot speak to her on the subjectand of course she could not speak tohim. It came into her mind once that she would ask her father to lether go home again; but dwelling on that prospect made it seem utterdreariness to her:  a married woman gone back to live with herparents-- life seemed to have no meaning for her in such a position:she could not contemplate herself in it.

The nexttwo days Lydgate observed a change in herand believed that she hadheard the bad news.  Would she speak to him about itor wouldshe go on forever in the silence which seemed to imply that shebelieved him guilty?  We must remember that he was in a morbidstate of mindin which almost all contact was pain.  CertainlyRosamond in this case had equal reason to complain of reserve andwant of confidence on his part; but in the bitterness of his soul heexcused himself;-- was he not justified in shrinking from the task oftelling hersince now she knew the truth she had no impulse to speakto him? But a deeper-lying consciousness that he was in fault madehim restlessand the silence between them became intolerable to him;it was as if they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and lookedaway from each other.

Hethought"I am a fool.  Haven't I given up expectinganything? I have married carenot help."  And that eveninghe said--

"Rosamondhave you heard anything that distresses you?"

"Yes"she answeredlaying down her workwhich she had been carrying onwith a languid semi-consciousnessmost unlike her usual self.

"Whathave you heard?"

"EverythingI suppose.  Papa told me."

"Thatpeople think me disgraced?"

"Yes"said Rosamondfaintlybeginning to sew again automatically.

There wassilence.  Lydgate thought"If she has any trust in me--any notion of what I amshe ought to speak now and say that she doesnot believe I have deserved disgrace."

ButRosamond on her side went on moving her fingers languidly. Whateverwas to be said on the subject she expected to come from Tertius. Whatdid she know?  And if he were innocent of any wrongwhy did henot do something to clear himself?

Thissilence of hers brought a new rush of gall to that bitter mood inwhich Lydgate had been saying to himself that nobody believed inhim--even Farebrother had not come forward.  He had begun toquestion her with the intent that their conversation should dispersethe chill fog which had gathered between thembut he felt hisresolution checked by despairing resentment.  Even this troublelike the restshe seemed to regard as if it were hers alone. He wasalways to her a being apartdoing what she objected to. He startedfrom his chair with an angry impulseand thrusting his hands in hispocketswalked up and down the room.  There was an underlyingconsciousness all the while that he should have to master this angerand tell her everythingand convince her of the facts.  For hehad almost learned the lesson that he must bend himself to hernatureand that because she came short in her sympathyhe must givethe more. Soon he recurred to his intention of opening himself: the occasion must not be lost.  If he could bring her to feelwith some solemnity that here was a slander which must be met and notrun away fromand that the whole trouble had come out of hisdesperate want of moneyit would be a moment for urging powerfullyon her that they should be one in the resolve to do with as littlemoney as possibleso that they might weather the bad time and keepthemselves independent. He would mention the definite measures whichhe desired to takeand win her to a willing spirit.  He wasbound to try this--and what else was there for him to do?

He did notknow how long he had been walking uneasily backwards and forwardsbut Rosamond felt that it was longand wished that he would sitdown.  She too had begun to think this an opportunity for urgingon Tertius what he ought to do.  Whatever might be the truthabout all this miserythere was one dread which asserted itself.

Lydgate atlast seated himselfnot in his usual chairbut in one nearer toRosamondleaning aside in it towards herand looking at her gravelybefore he reopened the sad subject. He had conquered himself so farand was about to speak with a sense of solemnityas on an occasionwhich was not to be repeated. He had even opened his lipswhenRosamondletting her hands falllooked at him and said--

"SurelyTertius--"

"Well?"

"Surelynow at last you have given up the idea of staying in Middlemarch. Icannot go on living here.  Let us go to London.  Papaandevery one elsesays you had better go.  Whatever misery I haveto put up withit will be easier away from here."

Lydgatefelt miserably jarred.  Instead of that critical outpouring forwhich he had prepared himself with efforthere was the old round tobe gone through again.  He could not bear it.  With a quickchange of countenance he rose and went out of the room.

Perhaps ifhe had been strong enough to persist in his determination to be themore because she was lessthat evening might have had a betterissue.  If his energy could have borne down that checkhe mightstill have wrought on Rosamond's vision and will. We cannot be surethat any natureshowever inflexible or peculiarwill resist thiseffect from a more massive being than their own. They may be taken bystorm and for the moment convertedbecoming part of the soul whichenwraps them in the ardor of its movement. But poor Lydgate had athrobbing pain within himand his energy had fallen short of itstask.

Thebeginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far off asever; nayit seemed blocked out by the sense of unsuccessful effort.They lived on from day to day with their thoughts still apartLydgate going about what work he had in a mood of despairandRosamond feelingwith some justificationthat he was behavingcruelly.  It was of no use to say anything to Tertius; but whenWill Ladislaw cameshe was determined to tell him everything. Inspite of her general reticenceshe needed some one who wouldrecognize her wrongs.

CHAPTERLXXVI

  "To mercypitypeaceand love
   All pray intheir distress
   And to these virtues of delight
  Return their thankfulness.
   .   .  .   .   .   .
     ForMercy has a human heart
   Pity a human face;
  And Lovethe human form divine;
   And Peacethe humandress.
   --WILLIAM BLAKE:  Songs of Innocence.

Some dayslaterLydgate was riding to Lowick Manorin consequence of asummons from Dorothea.  The summons had not been unexpectedsince it had followed a letter from Mr. Bulstrodein which he statedthat he had resumed his arrangements for quitting Middlemarchandmust remind Lydgate of his previous communications about theHospitalto the purport of which he still adhered.  It had beenhis dutybefore taking further stepsto reopen the subject withMrs. Casaubonwho now wishedas beforeto discuss the questionwith Lydgate. "Your views may possibly have undergone somechange" wrote Mr. Bulstrode; "butin that case alsoitis desirable that you should lay them before her."

Dorotheaawaited his arrival with eager interest.  Thoughin deferenceto her masculine advisersshe had refrained from what Sir James hadcalled "interfering in this Bulstrode business" thehardship of Lydgate's position was continually in her mindand whenBulstrode applied to her again about the hospitalshe felt that theopportunity was come to her which she had been hindered fromhastening.  In her luxurious homewandering under the boughs ofher own great treesher thought was going out over the lot ofothersand her emotions were imprisoned.  The idea of someactive good within her reach"haunted her like a passion"and another's need having once come to her as a distinct imagepreoccupied her desire with the yearning to give reliefand made herown ease tasteless.  She was full of confident hope about thisinterview with Lydgatenever heeding what was said of his personalreserve; never heeding that she was a very young woman. Nothing couldhave seemed more irrelevant to Dorothea than insistence on her youthand sex when she was moved to show her human fellowship.

As she satwaiting in the libraryshe could do nothing but live through againall the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into her memories. Theyall owed their significance to her marriage and its troubles-- butno; there were two occasions in which the image of Lydgate had comepainfully in connection with his wife and some one else. The pain hadbeen allayed for Dorotheabut it had left in her an awakenedconjecture as to what Lydgate's marriage might be to himasusceptibility to the slightest hint about Mrs. Lydgate. Thesethoughts were like a drama to herand made her eyes brightand gavean attitude of suspense to her whole framethough she was onlylooking out from the brown library on to the turf and the brightgreen buds which stood in relief against the dark evergreens.

WhenLydgate came inshe was almost shocked at the change in his facewhich was strikingly perceptible to her who had not seen him for twomonths.  It was not the change of emaciationbut that effectwhich even young faces will very soon show from the persistentpresence of resentment and despondency.  Her cordial lookwhenshe put out her hand to himsoftened his expressionbut only withmelancholy.

"Ihave wished very much to see you for a long whileMr. Lydgate"said Dorothea when they were seated opposite each other; "but Iput off asking you to come until Mr. Bulstrode applied to me againabout the Hospital.  I know that the advantage of keeping themanagement of it separate from that of the Infirmary depends on youorat leaston the good which you are encouraged to hope for fromhaving it under your control.  And I am sure you will not refuseto tell me exactly what you think."

"Youwant to decide whether you should give a generous support to theHospital" said Lydgate.  "I cannot conscientiouslyadvise you to do it in dependence on any activity of mine. I may beobliged to leave the town."

He spokecurtlyfeeling the ache of despair as to his being able to carry outany purpose that Rosamond had set her mind against.

"Notbecause there is no one to believe in you?" said Dorotheapouring out her words in clearness from a full heart.  "Iknow the unhappy mistakes about you.  I knew them from the firstmoment to be mistakes.  You have never done anything vile. You would not do anything dishonorable."

It was thefirst assurance of belief in him that had fallen on Lydgate's ears. He drew a deep breathand said"Thank you." He could sayno more:  it was something very new and strange in his life thatthese few words of trust from a woman should be so much to him.

"Ibeseech you to tell me how everything was" said Dorotheafearlessly.  "I am sure that the truth would clear you."

Lydgatestarted up from his chair and went towards the windowforgettingwhere he was.  He had so often gone over in his mind thepossibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearancesthat would tellperhaps unfairlyagainst Bulstrodeand had sooften decided against it--he had so often said to himself that hisassertions would not change people's impressions-- that Dorothea'swords sounded like a temptation to do something which in hissoberness he had pronounced to be unreasonable.

"Tellmepray" said Dorotheawith simple earnestness; "then wecan consult together.  It is wicked to let people think evil ofany one falselywhen it can be hindered."

Lydgateturnedremembering where he wasand saw Dorothea's face looking upat him with a sweet trustful gravity.  The presence of a noblenaturegenerous in its wishesardent in its charitychanges thelights for us:  we begin to see things again in their largerquieter massesand to believe that we too can be seen and judged inthe wholeness of our character.  That influence was beginning toact on Lydgatewho had for many days been seeing all life as one whois dragged and struggling amid the throng.  He sat down againand felt that he was recovering his old self in the consciousnessthat he was with one who believed in it.

"Idon't want" he said"to bear hard on Bulstrodewho haslent me money of which I was in need--though I would rather have gonewithout it now.  He is hunted down and miserableand has only apoor thread of life in him.  But I should like to tell youeverything. It will be a comfort to me to speak where belief has gonebeforehandand where I shall not seem to be offering assertions ofmy own honesty. You will feel what is fair to anotheras you feelwhat is fair to me."

"Dotrust me" said Dorothea; "I will not repeat anythingwithout your leave.  But at the very leastI could say that youhave made all the circumstances clear to meand that I know you arenot in any way guilty.  Mr. Farebrother would believe meand myuncleand Sir James Chettam.  Naythere are persons inMiddlemarch to whom I could go; although they don't know much of methey would believe me.  They would know that I could have noother motive than truth and justice.  I would take any pains toclear you. I have very little to do.  There is nothing betterthat I can do in the world."

Dorothea'svoiceas she made this childlike picture of what she would domighthave been almost taken as a proof that she could do it effectively. The searching tenderness of her woman's tones seemed made for adefence against ready accusers.  Lydgate did not stay to thinkthat she was Quixotic:  he gave himself upfor the first timein his lifeto the exquisite sense of leaning entirely on a generoussympathywithout any check of proud reserve. And he told hereverythingfrom the time whenunder the pressure of hisdifficultieshe unwillingly made his first application to Bulstrode;graduallyin the relief of speakinggetting into a more thoroughutterance of what had gone on in his mind-- entering fully into thefact that his treatment of the patient was opposed to the dominantpracticeinto his doubts at the lasthis ideal of medical dutyandhis uneasy consciousness that the acceptance of the money had madesome difference in his private inclination and professional behaviorthough not in his fulfilment of any publicly recognized obligation.

"Ithas come to my knowledge since" he added"that Hawleysent some one to examine the housekeeper at Stone Courtand she saidthat she gave the patient all the opium in the phial I leftas wellas a good deal of brandy.  But that would not have been opposedto ordinary prescriptionseven of first-rate men. The suspicionsagainst me had no hold there:  they are grounded on theknowledge that I took moneythat Bulstrode had strong motives forwishing the man to dieand that he gave me the money as a bribe toconcur in some malpractices or other against the patient--that in anycase I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue. They are just thesuspicions that cling the most obstinatelybecause they lie inpeople's inclination and can never be disproved. How my orders cameto be disobeyed is a question to which I don't know the answer. It is still possible that Bulstrode was innocent of any criminalintention--even possible that he had nothing to do with thedisobedienceand merely abstained from mentioning it. But all thathas nothing to do with the public belief.  It is one of thosecases on which a man is condemned on the ground of his character-- itis believed that he has committed a crime in some undefined waybecause he had the motive for doing it; and Bulstrode's character hasenveloped mebecause I took his money.  I am simply blighted--like a damaged ear of corn--the business is done and can't beundone."

"Ohit is hard!" said Dorothea.  "I understand thedifficulty there is in your vindicating yourself.  And that allthis should have come to you who had meant to lead a higher life thanthe commonand to find out better ways--I cannot bear to rest inthis as unchangeable. I know you meant that.  I remember whatyou said to me when you first spoke to me about the hospital. There is no sorrow I have thought more about than that--to love whatis greatand try to reach itand yet to fail."

"Yes"said Lydgatefeeling that here he had found room for the fullmeaning of his grief.  "I had some ambition.  I meanteverything to be different with me.  I thought I had morestrength and mastery.  But the most terrible obstacles are suchas nobody can see except oneself."

"Suppose"said Dorotheameditatively--"suppose we kept on the Hospitalaccording to the present planand you stayed here though only withthe friendship and support of a fewthe evil feeling towards youwould gradually die out; there would come opportunities in whichpeople would be forced to acknowledge that they had been unjust toyoubecause they would see that your purposes were pure. You maystill win a great fame like the Louis and Laennec I have heard youspeak ofand we shall all be proud of you" she endedwith asmile.

"Thatmight do if I had my old trust in myself" said Lydgatemournfully.  "Nothing galls me more than the notion ofturning round and running away before this slanderleaving itunchecked behind me. StillI can't ask any one to put a great dealof money into a plan which depends on me."

"Itwould be quite worth my while" said Dorotheasimply. "Only think. I am very uncomfortable with my moneybecause theytell me I have too little for any great scheme of the sort I likebestand yet I have too much.  I don't know what to do.  Ihave seven hundred a-year of my own fortuneand nineteen hundreda-year that Mr. Casaubon left meand between three and four thousandof ready money in the bank. I wished to raise money and pay it offgradually out of my income which I don't wantto buy land with andfound a village which should be a school of industry; but Sir Jamesand my uncle have convinced me that the risk would be too great. So you see that what I should most rejoice at would be to havesomething good to do with my money: I should like it to make otherpeople's lives better to them. It makes me very uneasy--coming all tome who don't want it."

A smilebroke through the gloom of Lydgate's face.  The childlikegrave-eyed earnestness with which Dorothea said all this wasirresistible--blent into an adorable whale with her readyunderstanding of high experience.  (Of lower experience such asplays a great part in the worldpoor Mrs. Casaubon had a veryblurred shortsighted knowledgelittle helped by her imagination.)But she took the smile as encouragement of her plan.

"Ithink you see now that you spoke too scrupulously" she saidina tone of persuasion.  "The hospital would be one good; andmaking your life quite whole and well again would be another."

Lydgate'ssmile had died away.  "You have the goodness as well as themoney to do all that; if it could be done" he said. "But--"

Hehesitated a little whilelooking vaguely towards the window; and shesat in silent expectation.  At last he turned towards her andsaid impetuously--

"Whyshould I not tell you?--you know what sort of bond marriage is. Youwill understand everything."

Dorotheafelt her heart beginning to beat faster.  Had he that sorrowtoo?  But she feared to say any wordand he went onimmediately.

"Itis impossible for me now to do anything--to take any step withoutconsidering my wife's happiness.  The thing that I might like todo if I were aloneis become impossible to me.  I can't see hermiserable.  She married me without knowing what she was goingintoand it might have been better for her if she had not marriedme."

"IknowI know--you could not give her painif you were not obliged todo it" said Dorotheawith keen memory of her own life.

"Andshe has set her mind against staying.  She wishes to go. Thetroubles she has had here have wearied her" said Lydgatebreaking off againlest he should say too much.

"Butwhen she saw the good that might come of staying--"saidDorothearemonstrantlylooking at Lydgate as if he had forgottenthe reasons which had just been considered.  He did not speakimmediately.

"Shewould not see it" he said at lastcurtlyfeeling at firstthat this statement must do without explanation.  "AndindeedI have lost all spirit about carrying on my life here." He paused a moment and thenfollowing the impulse to let Dorotheasee deeper into the difficulty of his lifehe said"The factisthis trouble has come upon her confusedly.  We have not beenable to speak to each other about it.  I am not sure what is inher mind about it: she may fear that I have really done somethingbase.  It is my fault; I ought to be more open.  But I havebeen suffering cruelly."

"MayI go and see her?" said Dorotheaeagerly.  "Would sheaccept my sympathy?  I would tell her that you have not beenblamable before any one's judgment but your own.  I would tellher that you shall be cleared in every fair mind.  I would cheerher heart. Will you ask her if I may go to see her?  I did seeher once."

"I amsure you may" said Lydgateseizing the proposition with somehope.  "She would feel honored--cheeredI thinkby theproof that you at least have some respect for me.  I will notspeak to her about your coming--that she may not connect it with mywishes at all. I know very well that I ought not to have leftanything to be told her by othersbut--"

He brokeoffand there was a moment's silence.  Dorothea refrained fromsaying what was in her mind--how well she knew that there might beinvisible barriers to speech between husband and wife. This was apoint on which even sympathy might make a wound. She returned to themore outward aspect of Lydgate's positionsaying cheerfully--

"Andif Mrs. Lydgate knew that there were friends who would believe in youand support youshe might then be glad that you should stay in yourplace and recover your hopes--and do what you meant to do. Perhapsthen you would see that it was right to agree with what I proposedabout your continuing at the Hospital.  Surely you wouldif youstill have faith in it as a means of making your knowledge useful?"

Lydgatedid not answerand she saw that he was debating with himself.

"Youneed not decide immediately" she saidgently.  "Afew days hence it will be early enough for me to send my answer toMr. Bulstrode."

Lydgatestill waitedbut at last turned to speak in his most decisive tones.

"No;I prefer that there should be no interval left for wavering. I am nolonger sure enough of myself--I mean of what it would be possible forme to do under the changed circumstances of my life. It would bedishonorable to let others engage themselves to anything serious independence on me.  I might be obliged to go away after all; Isee little chance of anything else.  The whole thing is tooproblematic; I cannot consent to be the cause of your goodness beingwasted. No--let the new Hospital be joined with the old Infirmaryand everything go on as it might have done if I had never come. Ihave kept a valuable register since I have been there; I shall sendit to a man who will make use of it" he ended bitterly. "Ican think of nothing for a long while but getting an income."

"Ithurts me very much to hear you speak so hopelessly" saidDorothea. "It would be a happiness to your friendswho believein your futurein your power to do great thingsif you would letthem save you from that.  Think how much money I have; it wouldbe like taking a burthen from me if you took some of it every yeartill you got free from this fettering want of income.  Whyshould not people do these things?  It is so difficult to makeshares at all even. This is one way."

"Godbless youMrs. Casaubon!" said Lydgaterising as if with thesame impulse that made his words energeticand resting his arm onthe back of the great leather chair he had been sitting in. "Itis good that you should have such feelings.  But I am not theman who ought to allow himself to benefit by them.  I have notgiven guarantees enough.  I must not at least sink into thedegradation of being pensioned for work that I never achieved. It is very clear to me that I must not count on anything else thangetting away from Middlemarch as soon as I can manage it.  Ishould not be able for a long whileat the very bestto get anincome hereand-- and it is easier to make necessary changes in anew place. I must do as other men doand think what will please theworld and bring in money; look for a little opening in the Londoncrowdand push myself; set up in a watering-placeor go to somesouthern town where there are plenty of idle Englishand get myselfpuffed-- that is the sort of shell I must creep into and try to keepmy soul alive in."

"Nowthat is not brave" said Dorothea--"to give up the fight."

"Noit is not brave" said Lydgate"but if a man is afraid ofcreeping paralysis?"  Thenin another tone"Yet youhave made a great difference in my courage by believing in me. Everything seems more bearable since I have talked to you; and if youcan clear me in a few other mindsespecially in Farebrother'sIshall be deeply grateful.  The point I wish you not to mentionis the fact of disobedience to my orders.  That would soon getdistorted. After allthere is no evidence for me but people'sopinion of me beforehand.  You can only repeat my own report ofmyself."

"Mr.Farebrother will believe--others will believe" said Dorothea."I can say of you what will make it stupidity to suppose thatyou would be bribed to do a wickedness."

"Idon't know" said Lydgatewith something like a groan in hisvoice.  "I have not taken a bribe yet.  But there is apale shade of bribery which is sometimes called prosperity. You willdo me another great kindnessthenand come to see my wife?"

"YesI will.  I remember how pretty she is" said Dorotheaintowhose mind every impression about Rosamond had cut deep. "I hopeshe will like me."

As Lydgaterode awayhe thought"This young creature has a heart largeenough for the Virgin Mary.  She evidently thinks nothing of herown futureand would pledge away half her income at onceas if shewanted nothing for herself but a chair to sit in from which she canlook down with those clear eyes at the poor mortals who pray to her. She seems to have what I never saw in any woman before-- a fountainof friendship towards men--a man can make a friend of her. Casaubonmust have raised some heroic hallucination in her. I wonder if shecould have any other sort of passion for a man? Ladislaw?--there wascertainly an unusual feeling between them. And Casaubon must have hada notion of it.  Well--her love might help a man more than hermoney."

Dorotheaon her side had immediately formed a plan of relieving Lydgate fromhis obligation to Bulstrodewhich she felt sure was a partthoughsmallof the galling pressure he had to bear. She sat down at onceunder the inspiration of their interviewand wrote a brief noteinwhich she pleaded that she had more claim than Mr. Bulstrode had tothe satisfaction of providing the money which had been serviceable toLydgate--that it would be unkind in Lydgate not to grant her theposition of being his helper in this small matterthe favor beingentirely to her who had so little that was plainly marked out for herto do with her superfluous money.  He might call her a creditoror by any other name if it did but imply that he granted herrequest.  She enclosed a check for a thousand poundsanddetermined to take the letter with her the next day when she went tosee Rosamond.

CHAPTERLXXVII

  "And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot
   Tomark the full-fraught man and best indued
   With somesuspicion."
   --Henry V.

The nextday Lydgate had to go to Brassingand told Rosamond that he shouldbe away until the evening.  Of late she had never gone beyondher own house and gardenexcept to churchand once to see her papato whom she said"If Tertius goes awayyou will help us tomovewill you notpapa?  I suppose we shall have very littlemoney.  I am sure I hope some one will help us." And Mr.Vincy had said"YeschildI don't mind a hundred or two. Ican see the end of that."  With these exceptions she hadsat at home in languid melancholy and suspensefixing her mind onWill Ladislaw's coming as the one point of hope and interestandassociating this with some new urgency on Lydgate to make immediatearrangements for leaving Middlemarch and going to Londontill shefelt assured that the coming would be a potent cause of the goingwithout at all seeing how.  This way of establishing sequencesis too common to be fairly regarded as a peculiar folly in Rosamond.And it is precisely this sort of sequence which causes the greatestshock when it is sundered:  for to see how an effect may beproduced is often to see possible missings and checks; but to seenothing except the desirable causeand close upon it the desirableeffectrids us of doubt and makes our minds strongly intuitive. That was the process going on in poor Rosamondwhile she arrangedall objects around her with the same nicety as everonly with moreslowness-- or sat down to the pianomeaning to playand thendesistingyet lingering on the music stool with her white fingerssuspended on the wooden frontand looking before her in dreamyennui. Her melancholy had become so marked that Lydgate felt astrange timidity before itas a perpetual silent reproachand thestrong manmastered by his keen sensibilities towards this fairfragile creature whose life he seemed somehow to have bruisedshrankfrom her lookand sometimes started at her approachfear of her andfear for her rushing in only the more forcibly after it had beenmomentarily expelled by exasperation.

But thismorning Rosamond descended from her room upstairs-- where shesometimes sat the whole day when Lydgate was out-- equipped for awalk in the town.  She had a letter to post--a letter addressedto Mr. Ladislaw and written with charming discretionbut intended tohasten his arrival by a hint of trouble. The servant-maidtheir solehouse-servant nownoticed her coming down-stairs in her walkingdressand thought "there never did anybody look so pretty in abonnet poor thing."

MeanwhileDorothea's mind was filled with her project of going to Rosamondandwith the many thoughtsboth of the past and the probable futurewhich gathered round the idea of that visit. Until yesterday whenLydgate had opened to her a glimpse of some trouble in his marriedlifethe image of Mrs. Lydgate had always been associated for herwith that of Will Ladislaw. Even in her most uneasy moments--evenwhen she had been agitated by Mrs. Cadwallader's painfully graphicreport of gossip-- her effortnayher strongest impulsivepromptinghad been towards the vindication of Will from any sullyingsurmises; and whenin her meeting with him afterwardsshe had atfirst interpreted his words as a probable allusion to a feelingtowards Mrs. Lydgate which he was determined to cut himself off fromindulgingshe had had a quicksadexcusing vision of the charmthere might be in his constant opportunities of companionship withthat fair creaturewho most likely shared his other tastes as sheevidently did his delight in music.  But there had followed hisparting words-- the few passionate words in which he had implied thatshe herself was the object of whom his love held him in dreadthatit was his love for her only which he was resolved not to declare butto carry away into banishment.  From the time of that partingDorotheabelieving in Will's love for herbelieving with a prouddelight in his delicate sense of honor and his determination that noone should impeach him justlyfelt her heart quite at rest as to theregard he might have for Mrs. Lydgate.  She was sure that theregard was blameless.

There arenatures in whichif they love uswe are conscious of having a sortof baptism and consecration:  they bind us over to rectitude andpurity by their pure belief about us; and our sins become that worstkind of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of trust. "If you are not goodnone is good"-- those little wordsmay give a terrific meaning to responsibilitymay hold a vitriolicintensity for remorse.

Dorothea'snature was of that kind:  her own passionate faults lay alongthe easily counted open channels of her ardent character; and whileshe was full of pity for thevisible mistakes of othersshe had notyet any material within her experience for subtle constructions andsuspicions of hidden wrong.  But that simplicity of hersholding up an ideal for others in her believing conception of themwas one of the great powers of her womanhood.  And it had fromthe first acted strongly on Will Ladislaw.  He feltwhen heparted from herthat the brief words by which he had tried to conveyto her his feeling about herself and the division which her fortunemade between themwould only profit by their brevity when Dorotheahad to interpret them:  he felt that in her mind he had foundhis highest estimate.

And he wasright there.  In the months since their parting Dorothea hadfelt a delicious though sad repose in their relation to each otheras one which was inwardly whole and without blemish.  She had anactive force of antagonism within herwhen the antagonism turned onthe defence either of plans or persons that she believed in; and thewrongs which she felt that Will had received from her husbandandthe external conditions which to others were grounds for slightinghimonly gave the more tenacity to her affection and admiringjudgment.  And now with the disclosures about Bulstrode had comeanother fact affecting Will's social positionwhich roused afreshDorothea's inward resistance to what was said about him in that partof her world which lay within park palings.

"YoungLadislaw the grandson of a thieving Jew pawnbroker" was a phrasewhich had entered emphatically into the dialogues about the Bulstrodebusinessat LowickTiptonand Freshittand was a worse kind ofplacard on poor Will's back than the "Italian with white mice." Upright Sir James Chettam was convinced that his own satisfaction wasrighteous when he thought with some complacency that here was anadded league to that mountainous distance between Ladislaw andDorotheawhich enabled him to dismiss any anxiety in that directionas too absurd.  And perhaps there had been some pleasure inpointing Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of Ladislaw'sgenealogyas a fresh candle for him to see his own folly by. Dorothea had observed the animus with which Will's part in thepainful story had been recalled more than once; but she had utteredno wordbeing checked nowas she had not been formerly in speakingof Willby the consciousness of a deeper relation between them whichmust always remain in consecrated secrecy. But her silence shroudedher resistant emotion into a more thorough glow; and this misfortunein Will's lot whichit seemedothers were wishing to fling at hisback as an opprobriumonly gave something more of enthusiasm to herclinging thought.

Sheentertained no visions of their ever coming into nearer unionandyet she had taken no posture of renunciation.  She had acceptedher whole relation to Will very simply as part of her marriagesorrowsand would have thought it very sinful in her to keep up aninward wail because she was not completely happybeing ratherdisposed to dwell on the superfluities of her lot.  She couldbear that the chief pleasures of her tenderness should lie in memoryand the idea of marriage came to her solely as a repulsiveproposition from some suitor of whom she at present knew nothingbutwhose meritsas seen by her friendswould be a source of torment toher:-- "somebody who will manage your property for youmydear" was Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitablecharacteristics. "I should like to manage it myselfif I knewwhat to do with it" said Dorothea.  No--she adhered to herdeclaration that she would never be married againand in the longvalley of her life which looked so flat and empty of waymarksguidance would come as she walked along the roadand saw herfellow-passengers by the way.

Thishabitual state of feeling about Will Ladislaw had been strong. in allher waking hours since she had proposed to pay a visit to Mrs.Lydgatemaking a sort of background against which she saw Rosamond'sfigure presented to her without hindrances to her interest andcompassion.  There was evidently some mental separationsomebarrier to complete confidence which had arisen between this wife andthe husband who had yet made her happiness a law to him. That was atrouble which no third person must directly touch. But Dorotheathought with deep pity of the loneliness which must have come uponRosamond from the suspicions cast on her husband; and there wouldsurely be help in the manifestation of respect for Lydgate andsympathy with her.

"Ishall talk to her about her husband" thought Dorotheaas shewas being driven towards the town.  The clear spring morningthe scent of the moist earththe fresh leaves just showing theircreased-up wealth of greenery from out their half-opened sheathsseemed part of the cheerfulness she was feeling from a longconversation with Mr. Farebrotherwho had joyfully accepted thejustifying explanation of Lydgate's conduct.  "I shall takeMrs. Lydgate good newsand perhaps she will like to talk to me andmake a friend of me."

Dorotheahad another errand in Lowick Gate:  it was about a newfine-toned bell for the school-houseand as she had to get out ofher carriage very near to Lydgate'sshe walked thither across thestreethaving told the coachman to wait for some packages. Thestreet door was openand the servant was taking the opportunity oflooking out at the carriage which was pausing within sight when itbecame apparent to her that the lady who "belonged to it"was coming towards her.

"IsMrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorothea.

"I'mnot suremy lady; I'll seeif you'll please to walk in" saidMarthaa little confused on the score of her kitchen apronbutcollected enough to be sure that "mum" was not the righttitle for this queenly young widow with a carriage and pair. "Will you please to walk inand I'll go and see."

"Saythat I am Mrs. Casaubon" said Dorotheaas Martha moved forwardintending to show her into the drawing-room and then to go up-stairsto see if Rosamond had returned from her walk.

Theycrossed the broader part of the entrance-halland turned up thepassage which led to the garden.  The drawing-room door wasunlatchedand Marthapushing it without looking into the roomwaited for Mrs. Casaubon to enter and then turned awaythe doorhaving swung open and swung back again without noise.

Dorotheahad less of outward vision than usual this morningbeing filled withimages of things as they had been and were going to be.  Shefound herself on the other side of the door without seeing anythingremarkablebut immediately she heard a voice speaking in low toneswhich startled her as with a sense of dreaming in daylightandadvancing unconsciously a step or two beyond the projecting slab of abookcaseshe sawin the terrible illumination of a certainty whichfilled up all outlinessomething which made her pausemotionlesswithout self-possession enough to speak.

Seatedwith his back towards her on a sofa which stood against the wall on aline with the door by which she had enteredshe saw Will Ladislaw: close by him and turned towards him with a flushed tearfulness whichgave a new brilliancy to her face sat Rosamondher bonnet hangingbackwhile Will leaning towards her clasped both her upraised handsin his and spoke with low-toned fervor.

Rosamondin her agitated absorption had not noticed the silently advancingfigure; but when Dorotheaafter the first immeasurable instant ofthis visionmoved confusedly backward and found herself impeded bysome piece of furnitureRosamond was suddenly aware of her presenceand with a spasmodic movement snatched away her hands and roselooking at Dorothea who was necessarily arrested. Will Ladislawstarting uplooked round alsoand meeting Dorothea's eyes with anew lightning in themseemed changing to marble: But she immediatelyturned them away from him to Rosamond and said in a firm voice--

"ExcusemeMrs. Lydgatethe servant did not know that you were here. Icalled to deliver an important letter for Mr. Lydgatewhich I wishedto put into your own hands."

She laiddown the letter on the small table which had checked her retreatandthen including Rosamond and Will in one distant glance and bowshewent quickly out of the roommeeting in the passage the surprisedMarthawho said she was sorry the mistress was not at homeand thenshowed the strange lady out with an inward reflection that grandpeople were probably more impatient than others.

Dorotheawalked across the street with her most elastic step and was quicklyin her carriage again.

"Driveon to Freshitt Hall" she said to the coachmanand any onelooking at her might have thought that though she was paler thanusual she was never animated by a more self-possessed energy. And that was really her experience.  It was as if she had drunka great draught of scorn that stimulated her beyond thesusceptibility to other feelings. She had seen something so far belowher beliefthat her emotions rushed back from it and made an excitedthrong without an object. She needed something active to turn herexcitement out upon. She felt power to walk and work for a daywithout meat or drink. And she would carry out the purpose with whichshe had started in the morningof going to Freshitt and Tipton totell Sir James and her uncle all that she wished them to know aboutLydgatewhose married loneliness under his trial now presenteditself to her with new significanceand made her more ardent inreadiness to be his champion.  She had never felt anything likethis triumphant power of indignation in the struggle of her marriedlifein which there had always been a quickly subduing pang; and shetook it as a sign of new strength.

"Dodohow very bright your eyes are!" said Celiawhen Sir James wasgone out of the room.  "And you don't see anything you lookatArthur or anything.  You are going to do somethinguncomfortableI know.  Is it all about Mr. Lydgateor hassomething else happened?" Celia had been used to watch hersister with expectation.

"Yesdeara great many things have happened" said Dodoin her fulltones.

"Iwonder what" said Celiafolding her arms cozily and leaningforward upon them.

"Ohall the troubles of all people on the face of the earth" saidDorothealifting her arms to the back of her head.

"DearmeDodoare you going to have a scheme for them?" said Celiaa little uneasy at this Hamlet-like raving.

But SirJames came in againready to accompany Dorothea to the Grangeandshe finished her expedition wellnot swerving in her resolutionuntil she descended at her own door.

CHAPTERLXXVIII

  “Would it were yesterday and I i' the grave
  With her sweet faith above for monument "

Rosamondand Will stood motionless--they did not know how long-- he lookingtowards the spot where Dorothea had stoodand she looking towardshim with doubt.  It seemed an endless time to Rosamondin whoseinmost soul there was hardly so much annoyance as gratification fromwhat had just happened.  Shallow natures dream of an easy swayover the emotions of otherstrusting implicitly in their own pettymagic to turn the deepest streamsand confidentby pretty gesturesand remarksof making the thing that is not as though it were. She knew that Will had received a severe blowbut she had beenlittle used to imagining other people's states of mind except as amaterial cut into shape by her own wishes; and she believed in herown power to soothe or subdue.  Even Tertiusthat most perverseof menwas always subdued in the long-run: events had beenobstinatebut still Rosamond would have said nowas she did beforeher marriagethat she never gave up what she had set her mind on.

She putout her arm and laid the tips of her fingers on Will's coat-sleeve.

"Don'ttouch me!" he saidwith an utterance like the cut of a lashdarting from herand changing from pink to white and back againasif his whole frame were tingling with the pain of the sting. Hewheeled round to the other side of the room and stood opposite toherwith the tips of his fingers in his pockets and his head thrownbacklooking fiercely not at Rosamond but at a point a few inchesaway from her.

She waskeenly offendedbut the Signs she made of this were such as onlyLydgate was used to interpret.  She became suddenly quiet andseated herselfuntying her hanging bonnet and laying it down withher shawl.  Her little hands which she folded before her werevery cold.

It wouldhave been safer for Will in the first instance to have taken up hishat and gone away; but he had felt no impulse to do this; on thecontraryhe had a horrible inclination to stay and shatter Rosamondwith his anger.  It seemed as impossible to bear the fatalityshe had drawn down on him without venting his fury as it would be toa panther to bear the javelin-wound without springing and biting. Andyet--how could he tell a woman that he was ready to curse her? He wasfuming under a repressive law which he was forced to acknowledge: hewas dangerously poisedand Rosamond's voice now brought the decisivevibration.  In flute-like tones of sarcasm she said--

"Youcan easily go after Mrs. Casaubon and explain your preference."

"Goafter her!" he burst outwith a sharp edge in his voice. "Doyou think she would turn to look at meor value any word I everuttered to her again at more than a dirty feather?--Explain! How can a man explain at the expense of a woman?"

"Youcan tell her what you please" said Rosamond with more tremor.

"Doyou suppose she would like me better for sacrificing you? She is nota woman to be flattered because I made myself despicable-- to believethat I must be true to her because I was a dastard to you."

He beganto move about with the restlessness of a wild animal that sees preybut cannot reach it.  Presently he burst out again--

"Ihad no hope before--not much--of anything better to come. But I hadone certainty--that she believed in me.  Whatever people hadsaid or done about meshe believed in me.--That's gone! She'll neveragain think me anything but a paltry pretence-- too nice to takeheaven except upon flattering conditionsand yet selling myself forany devil's change by the sly.  She'll think of me as anincarnate insult to herfrom the first moment we--"

Willstopped as if he had found himself grasping something that must notbe thrown and shattered.  He found another vent for his rage bysnatching up Rosamond's words againas if they were reptiles to bethrottled and flung off.

"Explain! Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell! Explain mypreference!  I never had a PREFERENCE for herany more than Ihave a preference for breathing.  No other woman exists by theside of her.  I would rather touch her hand if it were deadthan I would touch any other woman's living."

Rosamondwhile these poisoned weapons were being hurled at herwas almostlosing the sense of her identityand seemed to be waking into somenew terrible existence.  She had no sense of chill resoluterepulsionof reticent self-justification such as she had known underLydgate's most stormy displeasure: all her sensibility was turnedinto a bewildering novelty of pain; she felt a new terrified recoilunder a lash never experienced before. What another nature felt inopposition to her own was being burnt and bitten into herconsciousness.  When Will had ceased to speak she had become animage of sickened misery:  her lips were paleand her eyes hada tearless dismay in them.  If it had been Tertius who stoodopposite to herthat look of misery would have been a pang to himand he would have sunk by her side to comfort herwith thatstrong-armed comfort whichshe had often held very cheap.

Let it beforgiven to Will that he had no such movement of pity. He had felt nobond beforehand to this woman who had spoiled the ideal treasure ofhis lifeand he held himself blameless. He knew that he was cruelbut he had no relenting in him yet.

After hehad done speakinghe still moved abouthalf in absence of mindandRosamond sat perfectly still.  At length Willseeming tobethink himselftook up his hatyet stood some moments irresolute.He had spoken to her in a way that made a phrase of common politenessdifficult to utter; and yetnow that he had come to the point ofgoing away from her without further speechhe shrank from it as abrutality; he felt checked and stultified in his anger. He walkedtowards the mantel-piece and leaned his arm on itand waited insilence for--he hardly knew what.  The vindictive fire was stillburning in himand he could utter no word of retractation; but itwas nevertheless in his mind that having come back to this hearthwhere he had enjoyed a caressing friendship he had found. calamityseated there--he had had suddenly revealed to him a trouble that layoutside the home as well as within it.  And what seemed aforeboding was pressing upon him as with slow pincers:--that his lifemight come to be enslaved by this helpless woman who had thrownherself upon him in the dreary sadness of her heart.  But he wasin gloomy rebellion against the fact that his quick apprehensivenessforeshadowed to himand when his eyes fell on Rosamond's blightedface it seemed to him that he was the more pitiable of the two; forpain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turninto compassion.

And sothey remained for many minutesopposite each otherfar apartinsilence; Will's face still possessed by a mute rageand Rosamond'sby a mute misery.  The poor thing had no force to fling out anypassion in return; the terrible collapse of the illusion towardswhich all her hope had been strained was a stroke which had toothoroughly shaken her:  her little world was in ruinsand shefelt herself tottering in the midst as a lonely bewilderedconsciousness.

Willwished that she would speak and bring some mitigating shadow acrosshis own cruel speechwhich seemed to stand staring at them both inmockery of any attempt at revived fellowship.  But she saidnothingand at last with a desperate effort over himselfhe asked"Shall I come in and see Lydgate this evening?"

"Ifyou like" Rosamond answeredjust audibly.

And thenWill went out of the houseMartha never knowing that he had been in.

After hewas goneRosamond tried to get up from her seatbut fell backfainting.  When she came to herself againshe felt too ill tomake the exertion of rising to ring the belland she remainedhelpless until the girlsurprised at her long absencethought forthe first time of looking for her in all the down-stairs rooms.Rosamond said that she had felt suddenly sick and faintand wantedto be helped up-stairs. When there she threw herself on the bed withher clothes onand lay in apparent torporas she had done oncebefore on a memorable day of grief.

Lydgatecame home earlier than he had expectedabout half-past fiveandfound her there.  The perception that she was ill threw everyother thought into the background.  When he felt her pulsehereyes rested on him with more persistence than they had done for along whileas if she felt some content that he was there. Heperceived the difference in a momentand seating himself by her puthis arm gently under herand bending over her said"My poorRosamond! has something agitated you?"  Clinging to him shefell into hysterical sobbings and criesand for the next hour he didnothing but soothe and tend her.  He imagined that Dorothea hadbeen to see herand that all this effect on her nervous systemwhich evidently involved some new turning towards himselfwas due tothe excitement of the new impressions which that visit had raised.

CHAPTERLXXIX

"NowI saw in my dreamthat just as they had ended their talk

theydrew nigh to a very miry sloughthat was in the midst of the plain;

andtheybeing heedlessdid both fall suddenly into the bog.

Thename of the slough was Despond."--BUNYAN.

WhenRosamond was quietand Lydgate had left herhoping that she mightsoon sleep under the effect of an anodynehe went into thedrawing-room to fetch a book which he had left theremeaning tospend the evening in his work-roomand he saw on the tableDorothea's letter addressed to him.  He had not ventured to askRosamond if Mrs. Casaubon had calledbut the reading of this letterassured him of the factfor Dorothea mentioned that it was to becarried by herself.

When WillLadislaw came in a little later Lydgate met him with a surprise whichmade it clear that he had not been told of the earlier visitandWill could not say"Did not Mrs. Lydgate tell you that I camethis morning?"

"PoorRosamond is ill" Lydgate added immediately on his greeting.

"NotseriouslyI hope" said Will.

"No--onlya slight nervous shock--the effect of some agitation. She has beenoverwrought lately.  The truth isLadislawI am an unluckydevil.  We have gone through several rounds of purgatory sinceyou leftand I have lately got on to a worse ledge of it than ever.I suppose you are only just come down--you look rather battered-- youhave not been long enough in the town to hear anything?"

"Itravelled all night and got to the White Hart at eight o'clock thismorning. I have been shutting myself up and resting" said Willfeeling himself a sneakbut seeing no alternative to this evasion.

And thenhe heard Lydgate's account of the troubles which Rosamond had alreadydepicted to him in her way.  She had not mentioned the fact ofWill's name being connected with the public story-- this detail notimmediately affecting her--and he now heard it for the first time.

"Ithought it better to tell you that your name is mixed up with thedisclosures" said Lydgatewho could understand better thanmost men how Ladislaw might be stung by the revelation. "Youwill be sure to hear it as soon as you turn out into the town. Isuppose it is true that Raffles spoke to you."

"Yes"said Willsardonically.  "I shall be fortunate if gossipdoes not make me the most disreputable person in the whole affair. Ishould think the latest version must bethat I plotted with Rafflesto murder Bulstrodeand ran away from Middlemarch for the purpose."

He wasthinking "Here is a new ring in the sound of my name torecommend it in her hearing; however--what does it signify now?"

But hesaid nothing of Bulstrode's offer to him.  Will was very openand careless about his personal affairsbut it was among the moreexquisite touches in nature's modelling of him that he had a delicategenerosity which warned him into reticence here. He shrank fromsaying that he had rejected Bulstrode's moneyin the moment when hewas learning that it was Lydgate's misfortune to have accepted it.

Lydgatetoo was reticent in the midst of his confidence.  He made noallusion to Rosamond's feeling under their troubleand of Dorotheahe only said"Mrs. Casaubon has been the one person to comeforward and say that she had no belief in any of the suspicionsagainst me." Observing a change in Will's facehe avoided anyfurther mention of herfeeling himself too ignorant of theirrelation to each other not to fear that his words might have somehidden painful bearing on it.  And it occurred to him thatDorothea was the real cause of the present visit to Middlemarch.

The twomen were pitying each otherbut it was only Will who guessed theextent of his companion's trouble.  When Lydgate spoke withdesperate resignation of going to settle in Londonand said with afaint smile"We shall have you againold fellow." Willfelt inexpressibly mournfuland said nothing.  Rosamond hadthat morning entreated him to urge this step on Lydgate; and itseemed to him as if he were beholding in a magic panorama a futurewhere he himself was sliding into that pleasureless yielding to thesmall solicitations of circumstancewhich is a commoner history ofperdition than any single momentous bargain.

We are ona perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our futureselvesand see our own figures led with dull consent into insipidmisdoing and shabby achievement.  Poor Lydgate was inwardlygroaning on that marginand Will was arriving at it.  It seemedto him this evening as if the cruelty of his outburst to Rosamond hadmade an obligation for himand he dreaded the obligation: he dreadedLydgate's unsuspecting good-will: he dreaded his own distaste for hisspoiled lifewhich would leave him in motiveless levity.

CHAPTERLXXX

  "Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
   TheGodhead's most benignant grace;
     Nor knowwe anything so fair
   As is the smile upon thy face;
  Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
   Andfragrance in thy footing treads;
   Thou dost preservethe Stars from wrong;
   And the most ancient Heavensthrough theeare fresh and strong.
   --WORDSWORTH: Ode to Duty.

WhenDorothea had seen Mr. Farebrother in the morningshe had promised togo and dine at the parsonage on her return from Freshitt. There was afrequent interchange of visits between her and the Farebrotherfamilywhich enabled her to say that she was not at all lonely atthe Manorand to resist for the present the severe prescription of alady companion.  When she reached home and remembered herengagementshe was glad of it; and finding that she had still anhour before she could dress for dinnershe walked straight to theschoolhouse and entered into a conversation with the master andmistress about the new bellgiving eager attention to their smalldetails and repetitionsand getting up a dramatic sense that herlife was very busy.  She paused on her way back to talk to oldMaster Bunney who was putting in some garden-seedsand discoursedwisely with that rural sage about the crops that would make the mostreturn on a perch of groundand the result of sixty years'experience as to soils--namelythat if your soil was pretty mellowit would dobut if there came wetwetwet to make it all of amummywhy then--

Findingthat the social spirit had beguiled her into being rather lateshedressed hastily and went over to the parsonage rather earlier thanwas necessary.  That house was never dullMr. Farebrotherlikeanother White of Selbornehaving continually something new to tellof his inarticulate guests and protegeswhom he was teaching theboys not to torment; and he had just set up a pair of beautiful goatsto be pets of the village in generaland to walk at large as sacredanimals.  The evening went by cheerfully till after teaDorothea talking more than usual and dilating with Mr. Farebrother onthe possible histories of creatures that converse compendiously withtheir antennaeand for aught we know may hold reformed parliaments;when suddenly some inarticulate little sounds were heard which calledeverybody's attention.

"HenriettaNoble" said Mrs. Farebrotherseeing her small sister movingabout the furniture-legs distressfully"what is the matter?"

"Ihave lost my tortoise-shell lozenge-box. I fear the kitten has rolledit away" said the tiny old ladyinvoluntarily coutinuing herbeaver-like notes.

"Isit a great treasureaunt?" said Mr. Farebrotherputting up hisglasses and looking at the carpet.

"Mr.Ladislaw gave it me" said Miss Noble.  "A Germanbox-- very prettybut if it falls it always spins away as far as itcan."

"Ohif it is Ladislaw's present" said Mr. Farebrotherin a deeptone of comprehensiongetting up and hunting. The box was found atlast under a chiffonierand Miss Noble grasped it with delightsaying"it was under a fender the last time."

"Thatis an affair of the heart with my aunt" said Mr. Farebrothersmiling at Dorotheaas he reseated himself.

"IfHenrietta Noble forms an attachment to any oneMrs. Casaubon"said his motheremphatically--"she is like a dog--she wouldtake their shoes for a pillow and sleep the better."

"Mr.Ladislaw's shoesI would" said Henrietta Noble.

Dorotheamade an attempt at smiling in return.  She was surprised andannoyed to find that her heart was palpitating violentlyand that itwas quite useless to try after a recovery of her former animation. Alarmed at herself--fearing some further betrayal of a change somarked in its occasionshe rose and said in a low voice withundisguised anxiety"I must go; I have overtired myself."

Mr.Farebrotherquick in perceptionrose and said"It is true;you must have half-exhausted yourself in talking about Lydgate. Thatsort of work tells upon one after the excitement is over."

He gaveher his arm back to the Manorbut Dorothea did not attempt to speakeven when he said good-night.

The limitof resistance was reachedand she had sunk back helpless within theclutch of inescapable anguish.  Dismissing Tantripp with a fewfaint wordsshe locked her doorand turning away from it towardsthe vacant room she pressed her hands hard on the top of her headand moaned out--

"OhI did love him!"

Then camethe hour in which the waves of suffering shook her too thoroughly toleave any power of thought.  She could only cry in loudwhispersbetween her sobsafter her lost belief which she hadplanted and kept alive from a very little seed since the days inRome--after her lost joy of clinging with silent love and faith toone whomisprized by otherswas worthy in her thought-- after herlost woman's pride of reigning in his memory--after her sweet dimperspective of hopethat along some pathway they should meet withunchanged recognition and take up the backward years as a yesterday.

In thathour she repeated what the merciful eyes of solitude have looked onfor ages in the spiritual struggles of man-- she besought hardnessand coldness and aching weariness to bring her relief from themysterious incorporeal might of her anguish: she lay on the barefloor and let the night grow cold around her; while her grand woman'sframe was shaken by sobs as if she had been a despairing child.

There weretwo images--two living forms that tore her heart in twoas if it hadbeen the heart of a mother who seems to see her child divided by theswordand presses one bleeding half to her breast while her gazegoes forth in agony towards the half which is carried away by thelying woman that has never known the mother's pang.

Herewiththe nearness of an answering smilehere within the vibrating bond ofmutual speechwas the bright creature whom she had trusted--who hadcome to her like the spirit of morning visiting the dim vault whereshe sat as the bride of a worn-out life; and nowwith a fullconsciousness which had never awakened beforeshe stretched out herarms towards him and cried with bitter cries that their nearness wasa parting vision:  she discovered her passion to herself in theunshrinking utterance of despair.

And therealoofyet persistently with hermoving wherever she movedwas theWill Ladislaw' who was a changed belief exhausted of hopea detectedillusion--noa living man towards whom there could not yet struggleany wail of regretful pityfrom the midst of scorn and indignationand jealous offended pride. The fire of Dorothea's anger was noteasily spentand it flamed out in fitful returns of spurningreproach.  Why had he come obtruding his life into hershersthat might have been whole enough without him?  Why had hebrought his cheap regard and his lip-born words to her who hadnothing paltry to give in exchange? He knew that he was deludingher--wishedin the very moment of farewellto make her believe thathe gave her the whole price of her heartand knew that he had spentit half before. Why had he not stayed among the crowd of whom sheasked nothing-- but only prayed that they might be less contemptible?

But shelost energy at last even for her loud-whispered cries and moans: she subsided into helpless sobsand on the cold floor she sobbedherself to sleep.

In thechill hours of the morning twilightwhen all was dim around hersheawoke--not with any amazed wondering where she was or what hadhappenedbut with the clearest consciousness that she was lookinginto the eyes of sorrow.  She roseand wrapped warm thingsaround herand seated

herself ina great chair where she had often watched before. She was vigorousenough to have borne that hard night without feeling ill in bodybeyond some aching and fatigue; but she had waked to a newcondition:  she felt as if her soul had been liberated from itsterrible conflict; she was no longer wrestling with her griefbutcould sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer inher thoughts.  For now the thoughts came thickly.  It wasnot in Dorothea's naturefor longer than the duration of a paroxysmto sit in the narrow cell of her calamityin the besotted misery ofa consciousness that only sees another's lot as an accident of itsown.

She begannow to live through that yesterday morning deliberately againforcing herself to dwell on every detail and its possible meaning.Was she alone in that scene?  Was it her event only?  Sheforced herself to think of it as bound up with another woman'slife--a woman towards whom she had set out with a longing to carrysome clearness and comfort into her beclouded youth.  In herfirst outleap of jealous indignation and disgustwhen quitting thehateful roomshe had flung away all the mercy with which she hadundertaken that visit. She had enveloped both Will and Rosamond inher burning scornand it seemed to her as if Rosamond were burnedout of her sight forever. But that base prompting which makes a womenmore cruel to a rival than to a faithless lovercould have nostrength of recurrence in Dorothea when the dominant spirit ofjustice within her had once overcome the tumult and had once shownher the truer measure of things. All the active thought with whichshe had before been representing to herself the trials of Lydgate'slotand this young marriage union whichlike her ownseemed tohave its hidden as well as evident troubles-- all this vividsympathetic experience returned to her now as a power: it asserteditself as acquired knowledge asserts itself and will not let us seeas we saw in the day of our ignorance.  She said to her ownirremediable griefthat it should make her more helpfulinstead ofdriving her back from effort.

And whatsort of crisis might not this be in three lives whose contact withhers laid an obligation on her as if they had been suppliants bearingthe sacred branch?  The objects of her rescue were not to besought out by her fancy:  they were chosen for her. She yearnedtowards the perfect Rightthat it might make a throne within herand rule her errant will.  "What should I do-- how should Iact nowthis very dayif I could clutch my own painand compel itto silenceand think of those three?"

It hadtaken long for her to come to that questionand there was lightpiercing into the room.  She opened her curtainsand looked outtowards the bit of road that lay in viewwith fields beyond outsidethe entrance-gates. On the road there was a man with a bundle on hisback and a woman carrying her baby; in the field she could seefigures moving--perhaps the shepherd with his dog.  Far off inthe bending sky was the pearly light; and she felt the largeness ofthe world and the manifold wakings of men to labor and endurance. Shewas a part of that involuntarypalpitating lifeand could neitherlook out on it from her luxurious shelter as a mere spectatornorhide her eyes in selfish complaining.

What shewould resolve to do that day did not yet seem quite clearbutsomething that she could achieve stirred her as with an approachingmurmur which would soon gather distinctness.  She took off theclothes which seemed to have some of the weariness of a hard watchingin themand began to make her toilet.  Presently she rang forTantrippwho came in her dressing-gown.

"Whymadamyou've never been in bed this blessed night" burst outTantripplooking first at the bed and then at Dorothea's facewhichin spite of bathing had the pale cheeks and pink eyelids of a materdolorosa. "You'll kill yourselfyou WILL.  Anybody mightthink now you had a right to give yourself a little comfort."

"Don'tbe alarmedTantripp" said Dorotheasmiling.  "Ihave slept; I am not ill.  I shall be glad of a cup of coffee assoon as possible. And I want you to bring me my new dress; and mostlikely I shall want my new bonnet to-day."

"They'velain there a month and more ready for youmadamand most thankful Ishall be to see you with a couple o' pounds' worth less of crape"said Tantrippstooping to light the fire. "There's a reason inmourningas I've always said; and three folds at the bottom of yourskirt and a plain quilling in your bonnet-- and if ever anybodylooked like an angelit's you in a net quilling-- is what'sconsistent for a second year.  At leastthat's MY thinking"ended Tantripplooking anxiously at the fire; "and if anybodywas to marry me flattering himself I should wear those hijeousweepers two years for himhe'd be deceived by his own vanitythat'sall."

"Thefire will domy good Tan" said Dorotheaspeaking as she usedto do in the old Lausanne daysonly with a very low voice; "getme the coffee."

She foldedherself in the large chairand leaned her head against it infatigued quiescencewhile Tantripp went away wondering at thisstrange contrariness in her young mistress--that just the morningwhen she had more of a widow's face than evershe should have askedfor her lighter mourning which she had waived before. Tantripp wouldnever have found the clew to this mystery. Dorothea wished toacknowledge that she had not the less an active life before herbecause she had buried a private joy; and the tradition that freshgarments belonged to all initiationhaunting her mindmade hergrasp after even that slight outward help towards calm resolve. For the resolve was not easy.

Neverthelessat eleven o'clock she was walking towards Middlemarchhaving made upher mind that she would make as quietly and unnoticeably as possibleher second attempt to see and save Rosamond.

CHAPTERLXXXI

  "Du Erde warst auch diese Nacht bestandig
   Undathmest neu erquickt zu meinen Fussen
   Beginnestschon mit Lust mich zu umgeben
   Zum regst und ruhrstein kraftiges Reschliessen
   Zum hochsten Daseinimmerfort zu streben.
     --Faust: 2rTeil.

WhenDorothea was again at Lydgate's door speaking to Marthahe was inthe room close by with the door ajarpreparing to go out. He heardher voiceand immediately came to her.

"Doyou think that Mrs. Lydgate can receive me this morning?" shesaidhaving reflected that it would be better to leave out allallusion to her previous visit.

"Ihave no doubt she will" said Lydgatesuppressing his thoughtabout Dorothea's lookswhich were as much changed as Rosamond's"ifyou will be kind enough to come in and let me tell her that you arehere.  She has not been very well since you were here yesterdaybut she is better this morningand I think it is very likely thatshe will be cheered by seeing you again."

It wasplain that Lydgateas Dorothea had expectedknew nothing about thecircumstances of her yesterday's visit; nayhe appeared to imaginethat she had carried it out according to her intention. She hadprepared a little note asking Rosamond to see herwhich she wouldhave given to the servant if he had not been in the waybut now shewas in much anxiety as to the result of his announcement.

Afterleading her into the drawing-roomhe paused to take a letter fromhis pocket and put it into her handssaying"I wrote this lastnightand was going to carry it to Lowick in my ride. When one isgrateful for something too good for common thankswriting is lessunsatisfactory than speech one does not at least HEAR how inadequatethe words are."

Dorothea'sface brightened.  "It is I who have most to thank forsince you have let me take that place.  You HAVE consented?"she saidsuddenly doubting.

"Yesthe check is going to Bulstrode to-day."

He said nomorebut went up-stairs to Rosamondwho had but lately finisheddressing herselfand sat languidly wondering what she should donexther habitual industry in small thingseven in the days of hersadnessprompting her to begin some kind of occupationwhich shedragged through slowly or paused in from lack of interest. She lookedillbut had recovered her usual quietude of mannerand Lydgate hadfeared to disturb her by any questions.  He had told her ofDorothea's letter containing the checkand afterwards he had said"Ladislaw is comeRosy; he sat with me last night; I dare sayhe will be here again to-day. I thought he looked rather battered anddepressed."  And Rosamond had made no reply.

Nowwhenhe came uphe said to her very gently"RosydearMrs.Casaubon is come to see you again; you would like to see herwouldyou not?"  That she colored and gave rather a startledmovement did not surprise him after the agitation produced by theinterview yesterday--a beneficent agitationhe thoughtsince itseemed to have made her turn to him again.

Rosamonddared not say no.  She dared not with a tone of her voice touchthe facts of yesterday.  Why had Mrs. Casaubon come again? Theanswer was a blank which Rosamond could only fill up with dreadforWill Ladislaw's lacerating words had made every thought of Dorothea afresh smart to her.  Neverthelessin her new humiliatinguncertainty she dared do nothing but comply. She did not say yesbutshe rose and let Lydgate put a light shawl over her shoulderswhilehe said"I am going out immediately." Then somethingcrossed her mind which prompted her to say"Pray tell Marthanot to bring any one else into the drawing-room." And Lydgateassentedthinking that he fully understood this wish. He led herdown to the drawing-room doorand then turned awayobserving tohimself that he was rather a blundering husband to be dependent forhis wife's trust in him on the influence of another woman.

Rosamondwrapping her soft shawl around her as she walked towards Dorotheawas inwardly wrapping her soul in cold reserve. Had Mrs. Casauboncome to say anything to her about Will?  If soit was a libertythat Rosamond resented; and she prepared herself to meet every wordwith polite impassibility.  Will had bruised her pride toosorely for her to feel any compunction towards him and Dorothea: her own injury seemed much the greater. Dorothea was not only the"preferred" womanbut had also a formidable advantage inbeing Lydgate's benefactor; and to poor Rosamond's pained confusedvision it seemed that this Mrs. Casaubon-- this woman whopredominated in all things concerning her--must have come now withthe sense of having the advantageand with animosity prompting herto use it.  Indeednot Rosamond onlybut any one elseknowingthe outer facts of the caseand not the simple inspiration on whichDorothea actedmight well have wondered why she came.

Lookinglike the lovely ghost of herselfher graceful slimness wrapped inher soft white shawlthe rounded infantine mouth and cheekinevitably suggesting mildness and innocenceRosamond paused atthree yards' distance from her visitor and bowed. But Dorotheawhohad taken off her glovesfrom an impulse which she could neverresist when she wanted a sense of freedomcame forwardand with herface full of a sad yet sweet opennessput out her hand. Rosamond could not avoid meeting her glancecould not avoid puttingher small hand into Dorothea'swhich clasped it with gentlemotherliness; and immediately a doubt of her own prepossessions beganto stir within her.  Rosamond's eye was quick for faces; she sawthat Mrs. Casaubon's face looked pale and changed since yesterdayyet gentleand like the firm softness of her hand. But Dorothea hadcounted a little too much on her own strength: the clearness andintensity of her mental action this morning were the continuance of anervous exaltation which made her frame as dangerously responsive asa bit of finest Venetian crystal; and in looking at Rosamondshesuddenly found her heart swellingand was unable to speak--all hereffort was required to keep back tears. She succeeded in thatandthe emotion only passed over her face like the spirit of a sob; butit added to Rosamond's impression that Mrs. Casaubon's state of mindmust be something quite different from what she had imagined.

So theysat down without a word of preface on the two chairs that happened tobe nearestand happened also to be close together; though Rosamond'snotion when she first bowed was that she should stay a long way offfrom Mrs. Casaubon.  But she ceased thinking how anything wouldturn out--merely wondering what would come. And Dorothea began tospeak quite simplygathering firmness as she went on.

"Ihad an errand yesterday which I did not finish; that is why I am hereagain so soon.  You will not think me too troublesome when Itell you that I came to talk to you about the injustice that has beenshown towards Mr. Lydgate.  It will cheer you--will it not?-- toknow a great deal about himthat he may not like to speak abouthimself just because it is in his own vindication and to his ownhonor.  You will like to know that your husband has warmfriendswho have not left off believing in his high character? You will let me speak of this without thinking that I take aliberty?"

Thecordialpleading tones which seemed to flow with generousheedlessness above all the facts which had filled Rosamond's mind asgrounds of obstruction and hatred between her and this womancame assoothingly as a warm stream over her shrinking fears. Of course Mrs.Casaubon had the facts in her mindbut she was not going to speak ofanything connected with them.  That relief was too great forRosamond to feel much else at the moment. She answered prettilyinthe new ease of her soul--

"Iknow you have been very good.  I shall like to hear anything youwill say to me about Tertius."

"Theday before yesterday" said Dorothea"when I had asked himto come to Lowick to give me his opinion on the affairs of theHospitalhe told me everything about his conduct and feelings inthis sad event which has made ignorant people cast suspicions onhim.  The reason he told me was because I was very bold andasked him.  I believed that he had never acted dishonorablyandI begged him to tell me the history. He confessed to me that he hadnever told it beforenot even to youbecause he had a great disliketo say`I was not wrong' as if that were proofwhen there areguilty people who will say so. The truth ishe knew nothing of thisman Rafflesor that there were any bad secrets about him; and hethought that Mr. Bulstrode offered him the money because he repentedout of kindnessof having refused it before.  All his anxietyabout his patient was to treat him rightlyand he was a littleuncomfortable that the case did not end as he had expected; but hethought then and still thinks that there may have been no wrong in iton any one's part.  And I have told Mr. Farebrotherand Mr.Brookeand Sir James Chettam: they all believe in your husband. That will cheer youwill it not? That will give you courage?"

Dorothea'sface had become animatedand as it beamed on Rosamond very close tohershe felt something like bashful timidity before a superiorinthe presence of this self-forgetful ardor.  She saidwithblushing embarrassment"Thank you:  you are very kind."

"Andhe felt that he had been so wrong not to pour out everything aboutthis to you.  But you will forgive him.  It was because hefeels so much more about your happiness than anything else-- he feelshis life bound into one with yoursand it hurts him more thananythingthat his misfortunes must hurt you. He could speak to mebecause I am an indifferent person. And then I asked him if I mightcome to see you; because I felt so much for his trouble and yours. That is why I came yesterdayand why I am come to-day. Trouble is sohard to bearis it not?-- How can we live and think that any one hastrouble--piercing trouble-- and we could help themand never try?"

Dorotheacompletely swayed by the feeling that she was utteringforgoteverything but that she was speaking from out the heart of her owntrial to Rosamond's. The emotion had wrought itself more and moreinto her utterancetill the tones might have gone to one's verymarrowlike a low cry from some suffering creature in the darkness. And she had unconsciously laid her hand again on the little hand thatshe had pressed before.

Rosamondwith an overmastering pangas if a wound within her had been probedburst into hysterical crying as she had done the day before when sheclung to her husband.  Poor Dorothea was feeling a great wave ofher own sorrow returning over her-- her thought being drawn to thepossible share that Will Ladislaw might have in Rosamond's mentaltumult.  She was beginning to fear that she should not be ableto suppress herself enough to the end of this meetingand while herhand was still resting on Rosamond's lapthough the hand underneathit was withdrawnshe was struggling against her own rising sobs. She tried to master herself with the thought that this might be aturning-point in three lives-- not in her own; nothere theirrevocable had happenedbut-- in those three lives which weretouching hers with the solemn neighborhood of danger and distress. The fragile creature who was crying close to her--there might stillbe time to rescue her from the misery of false incompatible bonds;and this moment was unlike any other:  she and Rosamond couldnever be together again with the same thrilling consciousness ofyesterday within them both. She felt the relation between them to bepeculiar enough to give her a peculiar influencethough she had noconception that the way in which her own feelings were involved wasfully known to Mrs. Lydgate.

It was anewer crisis in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea couldimagine:  she was under the first great shock that had shatteredher dream-world in which she had been easily confident of herself andcritical of others; and this strange unexpected manifestation offeeling in a woman whom she had approached with a shrinking aversionand dreadas one who must necessarily have a jealous hatred towardshermade her soul totter all the more with a sense that she had beenwalking in an unknown world which had just broken in upon her.

WhenRosamond's convulsed throat was subsiding into calmand she withdrewthe handkerchief with which she had been hiding her faceher eyesmet Dorothea's as helplessly as if they had been blue flowers. Whatwas the use of thinking about behavior after this crying? AndDorothea looked almost as childishwith the neglected trace of asilent tear.  Pride was broken down between these two.

"Wewere talking about your husband" Dorothea saidwith sometimidity. "I thought his looks were sadly changed with sufferingthe other day. I had not seen him for many weeks before.  Hesaid he had been feeling very lonely in his trial; but I think hewould have borne it all better if he had been able to be quite openwith you."

"Tertiusis so angry and impatient if I say anything" said Rosamondimagining that he had been complaining of her to Dorothea.  "Heought not to wonder that I object to speak to him on painfulsubjects."

"Itwas himself he blamed for not speaking" said Dorothea. "Whathe said of you wasthat he could not be happy in doing anythingwhich made you unhappy--that his marriage was of course a bond whichmust affect his choice about everything; and for that reason herefused my proposal that he should keep his position at the Hospitalbecause that would bind him to stay in Middlemarchand he would notundertake to do anything which would be painful to you.  Hecould say that to mebecause he knows that I had much trial in mymarriagefrom my husband's illnesswhich hindered his plans andsaddened him; and he knows that I have felt how hard it is to walkalways in fear of hurting another who is tied to us."

Dorotheawaited a little; she had discerned a faint pleasure stealing overRosamond's face.  But there was no answerand she went onwitha gathering tremor"Marriage is so unlike everything else.There is something even awful in the nearness it brings.  Evenif we loved some one else better than--than those we were married toit would be no use"--poor Dorotheain her palpitating anxietycould only seize her language brokenly--"I meanmarriage drinksup all our power of giving or getting any blessedness in that sort oflove.  I know it may be very dear--but it murders our marriage--and then the marriage stays with us like a murder--and everythingelse is gone.  And then our husband--if he loved and trusted usand we have not helped himbut made a curse in his life--"

Her voicehad sunk very low:  there was a dread upon her of presuming toofarand of speaking as if she herself were perfection addressingerror.  She was too much preoccupied with her own anxietyto beaware that Rosamond was trembling too; and filled with the need toexpress pitying fellowship rather than rebukeshe put her hands onRosamond'sand said with more agitated rapidity--"I knowIknow that the feeling may be very dear--it has taken hold of usunawares--it is so hardit may seem like death to part with it--andwe are weak--I am weak--"

The wavesof her own sorrowfrom out of which she was struggling to saveanotherrushed over Dorothea with conquering force. She stopped inspeechless agitation.  not cryingbut feeling as if she werebeing inwardly grappled.  Her face had become of a deathlierpalenessher lips trembledand she pressed her hands helplessly onthe hands that lay under them.

Rosamondtaken hold of by an emotion stronger than her own-- hurried along ina new movement which gave all things some newawfulundefinedaspect--could find no wordsbut involuntarily she put her lips toDorothea's forehead which was very near herand then for a minutethe two women clasped each other as if they had been in a shipwreck.

"Youare thinking what is not true" said Rosamondin an eagerhalf-whisperwhile she was still feeling Dorothea's arms round her--urged by a mysterious necessity to free herself from something thatoppressed her as if it were blood guiltiness.

They movedapartlooking at each other.

"Whenyou came in yesterday--it was not as you thought" said Rosamondin the same tone.

There wasa movement of surprised attention in Dorothea She expected avindication of Rosamond herself.

"Hewas telling me how he loved another womanthat I might know he couldnever love me" said Rosamondgetting more and more hurried asshe went on.  "And now I think he hates me because--because you mistook him yesterday.  He says it is through methat you will think ill of him--think that he is a false person. Butit shall not be through me.  He has never had any love for me--I know he has not--he has always thought slightly of me. He saidyesterday that no other woman existed for him beside you. The blameof what happened is entirely mine.  He said he could neverexplain to you--because of me.  He said you could never thinkwell of him again.  But now I have told youand he cannotreproach me any more."

Rosamondhad delivered her soul under impulses which she had not knownbefore.  She had begun her confession under the subduinginfluence of Dorothea's emotion; and as she went on she had gatheredthe sense that she was repelling Will's reproacheswhich were stilllike a knife-wound within her.

Therevulsion of feeling in Dorothea was too strong to be called joy. Itwas a tumult in which the terrible strain of the night and morningmade a resistant pain:--she could only perceive that this would bejoy when she had recovered her power of feeling it. Her immediateconsciousness was one of immense sympathy without cheek; she caredfor Rosamond without struggle nowand responded earnestly to herlast words--

"Nohe cannot reproach you any more."

With herusual tendency to over-estimate the good in othersshe felt a greatoutgoing of her heart towards Rosamondfor the generous effort whichhad redeemed her from sufferingnot counting that the effort was areflex of her own energy. After they had been silent a littleshesaid--

"Youare not sorry that I came this morning?"

"Noyou have been very good to me" said Rosamond.  "I didnot think that you would be so good.  I was very unhappy. I am not happy now. Everything is so sad."

"Butbetter days will come.  Your husband will be rightly valued. Andhe depends on you for comfort.  He loves you best. The worstloss would be to lose that--and you have not lost it" saidDorothea.

She triedto thrust away the too overpowering thought of her own relieflestshe should fail to win some sign that Rosamond's affection wasyearning back towards her husband.

"Tertiusdid not find fault with methen?" said Rosamondunderstandingnow that Lydgate might have said anything to Mrs. Casaubonand thatshe certainly was different from other women. Perhaps there was afaint taste of jealousy in the question. A smile began to play overDorothea's face as she said--

"Noindeed!  How could you imagine it?"  But here the dooropenedand Lydgate entered.

"I amcome back in my quality of doctor" he said.  "After Iwent awayI was haunted by two pale faces:  Mrs. Casaubonlooked as much in need of care as youRosy.  And I thought thatI had not done my duty in leaving you together; so when I had been toColeman's I came home again.  I noticed that you were walkingMrs. Casaubonand the sky has changed--I think we may have rain. MayI send some one to order your carriage to come for you?"

"Ohno!  I am strong:  I need the walk" said Dorothearising with animation in her face.  "Mrs. Lydgate and Ihave chatted a great dealand it is time for me to go. I have alwaysbeen accused of being immoderate and saying too much."

She putout her hand to Rosamondand they said an earnestquiet good-bywithout kiss or other show of effusion:  there had been betweenthem too much serious emotion for them to use the signs of itsuperficially.

As Lydgatetook her to the door she said nothing of Rosamondbut told him ofMr. Farebrother and the other friends who had listened with belief tohis story.

When hecame back to Rosamondshe had already thrown herself on the sofainresigned fatigue.

"WellRosy" he saidstanding over herand touching her hair"whatdo you think of Mrs. Casaubon now you have seen so much of her?"

"Ithink she must be better than any one" said Rosamond"andshe is very beautiful.  If you go to talk to her so oftenyouwill be more discontented with me than ever!"

Lydgatelaughed at the "so often."  "But has she made youany less discontented with me?"

"Ithink she has" said Rosamondlooking up in his face. "Howheavy your eyes areTertius--and do push your hair back." Helifted up his large white hand to obey herand felt thankful forthis little mark of interest in him.  Poor Rosamond's vagrantfancy had come back terribly scourged--meek enough to nestle underthe old despised shelter.  And the shelter was still there:Lydgate had accepted his narrowed lot with sad resignation. He hadchosen this fragile creatureand had taken the burthen of her lifeupon his arms.  He must walk as he couldcarrying that burthenpitifully.

CHAPTERLXXXII

  "My grief lies onward and my joy behind."
  --SHAKESPEARE:  Sonnets.

Exilesnotoriously feed much on hopesand are unlikely to stay inbanishment unless they are obliged.  When Will Ladislaw exiledhimself from Middlemarch he had placed no stronger obstacle to hisreturn than his own resolvewhich was by no means an iron barrierbut simply a state of mind liable to melt into a minuet with otherstates of mindand to find itself bowingsmilingand giving placewith polite facility.  As the months went onit had seemed moreand more difficult to him to say why he should not run down toMiddlemarch--merely for the sake of hearing something about Dorothea;and if on such a flying visit he should chance by some strangecoincidence to meet with herthere was no reason for him to beashamed of having taken an innocent journey which he had beforehandsupposed that he should not take.  Since he was hopelesslydivided from herhe might surely venture into her neighborhood; andas to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watch over her-- theiropinions seemed less and less important with time and change of air.

And therehad come a reason quite irrespective of Dorotheawhich seemed tomake a journey to Middlemarch a sort of philanthropic duty. Will hadgiven a disinterested attention to an intended settlement on a newplan in the Far Westand the need for funds in order to carry out agood design had set him on debating with himself whether it would notbe a laudable use to make of his claim on Bulstrodeto urge theapplication of that money which had been offered to himself as ameans of carrying out a scheme likely to be largely beneficial. Thequestion seemed a very dubious one to Willand his repugnance toagain entering into any relation with the banker might have made himdismiss it quicklyif there had not arisen in his imagination theprobability that his judgment might be more safely determined by avisit to Middlemarch.

That wasthe object which Will stated to himself as a reason for coming down. He had meant to confide in Lydgateand discuss the money questionwith himand he had meant to amuse himself for the few evenings ofhis stay by having a great deal of music and badinage with fairRosamondwithout neglecting his friends at Lowick Parsonage:--if theParsonage was close to the Manorthat was no fault of his.  Hehad neglected the Farebrothers before his departurefrom a proudresistance to the possible accusation of indirectly seekinginterviews with Dorothea; but hunger tames usand Will had becomevery hungry for the vision of a certain form and the sound of acertain voice.  Nothinghad done instead-- not the operaorthe converse of zealous politiciansor the flattering reception (indim corners) of his new hand in leading articles.

Thus hehad come downforeseeing with confidence how almost everything wouldbe in his familiar little world; fearingindeedthat there would beno surprises in his visit.  But he had found that humdrum worldin a terribly dynamic conditionin which even badinage and lyrismhad turned explosive; and the first day of this visit had become themost fatal epoch of his life.  The next morning he felt soharassed with the nightmare of consequences-- he dreaded so much theimmediate issues before him--that seeing while he breakfasted thearrival of the Riverston coachhe went out hurriedly and took hisplace on itthat he might be relievedat least for a dayfrom thenecessity of doing or saying anything in Middlemarch.  WillLadislaw was in one of those tangled crises which are commoner inexperience than one might imaginefrom the shallow absoluteness ofmen's judgments.  He had found Lydgatefor whom he had thesincerest respectunder circumstances which claimed his thorough andfrankly declared sympathy; and the reason whyin spite of thatclaimit would have been better for Will to have avoided all furtherintimacyor even contactwith Lydgatewas precisely of the kind tomake such a course appear impossible. To a creature of Will'ssusceptible temperament--without any neutral region of indifferencein his natureready to turn everything that befell him into thecollisions of a passionate drama--the revelation that Rosamond hadmade her happiness in any way dependent on him was a difficulty whichhis outburst of rage towards her had immeasurably increased for him. He hated his own crueltyand yet he dreaded to show the fulness ofhis relenting:  he must go to her again; the friendship couldnot be put to a sudden end; and her unhappiness was a power which hedreaded.  And all the while there was no more foretaste ofenjoyment in the life before him than if his limbs had been loppedoff and he was making his fresh start on crutches. In the night hehad debated whether he should not get on the coachnot forRiverstonbut for Londonleaving a note to Lydgate which would givea makeshift reason for his retreat.  But there were strong cordspulling him back from that abrupt departure: the blight on hishappiness in thinking of Dorotheathe crushing of that chief hopewhich had remained in spite of the acknowledged necessity forrenunciationwas too fresh a misery for him to resign himself to itand go straightway into a distance which was also despair.

Thus hedid nothing more decided than taking the Riverston coach. He cameback again by it while it was still daylighthaving made up his mindthat he must go to Lydgate's that evening. The Rubiconwe knowwasa very insignificant stream to look at; its significance lay entirelyin certain invisible conditions. Will felt as if he were forced tocross his small boundary ditchand what he saw beyond it was notempirebut discontented subjection.

But it isgiven to us sometimes even in our every-day life to witness thesaving influence of a noble naturethe divine efficacy of rescuethat may lie in a self-subduing act of fellowship. If Dorotheaafterher night's anguishhad not taken that walk to Rosamond--whysheperhaps would have been a woman who gained a higher character fordiscretionbut it would certainly not have been as well for thosethree who were on one hearth in Lydgate's house at half-past seventhat evening.

Rosamondhad been prepared for Will's visitand she received him with alanguid coldness which Lydgate accounted for by her nervousexhaustionof which he could not suppose that it had any relation toWill. And when she sat in silence bending over a bit of workheinnocently apologized for her in an indirect way by begging her tolean backward and rest.  Will was miserable in the necessity forplaying the part of a friend who was making his first appearance andgreeting to Rosamondwhile his thoughts were busy about her feelingsince that scene of yesterdaywhich seemed still inexorably toenclose them bothlike the painful vision of a double madness. It happened that nothing called Lydgate out of the room; but whenRosamond poured out the teaand Will came near to fetch itsheplaced a tiny bit of folded paper in his saucer.  He saw it andsecured it quicklybut as he went back to his inn he had noeagerness to unfold the paper. What Rosamond had written to him wouldprobably deepen the painful impressions of the evening.  Stillhe opened and read it by his bed-candle. There were only these fewwords in her neatly flowing hand:--

"Ihave told Mrs. Casaubon.  She is not under any mistake aboutyou. I told her because she came to see me and was very kind. You will have nothing to reproach me with now.  I shall not havemade any difference to you."

The effectof these words was not quite all gladness.  As Will dwelt onthem with excited imaginationhe felt his cheeks and ears burning atthe thought of what had occurred between Dorothea and Rosamond-- atthe uncertainty how far Dorothea might still feel her dignity woundedin having an explanation of his conduct offered to her. There mightstill remain in her mind a changed association with him which made anirremediable difference--a lasting flaw.  With active fancy hewrought himself into a state of doubt little more easy than that ofthe man who has escaped from wreck by night and stands on unknownground in the darkness.  Until that wretched yesterday-- exceptthe moment of vexation long ago in the very same room and in the verysame presence--all their visionall their thought of each otherhadbeen as in a world apartwhere the sunshine fell on tall whitelilieswhere no evil lurkedand no other soul entered. Butnow--would Dorothea meet him in that world again?

CHAPTERLXXXIII

  "And now good-morrow to our waking souls
   Whichwatch not one another out of fear;
   For love all loveof other sights controls
   And makes one little rooman everywhere."
   --DR.  DONNE.

On thesecond morning after Dorothea's visit to Rosamondshe had had twonights of sound sleepand had not only lost all traces of fatiguebut felt as if she had a great deal of superfluous strength-- that isto saymore strength than she could manage to concentrate on anyoccupation.  The day beforeshe had taken long walks outsidethe groundsand had paid two visits to the Parsonage; but she neverin her life told any one the reason why she spent her time in thatfruitless mannerand this morning she was rather angry with herselffor her childish restlessness.  To-day was to be spent quitedifferently.  What was there to be done in the village? Oh dear!nothing.  Everybody was well and had flannel; nobody's pig haddied; and it was Saturday morningwhen there was a general scrubbingof doors and door-stonesand when it was useless to go into theschool.  But there were various subjects that Dorothea wastrying to get clear uponand she resolved to throw herselfenergetically into the gravest of all.  She sat down in thelibrary before her particular little heap of books on politicaleconomy and kindred mattersout of which she was trying to get lightas to the best way of spending money so as not to injure one'sneighborsor-- what comes to the same thing--so as to do them themost good. Here was a weighty subject whichif she could but layhold of itwould certainly keep her mind steady.  Unhappily hermind slipped off it for a whole hour; and at the end she foundherself reading sentences twice over with an intense consciousness ofmany thingsbut not of any one thing contained in the text. This was hopeless. Should she order the carriage and drive toTipton?  No; for some reason or other she preferred staying atLowick.  But her vagrant mind must be reduced to order: there was an art in self-discipline; and she walked round and roundthe brown library considering by what sort of manoeuvre she couldarrest her wandering thoughts. Perhaps a mere task was the bestmeans--something to which she must go doggedly.  Was there notthe geography of Asia Minorin which her slackness had often beenrebuked by Mr. Casaubon? She went to the cabinet of maps and unrolledone:  this morning she might make herself finally sure thatPaphlagonia was not on the Levantine coastand fix her totaldarkness about the Chalybes firmly on the shores of the Euxine. A map was a fine thing to study when you were disposed to think ofsomething elsebeing made up of names that would turn into a chimeif you went back upon them. Dorothea set earnestly to workbendingclose to her mapand uttering the names in an audiblesubdued tonewhich often got into a chime. She looked amusingly girlish after allher deep experience-- nodding her head and marking the names off onher fingerswith a little pursing of her lipand now and thenbreaking off to put her hands on each side of her face and say"Ohdear! oh dear!"

There wasno reason why this should end any more than a merry-go-round; but itwas at last interrupted by the opening of the door and theannouncement of Miss Noble.

The littleold ladywhose bonnet hardly reached Dorothea's shoulderwas warmlywelcomedbut while her hand was being pressed she made many of herbeaver-like noisesas if she had something difficult to say.

"Dosit down" said Dorothearolling a chair forward.  "AmI wanted for anything?  I shall be so glad if I can doanything."

"Iwill not stay" said Miss Nobleputting her hand into her smallbasketand holding some article inside it nervously; "I haveleft a friend in the churchyard."  She lapsed into herinarticulate soundsand unconsciously drew forth the article whichshe was fingering. It was the tortoise-shell lozenge-boxandDorothea felt the color mounting to her cheeks.

"Mr.Ladislaw" continued the timid little woman.  "Hefears he has offended youand has begged me to ask if you will seehim for a few minutes."

Dorotheadid not answer on the instant:  it was crossing her mind thatshe could not receive him in this librarywhere her husband'sprohibition seemed to dwell.  She looked towards the window.Could she go out and meet him in the grounds?  The sky washeavyand the trees had begun to shiver as at a coming storm. Besidesshe shrank from going out to him.

"Dosee himMrs. Casaubon" said Miss Noblepathetically; "elseI must go back and say Noand that will hurt him."

"YesI will see him" said Dorothea.  "Pray tell him tocome."

What elsewas there to be done?  There was nothing that she longed for atthat moment except to see Will:  the possibility of seeing himhad thrust itself insistently between her and every other object; andyet she had a throbbing excitement like an alarm upon her-- a sensethat she was doing something daringly defiant for his sake.

When thelittle lady had trotted away on her missionDorothea stood in themiddle of the library with her hands falling clasped before hermaking no attempt to compose herself in an attitude of dignifiedunconsciousness.  What she was least conscious of just then washer own body:  she was thinking of what was likely to be inWill's mindand of the hard feelings that others had had about him.How could any duty bind her to hardness?  Resistance to unjustdispraise had mingled with her feeling for him from the very firstand now in the rebound of her heart after her anguish the resistancewas stronger than ever.  "If I love him too much it isbecause he has been used so ill:"--there was a voice within hersaying this to some imagined audience in the librarywhen the doorwas openedand she saw Will before her.

She didnot moveand he came towards her with more doubt and timidity in hisface than she had ever seen before.  He was in a state ofuncertainty which made him afraid lest some look or word of hisshould condemn him to a new distance from her; and Dorothea wasafraid of her OWN emotion.  She looked as if there were a spellupon herkeeping her motionless and hindering her from unclaspingher handswhile some intensegrave yearning was imprisoned withinher eyes. Seeing that she did not put out her hand as usualWillpaused a yard from her and said with embarrassment"I am sograteful to you for seeing me."

"Iwanted to see you" said Dorotheahaving no other words atcommand. It did not occur to her to sit downand Will did not give acheerful interpretation to this queenly way of receiving him; but hewent on to say what he had made up his mind to say.

"Ifear you think me foolish and perhaps wrong for coming back so soon. I have been punished for my impatience.  You know-- every oneknows now---a painful story about my parentage.  I knew of itbefore I went awayand I always meant to tell you of it if-- if weever met again."

There wasa slight movement in Dorotheaand she unclasped her handsbutimmediately folded them over each other.

"Butthe affair is matter of gossip now" Will continued.  "Iwished you to know that something connected with it--something whichhappened before I went awayhelped to bring me down here again. Atleast I thought it excused my coming.  It was the idea ofgetting Bulstrode to apply some money to a public purpose--some moneywhich he had thought of giving me.  Perhaps it is rather toBulstrode's credit that he privately offered me compensation for anold injury: he offered to give me a good income to make amends; but Isuppose you know the disagreeable story?"

Willlooked doubtfully at Dorotheabut his manner was gathering some ofthe defiant courage with which he always thought of this fact in hisdestiny.  He added"You know that it must be altogetherpainful to me."

"Yes--yes--Iknow" said Dorotheahastily.

"Idid not choose to accept an income from such a source.  I wassure that you would not think well of me if I did so" saidWill. Why should he mind saying anything of that sort to her now? Sheknew that he had avowed his love for her.  "I felt that"--he broke offnevertheless.

"Youacted as I should have expected you to act" said Dorotheaherface brightening and her head becoming a little more erect on itsbeautiful stem.

"Idid not believe that you would let any circumstance of my birthcreate a prejudice in you against methough it was sure to do so inothers" said Willshaking his head backward in his old wayand looking with a grave appeal into her eyes.

"Ifit were a new hardship it would be a new reason for me to cling toyou" said Dorotheafervidly.  "Nothing could havechanged me but--"her heart was swellingand it was difficult togo on; she made a great effort over herself to say in a low tremulousvoice"but thinking that you were different--not so good as Ihad believed you to be."

"Youare sure to believe me better than I am in everything but one"said Willgiving way to his own feeling in the evidence of hers. "Imeanin my truth to you.  When I thought you doubted of thatIdidn't care about anything that was left.  I thought it was allover with meand there was nothing to try for--only things toendure."

"Idon't doubt you any longer" said Dorotheaputting out herhand; a vague fear for him impelling her unutterable affection.

He tookher hand and raised it to his lips with something like a sob. But hestood with his hat and gloves in the other handand might have donefor the portrait of a Royalist.  Still it was difficult to loosethe handand Dorotheawithdrawing it in a confusion that distressedherlooked and moved away.

"Seehow dark the clouds have becomeand how the trees are tossed"she saidwalking towards the windowyet speaking and moving withonly a dim sense of what she was doing.

Willfollowed her at a little distanceand leaned against the tall backof a leather chairon which he ventured now to lay his hat andglovesand free himself from the intolerable durance of formality towhich he had been for the first time condemned in Dorothea'spresence. It must be confessed that he felt very happy at that momentleaning on the chair.  He was not much afraid of anything thatshe might feel now.

They stoodsilentnot looking at each otherbut looking at the evergreenswhich were being tossedand were showing the pale underside of theirleaves against the blackening sky. Will never enjoyed the prospect ofa storm so much:  it delivered him from the necessity of goingaway.  Leaves and little branches were hurled aboutand thethunder was getting nearer.  The light was more and more sombrebut there came a flash of lightning which made them start and look ateach otherand then smile. Dorothea began to say what she had beenthinking of.

"Thatwas a wrong thing for you to saythat you would have had nothing totry for.  If we had lost our own chief goodother people's goodwould remainand that is worth trying for. Some can be happy. I seemed to see that more clearly than everwhen I was the mostwretched.  I can hardly think how I could have borne thetroubleif that feeling had not come to me to make strength."

"Youhave never felt the sort of misery I felt" said Will; "themisery of knowing that you must despise me."

"ButI have felt worse--it was worse to think ill--" Dorothea hadbegun impetuouslybut broke off.

Willcolored.  He had the sense that whatever she said was uttered inthe vision of a fatality that kept them apart.  He was silent amomentand then said passionately--

"Wemay at least have the comfort of speaking to each other withoutdisguise.  Since I must go away--since we must always bedivided--you may think of me as one on the brink of the grave."

While hewas speaking there came a vivid flash of lightning which lit each ofthem up for the other--and the light seemed to be the terror of ahopeless love.  Dorothea darted instantaneously from the window;Will followed herseizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; and sothey stoodwith their hands claspedlike two childrenlooking outon the stormwhile the thunder gave a tremendous crack and rollabove themand the rain began to pour down.  Then they turnedtheir faces towards each otherwith the memory of his last words inthemand they did not loose each other's hands.

"Thereis no hope for me" said Will.  "Even if you loved meas well as I love you--even if I were everything to you-- I shallmost likely always be very poor:  on a sober calculationonecan count on nothing but a creeping lot.  It is impossible forus ever to belong to each other.  It is perhaps base of me tohave asked for a word from you.  I meant to go away intosilencebut I have not been able to do what I meant."

"Don'tbe sorry" said Dorotheain her clear tender tones. "Iwould rather share all the trouble of our parting."

Her lipstrembledand so did his.  It was never known which lips werethe first to move towards the other lips; but they kissedtremblinglyand then they moved apart.

The rainwas dashing against the window-panes as if an angry spirit werewithin itand behind it was the great swoop of the wind; it was oneof those moments in which both the busy and the idle pause with acertain awe.

Dorotheasat down on the seat nearest to hera long low ottoman in the middleof the roomand with her hands folded over each other on her laplooked at the drear outer world.  Will stood still an instantlooking at herthen seated himself beside herand laid his hand onherswhich turned itself upward to be clasped. They sat in that waywithout looking at each otheruntil the rain abated and began tofall in stillness.  Each had been full of thoughts which neitherof them could begin to utter.

But whenthe rain was quietDorothea turned to look at Will. With passionateexclamationas if some torture screw were threatening himhestarted up and said"It is impossible!"

He wentand leaned on the back of the chair againand seemed to be battlingwith his own angerwhile she looked towards him sadly.

"Itis as fatal as a murder or any other horror that divides people"he burst out again; "it is more intolerable--to have our lifemaimed by petty accidents."

"No--don'tsay that--your life need not be maimed" said Dorotheagently.

"Yesit must" said Willangrily.  "It is cruel of you tospeak in that way--as if there were any comfort.  You may seebeyond the misery of itbut I don't. It is unkind--it is throwingback my love for you as if it were a trifleto speak in that way inthe face of the fact.  We can never be married."

"Sometime--we might" said Dorotheain a trembling voice.

"When?"said Willbitterly.  "What is the use of counting on anysuccess of mine?  It is a mere toss up whether I shall ever domore than keep myself decentlyunless I choose to sell myself as amere pen and a mouthpiece.  I can see that clearly enough. Icould not offer myself to any womaneven if she had no luxuries torenounce."

There wassilence.  Dorothea's heart was full of something that she wantedto sayand yet the words were too difficult.  She was whollypossessed by them:  at that moment debate was mute within her.And it was very hard that she could not say what she wanted to say.Will was looking out of the window angrily.  If he would havelooked at her and not gone away from her sideshe thought everythingwould have been easier.  At last he turnedstill restingagainst the chairand stretching his hand automatically towards hishatsaid with a sort of exasperation"Good-by."

"OhI cannot bear it--my heart will break" said Dorotheastartingfrom her seatthe flood of her young passion bearing down all theobstructions which had kept her silent--the great tears rising andfalling in an instant:"I don't mind about poverty-- I hate mywealth."

In aninstant Will was close to her and had his arms round herbut shedrew her head back and held his away gently that she might go onspeakingher large tear-filled eyes looking at his very simplywhile she said in a sobbing childlike way"We could live quitewell on my own fortune--it is too much--seven hundred a-year--I wantso little--no new clothes--and I will learn what everything costs."

CHAPTERLXXXIV

  "Though it be songe of old and yonge
   That Isholde be to blame
   Theyrs be the chargethat spokeso large
   In hurtynge of my name."
  --The Not-browne Mayde.

It wasjust after the Lords had thrown out the Reform Bill: that explainshow Mr. Cadwallader came to be walking on the slope of the lawn nearthe great conservatory at Freshitt Hallholding the "Times"in his hands behind himwhile he talked with a trout-fisher'sdispassionateness about the prospects of the country to Sir JamesChettam.  Mrs. Cadwalladerthe Dowager Lady Chettamand Celiawere sometimes seated on garden-chairssometimes walking to meetlittle Arthurwho was being drawn in his chariotandas became theinfantine Bouddhawas sheltered by his sacred umbrella with handsomesilken fringe.

The ladiesalso talked politicsthough more fitfully. Mrs. Cadwallader wasstrong on the intended creation of peers: she had it for certain fromher cousin that Truberry had gone over to the other side entirely atthe instigation of his wifewho had scented peerages in the air fromthe very first introduction of the Reform questionand would signher soul away to take precedence of her younger sisterwho hadmarried a baronet.  Lady Chettam thought that such conduct wasvery reprehensibleand remembered that Mrs. Truberry's mother was aMiss Walsingham of Melspring. Celia confessed it was nicer to be"Lady" than "Mrs." and that Dodo never mindedabout precedence if she could have her own way. Mrs. Cadwallader heldthat it was a poor satisfaction to take precedence when everybodyabout you knew that you had not a drop of good blood in your veins;and Celia againstopping to look at Arthursaid"It would bevery nicethoughif he were a Viscount-- and his lordship's littletooth coming through!  He might have beenif James had been anEarl."

"Mydear Celia" said the Dowager"James's title is worth farmore than any new earldom.  I never wished his father to beanything else than Sir James."

"OhI only meant about Arthur's little tooth" said Celiacomfortably.  "But seehere is my uncle coming."

Shetripped off to meet her unclewhile Sir James and Mr. Cadwalladercame forward to make one group with the ladies.  Celia hadslipped her arm through her uncle'sand he patted her hand with arather melancholy "Wellmy dear!"  As theyapproachedit was evident that Mr. Brooke was looking dejectedbutthis was fully accounted for by the state of politics; and as he wasshaking hands all round without more greeting than a "Wellyou're all hereyou know" the Rector saidlaughingly--

"Don'ttake the throwing out of the Bill so much to heartBrooke; you'vegot all the riff-raff of the country on your side."

"TheBilleh? ah!" said Mr. Brookewith a mild distractedness ofmanner.  "Thrown outyou knoweh?  The Lords aregoing too farthough.  They'll have to pull up.  Sad newsyou know. I meanhere at home--sad news.  But you must notblame meChettam."

"Whatis the matter?" said Sir James.  "Not anothergamekeeper shotI hope?  It's what I should expectwhen afellow like Trapping Bass is let off so easily."

"Gamekeeper? No. Let us go in; I can tell you all in the houseyou know"said Mr. Brookenodding at the Cadwalladersto show that heincluded them in his confidence.  "As to poachers likeTrapping Bassyou knowChettam" he continuedas they wereentering"when you are a magistrateyou'll not find it so easyto commit. Severity is all very wellbut it's a great deal easierwhen you've got somebody to do it for you.  You have a softplace in your heart yourselfyou know--you're not a DracoaJeffreysthat sort of thing."

Mr. Brookewas evidently in a state of nervous perturbation. When he hadsomething painful to tellit was usually his way to introduce itamong a number of disjointed particularsas if it were a medicinethat would get a milder flavor by mixing He continued his chat withSir James about the poachers until they were all seatedand Mrs.Cadwalladerimpatient of this drivellingsaid--

"I'mdying to know the sad news.  The gamekeeper is not shot: that issettled.  What is itthen?"

"Wellit's a very trying thingyou know" said Mr. Brooke. "I'mglad you and the Rector are here; it's a family matter-- but you willhelp us all to bear itCadwallader.  I've got to break it toyoumy dear."  Here Mr. Brooke looked at Celia-- "You'veno notion what it isyou know.  AndChettamit will annoy youuncommonly--butyou seeyou have not been able to hinder itanymore than I have.  There's something singular in things: theycome roundyou know."

"Itmust be about Dodo" said Celiawho had been used to think ofher sister as the dangerous part of the family machinery. She hadseated herself on a low stool against her husband's knee.

"ForGod's sake let us hear what it is!" said Sir James.

"Wellyou knowChettamI couldn't help Casaubon's will: it was a sort ofwill to make things worse."

"Exactly"said Sir Jameshastily.  "But WHAT is worse?"

"Dorotheais going to be married againyou know" said Mr. Brookenodding towards Celiawho immediately looked up at her husband witha frightened glanceand put her hand on his knee.  Sir Jameswas almost white with angerbut he did not speak.

"Mercifulheaven!" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  "Not to YOUNGLadislaw?"

Mr. Brookenoddedsaying"Yes; to Ladislaw" and then fell into aprudential silence.

"YouseeHumphrey!" said Mrs. Cadwalladerwaving her arm towardsher husband.  "Another time you will admit that I have someforesight; or rather you will contradict me and be just as blind asever. YOU supposed that the young gentleman was gone out of thecountry."

"Sohe might beand yet come back" said the Rectorquietly

"Whendid you learn this?" said Sir Jamesnot liking to hear any oneelse speakthough finding it difficult to speak himself.

"Yesterday"said Mr. Brookemeekly.  "I went to Lowick. Dorothea sentfor meyou know.  It had come about quite suddenly-- neither ofthem had any idea two days ago--not any ideayou know. There'ssomething singular in things.  But Dorothea is quitedetermined--it is no use opposing.  I put it strongly to her. Idid my dutyChettam.  But she can act as she likesyou know."

"Itwould have been better if I had called him out and shot him a yearago" said Sir Jamesnot from bloody-mindednessbut because heneeded something strong to say.

"ReallyJamesthat would have been very disagreeable" said Celia.

"BereasonableChettam.  Look at the affair more quietly"said Mr. Cadwalladersorry to see his good-natured friend soovermastered by anger.

"Thatis not so very easy for a man of any dignity--with any sense ofright--when the affair happens to be in his own family" saidSir Jamesstill in his white indignation.  "It isperfectly scandalous.  If Ladislaw had had a spark of honor hewould have gone out of the country at onceand never shown his facein it again.  HoweverI am not surprised.  The day afterCasaubon's funeral I said what ought to be done.  But I was notlistened to."

"Youwanted what was impossibleyou knowChettam" said Mr. Brooke."You wanted him shipped off.  I told you Ladislaw was notto be done as we liked with:  he had his ideas.  He was aremarkable fellow-- I always said he was a remarkable fellow."

"Yes"said Sir Jamesunable to repress a retort"it is rather a pityyou formed that high opinion of him.  We are indebted to thatfor his being lodged in this neighborhood.  We are indebted tothat for seeing a woman like Dorothea degrading herself by marryinghim." Sir James made little stoppages between his clausesthewords not coming easily.  "A man so marked out by herhusband's willthat delicacy ought to have forbidden her from seeinghim again-- who takes her out of her proper rank--into poverty--hasthe meanness to accept such a sacrifice--has always had anobjectionable position-- a bad origin--andI BELIEVEis a man oflittle principle and light character.  That is my opinion." Sir James ended emphaticallyturning aside and crossing his leg.

"Ipointed everything out to her" said Mr. Brookeapologetically-- "I mean the povertyand abandoning herposition.  I said`My dearyou don't know what it is to liveon seven hundred a-yearand have no carriageand that kind ofthingand go amongst people who don't know who you are.'  I putit strongly to her. But I advise you to talk to Dorothea herself. The fact isshe has a dislike to Casaubon's property.  You willhear what she saysyou know."

"No--excuseme--I shall not" said Sir Jameswith more coolness. "Icannot bear to see her again; it is too painful.  It hurts metoo much that a woman like Dorothea should have done what is wrong."

"BejustChettam" said the easylarge-lipped Rectorwho objectedto all this unnecessary discomfort.  "Mrs. Casaubon may beacting imprudently:  she is giving up a fortune for the sake ofa manand we men have so poor an opinion of each other that we canhardly call a woman wise who does that.  But I think you shouldnot condemn it as a wrong actionin the strict sense of the word."

"YesI do" answered Sir James.  "I think that Dorotheacommits a wrong action in marrying Ladislaw."

"Mydear fellowwe are rather apt to consider an act wrong because it isunpleasant to us" said the Rectorquietly.  Like many menwho take life easilyhe had the knack of saying a home truthoccasionally to those who felt themselves virtuously out of temper.Sir James took out his handkerchief and began to bite the corner.

"Itis very dreadful of Dodothough" said Celiawishing tojustify her husband.  "She said she NEVER WOULD marryagain-- not anybody at all."

"Iheard her say the same thing myself" said Lady Chettammajesticallyas if this were royal evidence.

"Ohthere is usually a silent exception in such cases" said Mrs.Cadwallader.  "The only wonder to me isthat any of youare surprised.  You did nothing to hinder it.  If you wouldhave had Lord Triton down here to woo her with his philanthropyhemight have carried her off before the year was over.  There wasno safety in anything else.  Mr. Casaubon had prepared all thisas beautifully as possible.  He made himself disagreeable--or itpleased God to make him so--and then he dared her to contradict him.It's the way to make any trumpery temptingto ticket it at a highprice in that way."

"Idon't know what you mean by wrongCadwallader" said Sir Jamesstill feeling a little stungand turning round in his chair towardsthe Rector.  "He's not a man we can take into the family.At leastI must speak for myself" he continuedcarefullykeeping his eyes off Mr. Brooke.  "I suppose others willfind his society too pleasant to care about the propriety of thething."

"Wellyou knowChettam" said Mr. Brookegood-humoredlynursing hisleg"I can't turn my back on Dorothea.  I must be a fatherto her up to a certain point.  I said`My dearI won't refuseto give you away.'  I had spoken strongly before.  But Ican cut off the entailyou know.  It will cost money and betroublesome; but I can do ityou know."

Mr. Brookenodded at Sir Jamesand felt that he was both showing his own forceof resolution and propitiating what was just in the Baronet'svexation.  He had hit on a more ingenious mode of parrying thanhe was aware of.  He had touched a motive of which Sir James wasashamed. The mass of his feeling about Dorothea's marriage toLadislaw was due partly to excusable prejudiceor even justifiableopinionpartly to a jealous repugnance hardly less in Ladislaw'scase than in Casaubon's. He was convinced that the marriage was afatal one for Dorothea.  But amid that mass ran a vein of whichhe was too good and honorable a man to like the avowal even tohimself: it was undeniable that the union of the two estates--Tiptonand Freshitt-- lying charmingly within a ring-fencewas a prospectthat flattered him for his son and heir.  Hence when Mr. Brookenoddingly appealed to that motiveSir James felt a suddenembarrassment; there was a stoppage in his throat; he even blushed. He had found more words than usual in the first jet of his angerbutMr. Brooke's propitiation was more clogging to his tongue than Mr.Cadwallader's caustic hint.

But Celiawas glad to have room for speech after her uncle's suggestion of themarriage ceremonyand she saidthough with as little eagerness ofmanner as if the question had turned on an invitation to dinner"Doyou mean that Dodo is going to be married directlyuncle?"

"Inthree weeksyou know" said Mr. Brookehelplessly.  "Ican do nothing to hinder itCadwallader" he addedturning fora little countenance toward the Rectorwho said--

"--I--shouldnot make any fuss about it.  If she likes to be poorthat isher affair.  Nobody would have said anything if she had marriedthe young fellow because he was rich.  Plenty of beneficedclergy are poorer than they will be.  Here is Elinor"continued the provoking husband; "she vexed her friends by me: I had hardly a thousand a-year--I was a lout--nobody could seeanything in me-- my shoes were not the right cut--all the menwondered how a woman could like me.  Upon my wordI must takeLadislaw's part until I hear more harm of him."

"Humphreythat is all sophistryand you know it" said his wife."Everything is all one--that is the beginning and end with you.As if you had not been a Cadwallader!  Does any one suppose thatI would have taken such a monster as you by any other name?"

"Anda clergyman too" observed Lady Chettam with approbation."Elinor cannot be said to have descended below her rank. It is difficult to say what Mr. Ladislaw isehJames?"

Sir Jamesgave a small gruntwhich was less respectful than his usual mode ofanswering his mother.  Celia looked up at him like a thoughtfulkitten.

"Itmust be admitted that his blood is a frightful mixture!" saidMrs. Cadwallader.  "The Casaubon cuttle-fish fluid to beginwithand then a rebellious Polish fiddler or dancing-masterwasit?-- and then an old clo--"

"NonsenseElinor" said the Rectorrising.  "It is time for usto go."

"Afterallhe is a pretty sprig" said Mrs. Cadwalladerrising tooand wishing to make amends.  "He is like the fine oldCrichley portraits before the idiots came in."

"I'llgo with you" said Mr. Brookestarting up with alacrity. "Youmust all come and dine with me to-morrowyou know--ehCeliamydear?"

"YouwillJames--won't you?" said Celiataking her husband's hand.

"Ohof courseif you like" said Sir Jamespulling down hiswaistcoatbut unable yet to adjust his face good-humoredly. "Thatis to sayif it is not to meet anybody else.':

"Nonono" said Mr. Brookeunderstanding the condition. "Dorotheawould not comeyou knowunless you had been to see her."

When SirJames and Celia were aloneshe said"Do you mind about myhaving the carriage to go toLowickJames?"

"Whatnowdirectly?" he answeredwith some surprise.

"Yesit is very important" said Celia.

"RememberCeliaI cannot see her" said Sir James.

"Notif she gave up marrying?"

"Whatis the use of saying that?--howeverI'm going to the stables. I'lltell Briggs to bring the carriage round."

Celiathought it was of great useif not to say thatat least to take ajourney to Lowick in order to influence Dorothea's mind. All throughtheir girlhood she had felt that she could act on her sister by aword judiciously placed--by opening a little window for the daylightof her own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps bywhich Dodo habitually saw.  And Celia the matron naturally feltmore able to advise her childless sister. How could any oneunderstand Dodo so well as Celia did or love her so tenderly?

Dorotheabusy in her boudoirfelt a glow of pleasure at the sight of hersister so soon after the revelation of her intended marriage. She hadprefigured to herselfeven with exaggerationthe disgust of herfriendsand she had even feared that Celia might be kept aloof fromher.

"OKittyI am delighted to see you!" said Dorotheaputting herhands on Celia's shouldersand beaming on her.  "I almostthought you would not come to me."

"Ihave not brought Arthurbecause I was in a hurry" said Celiaand they sat down on two small chairs opposite each otherwith theirknees touching.

"YouknowDodoit is very bad" said Celiain her placid gutturallooking as prettily free from humors as possible.  "Youhave disappointed us all so.  And I can't think that it everWILL be--you never can go and live in that way.  And then thereare all your plans! You never can have thought of that.  Jameswould have taken any trouble for youand you might have gone on allyour life doing what you liked."

"Onthe contrarydear" said Dorothea"I never could doanything that I liked.  I have never carried out any plan yet."

"Becauseyou always wanted things that wouldn't do.  But other planswould have come.  And how can you marry Mr. Ladislawthat wenone of us ever thought you COULD marry?  It shocks James sodreadfully. And then it is all so different from what you have alwaysbeen. You would have Mr. Casaubon because he had such a great souland was so and dismal and learned; and nowto think of marrying Mr.Ladislawwho has got no estate or anything.  I suppose it isbecause you must be making yourself uncomfortable in some way orother."

Dorothealaughed.

"Wellit is very seriousDodo" said Celiabecoming more impressive."How will you live? and you will go away among queer people. AndI shall never see you--and you won't mind about little Arthur-- and Ithought you always would--"

Celia'srare tears had got into her eyesand the corners of her mouth wereagitated.

"DearCelia" said Dorotheawith tender gravity"if you don'tever see meit will not be my fault."

"Yesit will" said Celiawith the same touching distortion of hersmall features.  "How can I come to you or have you with mewhen James can't bear it?--that is because he thinks it is notright-- he thinks you are so wrongDodo.  But you always werewrong:  only I can't help loving you.  And nobody can thinkwhere you will live: where can you go?"

"I amgoing to London" said Dorothea.

"Howcan you always live in a street?  And you will be so poor. Icould give you half my thingsonly how can Iwhen I never see you?"

"BlessyouKitty" said Dorotheawith gentle warmth.  "Takecomfort: perhaps James will forgive me some time."

"Butit would be much better if you would not be married" saidCeliadrying her eyesand returning to her argument; "thenthere would be nothing uncomfortable.  And you would not do whatnobody thought you could do.  James always said you ought to bea queen; but this is not at all being like a queen.  You knowwhat mistakes you have always been makingDodoand this isanother.  Nobody thinks Mr. Ladislaw a proper husband for you. And you SAID YOU would never be married again."

"Itis quite true that I might be a wiser personCelia" saidDorothea"and that I might have done something betterif I hadbeen better. But this is what I am going to do.  I have promisedto marry Mr. Ladislaw; and I am going to marry him."

The tonein which Dorothea said this was a note that Celia had long learned torecognize.  She was silent a few momentsand then saidas ifshe had dismissed all contest"Is he very fond of youDodo?"

"Ihope so.  I am very fond of him."

"Thatis nice" said Celiacomfortably.  "Only I rather youhad such a sort of husband as James iswith a place very nearthatI could drive to."

Dorotheasmiledand Celia looked rather meditative. Presently she said"Icannot think how it all came about." Celia thought it would bepleasant to hear the story.

"Idare say not" said-Dorotheapinching her sister's chin. "Ifyou knew how it came aboutit would not seem wonderful to you."

"Can'tyou tell me?" said Celiasettling her arms cozily.

"Nodearyou would have to feel with meelse you would never know."

CHAPTERLIXXV

"Thenwent the jury out whose names were Mr. BlindmanMr. No-good

Mr.MaliceMr. Love-lustMr. Live-looseMr. HeadyMr. High-mind

Mr.EnmityMr. LiarMr. CrueltyMr. Hate-lightMr. Implacable

whoevery one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves

andafterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty

beforethe judge.  And first among themselvesMr. Blindman

theforemansaidI see clearly that this man is a heretic.

Thensaid Mr. No-goodAway with such a fellow from the earth!

Aysaid Mr. Malicefor I hate the very look of him.  Then said

Mr.Love-lustI could never endure him.  Nor Isaid Mr.Live-loose;

forhe would be always condemning my way.  Hang himhang him

saidMr. Heady.  A sorry scrubsaid Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth

againsthimsaid Mr. Enmity.  He is a roguesaid Mr. Liar.

Hangingis too good for himsaid Mr. Cruelty.  Let us despatch

himout of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable

MightI have all the world given meI could not be reconciled to him;

thereforelet us forthwith bring him in guilty of death."
  --Pilgrim's Progress.

Whenimmortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passionsbringing in their verdict of guiltywho pities Faithful? That is arare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attainedtoknow ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd-- to be sure thatwhat we are denounced for is solely the good in us. The pitiable lotis that of the man who could not call himself a martyr even though hewere to persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but uglypassions incarnate--who knows that he is stonednot for professingthe Rightbut for not being the man he professed to be.

This wasthe consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he madehis preparations for departing from Middlemarchand going to end hisstricken life in that sad refugethe indifference of new faces. Theduteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from onedreadbut it could not hinder her presence from being still atribunal before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy.His equivocations with himself about the death of Raffles hadsustained the conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed toyet hehad a terror upon him which would not let him expose them to judgmentby a full confession to his wife:  the acts which he had washedand diluted with inward argument and motiveand for which it seemedcomparatively easy to win invisible pardon--what name would she callthem by?  That she should ever silently call his acts Murder waswhat he could not bear.  He felt shrouded by her doubt: he gotstrength to face her from the sense that she could not yet feelwarranted in pronouncing that worst condemnation on him. Some timeperhaps--when he was dying--he would tell her all: in the deep shadowof that timewhen she held his hand in the gathering darknessshemight listen without recoiling from his touch.  Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his lifeand the impulse toconfession had no power against the dread of a deeper humiliation.

He wasfull of timid care for his wifenot only because he deprecated anyharshness of judgment from herbut because he felt a deep distressat the sight of her suffering.  She had sent her daughters awayto board at a school on the coastthat this crisis might be hiddenfrom them as far as possible. Set free by their absence from theintolerable necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholdingtheir frightened wondershe could live unconstrainedly with thesorrow that was every day streaking her hair with whiteness andmaking her eyelids languid.

"Tellme anything that you would like to have me doHarriet"Bulstrode had said to her; "I mean with regard to arrangementsof property.  It is my intention not to sell the land I possessin this neighborhoodbut to leave it to you as a safe provision. Ifyou have any wish on such subjectsdo not conceal it from me."

A few daysafterwardswhen she had returned from a visit to her brother'sshebegan to speak to her husband on a subject which had for some timebeen in her mind.

"ISHOULD like to do something for my brother's familyNicholas; and Ithink we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband. Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the townand his practice isalmost good for nothingand they have very little left to settleanywhere with.  I would rather do without something forourselvesto make some amends to my poor brother's family."

Mrs.Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the phrase"make some amends;" knowing that her husband mustunderstand her. He had a particular reasonwhich she was not awareoffor wincing under her suggestion.  He hesitated before hesaid--

"Itis not possible to carry out your wish in the way you proposemydear.  Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further servicefrom me.  He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him.Mrs. Casaubon advanced him the sum for that purpose.  Here ishis letter."

The letterseemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely.  The mention of Mrs.Casaubon's loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which heldit a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection withher husband.  She was silent for some time; and the tears fellone after the otherher chin trembling as she wiped them away.Bulstrodesitting opposite to herached at the sight of thatgrief-worn facewhich two months before had been bright andblooming. It had aged to keep sad company with his own witheredfeatures. Urged into some effort at comforting herhe said--

"Thereis another meansHarrietby which I might do a service to yourbrother's familyif you like to act in it.  And it wouldIthinkbe beneficial to you:  it would be an advantageous way ofmanaging the land which I mean to be yours."

She lookedattentive.

"Garthonce thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in order toplace your nephew Fred there.  The stock was to remain as it isand they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of anordinary rent.  That would be a desirable beginning for theyoung manin conjunction with his employment under Garth. Would itbe a satisfaction to you?"

"Yesit would" said Mrs. Bulstrodewith some return of energy."Poor Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my powerto do him some good before I go away.  We have always beenbrother and sister."

"Youmust make the proposal to Garth yourselfHarriet" said Mr.Bulstrodenot liking what he had to saybut desiring the end he hadin viewfor other reasons besides the consolation of his wife. "You must state to him that the land is virtually yoursandthat he need have no transactions with me.  Communications canbe made through Standish.  I mention thisbecause Garth gave upbeing my agent.  I can put into your hands a paper which hehimself drew upstating conditions; and you can propose his renewedacceptance of them.  I think it is not unlikely that he willaccept when you propose the thing for the sake of your nephew."

CHAPTERLXXXVI

"Lecoeur se sature d'amour comme d'un sel divin qui le conserve;

dela l'incorruptible adherence de ceux qui se sont aimes des

l'aubede la vieet la fraicheur des vielles amours prolonges.

Ilexiste un embaumement d'amour.  C'est de Daphnis et Chloe

quesont faits Philemon et Baucis.  Cette vieillesse la

ressemblancedu soir avec l'aurore."

  --VICTOR HUGO:  L'homme qui rit.

Mrs.Garthhearing Caleb enter the passage about tea-timeopened theparlor-door and said"There you areCaleb.  Have you hadyour dinner?"  (Mr. Garth's meals were much subordinated to"business.")

"Ohyesa good dinner--cold mutton and I don't know what. Where isMary?"

"Inthe garden with LettyI think."

"Fredis not come yet?"

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

"Nono; I'm only going to Mary a minute."

Mary wasin a grassy corner of the gardenwhere there was a swing loftilyhung between two pear-trees. She had a pink kerchief tied over herheadmaking a little poke to shade her eyes from the level sunbeamswhile she was giving a glorious swing to Lettywho laughed andscreamed wildly.

Seeing herfatherMary left the swing and went to meet himpushing back thepink kerchief and smiling afar off at him with the involuntary smileof loving pleasure.

"Icame to look for youMary" said Mr. Garth.  "Letus-walk about a bit."  Mary knew quite well that her fatherhad something particular to say:  his eyebrows made theirpathetic angleand there was a tender gravity in his voice: these things had been signs to her when she was Letty's age. She put her arm within hisand they turned by the row of nut-trees.

"Itwill be a sad while before you can be marriedMary" said herfathernot looking at herbut at the end of the stick which he heldin his other hand. 

"Nota sad whilefather--I mean to be merry" said Marylaughingly.  "I have been single and merry forfour-and-twenty years and more:  I suppose it will not be quiteas long again as that."  Thenafter a little pauseshesaidmore gravelybending her face before her father's"Ifyou are contented with Fred?"

Calebscrewed up his mouth and turned his head aside wisely.

"Nowfatheryou did praise him last Wednesday.  You said he had anuncommon notion of stockand a good eye for things."

"DidI?" said Calebrather slyly.

"YesI put it all downand the dateanno Dominiand everything"said Mary.  "You like things to be neatly booked.  Andthen his behavior to youfatheris really good; he has a deeprespect for you; and it is impossible to have a better temper thanFred has."

"Ayay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match."

"Noindeedfather.  I don't love him because he is a fine match."

"Whatforthen?"

"Ohdearbecause I have always loved him.  I should never likescolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought ofin a husband."

"Yourmind is quite settledthenMary?" said Calebreturning to hisfirst tone.  "There's no other wish come into it sincethings have been going on as they have been of late?" (Caleb meant a great deal in that vague phrase;) "becausebetter late than never. A woman must not force her heart--she'll do aman no good by that."

"Myfeelings have not changedfather" said Marycalmly. "Ishall be constant to Fred as long as he is constant to me. I don'tthink either of us could spare the otheror like any one elsebetterhowever much we might admire them.  It would make toogreat a difference to us--like seeing all the old places alteredandchanging the name for everything.  We must wait for each other along while; but Fred knows that."

Instead ofspeaking immediatelyCaleb stood still and screwed his stick on thegrassy walk.  Then he saidwith emotion in his voice"WellI've got a bit of news.  What do you think of Fred going to liveat Stone Courtand managing the land there?"

"Howcan that ever befather?" said Marywonderingly.

"Hewould manage it for his aunt Bulstrode.  The poor woman has beento me begging and praying.  She wants to do the lad goodand itmight be a fine thing for him.  With savinghe might graduallybuy the stockand he has a turn for farming."

"OhFred would be so happy!  It is too good to believe."

"Ahbut mind you" said Calebturning his head warningly"Imust take it on MY shouldersand be responsibleand see aftereverything; and that will grieve your mother a bitthough she mayn'tsay so. Fred had need be careful."

"Perhapsit is too muchfather" said Marychecked in her joy. "Therewould be no happiness in bringing you any fresh trouble."

"Naynay; work is my delightchildwhen it doesn't vex your mother. Andthenif you and Fred get married" here Caleb's voice shookjust perceptibly"he'll be steady and saving; and you've gotyour mother's clevernessand mine tooin a woman's sort of way; andyou'll keep him in order.  He'll be coming by-and-byso Iwanted to tell you firstbecause I think you'd like to tell HIM byyourselves.  After thatI could talk it well over with himandwe could go into business and the nature of things."

"Ohyou dear good father!" cried Maryputting her hands round herfather's neckwhile he bent his head placidlywilling to becaressed. "I wonder if any other girl thinks her father the bestman in the world!"

"Nonsensechild; you'll think your husband better."

"Impossible"said Maryrelapsing into her usual tone; "husbands are aninferior class of menwho require keeping in order."

When theywere entering the house with Lettywho had run to join themMarysaw Fred at the orchard-gateand went to meet him.

"Whatfine clothes you wearyou extravagant youth!" said MaryasFred stood still and raised his hat to her with playful formality."You are not learning economy."

"Nowthat is too badMary" said Fred.  "Just look at theedges of these coat-cuffs! It is only by dint of good brushing that Ilook respectable.  I am saving up three suits--one for awedding-suit."

"Howvery droll you will look!--like a gentleman in an old fashion-book."

"Ohnothey will keep two years."

"Twoyears! be reasonableFred" said Maryturning to walk. "Don'tencourage flattering expectations."

"Whynot?  One lives on them better than on unflattering ones. If wecan't be married in two yearsthe truth will be quite bad enoughwhen it comes."

"Ihave heard a story of a young gentleman who once encouragedflattering expectationsand they did him harm."

"Maryif you've got something discouraging to tell meI shall bolt; Ishall go into the house to Mr. Garth.  I am out of spirits. Myfather is so cut up--home is not like itself.  I can't bear anymore bad news."

"Shouldyou call it bad news to be told that you were to live at Stone Courtand manage the farmand be remarkably prudentand save money everyyear till all the stock and furniture were your ownand you were adistinguished agricultural characteras Mr. Borthrop Trumbullsays--rather stoutI fearand with the Greek and Latin sadlyweather-worn?"

"Youdon't mean anything except nonsenseMary?" said Fredcoloringslightly nevertheless.

"Thatis what my father has just told me of as what may happenand henever talks nonsense" said Marylooking up at Fred nowwhilehe grasped her hand as they walkedtill it rather hurt her; but shewould not complain.

"OhI could be a tremendously good fellow thenMaryand we could bemarried directly."

"Notso fastsir; how do you know that I would not rather defer ourmarriage for some years?  That would leave you time tomisbehaveand then if I liked some one else betterI should have anexcuse for jilting you."

"Praydon't jokeMary" said Fredwith strong feeling.  "Tellme seriously that all this is trueand that you are happy because ofit-- because you love me best."

"Itis all trueFredand I am happy because of it--because I love youbest" said Maryin a tone of obedient recitation.

Theylingered on the door-step under the steep-roofed porchand Fredalmost in a whisper said--

"Whenwe were first engagedwith the umbrella-ringMaryyou used to--"

The spiritof joy began to laugh more decidedly in Mary's eyesbut the fatalBen came running to the door with Brownie yapping behind himandbouncing against themsaid--

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

FINALE

Everylimit is a beginning as well as an ending.  Who can quit younglives after being long in company with themand not desire to knowwhat befell them in their after-years? For the fragment of a lifehowever typicalis not the sample of an even web:  promises maynot be keptand an ardent outset may be followed by declension;latent powers may find their long-waited opportunity; a past errormay urge a grand retrieval.

Marriagewhich has been the bourne of so many narrativesis still a greatbeginningas it was to Adam and Evewho kept their honeymoon inEdenbut 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 climaxand age the harvest of sweetmemories in common.

Some setoutlike Crusaders of oldwith a glorious equipment of hope andenthusiasm and get broken by the waywanting patience with eachother and the world.

All whohave oared for Fred Vincy and Mary Garth will like to know that thesetwo made no such failurebut 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 practicalfarmerand produced a work on the "Cultivation of Green Cropsand the Economy of Cattle-Feeding" which won him highcongratulations at agricultural meetings.  In Middlemarchadmiration was more reserved:  most persons there were inclinedto believe that the merit of Fred's authorship was due to his wifesince they had never expected Fred Vincy to write on turnips andmangel-wurzel.

But whenMary wrote a little book for her boyscalled "Stories of GreatMentaken from Plutarch" and had it printed and published byGripp & Co.Middlemarchevery one in the town was willing togive the credit of this work to Fredobserving that he had been tothe University"where the ancients were studied" andmight have been a clergyman if he had chosen.

In thisway it was made clear that Middlemarch had never been deceivedandthat there was no need to praise anybody for writing a booksince itwas always done by somebody else.

MoreoverFred remained unswervingly steady.  Some years after hismarriage he told Mary that his happiness was half owing toFarebrotherwho gave him a strong pull-up at the right moment. Icannot say that he was never again misled by his hopefulness: theyield of crops or the profits of a cattle sale usually fell below hisestimate; and he was always prone to believe that he could make moneyby the purchase of a horse which turned out badly-- though thisMaryobservedwas of course the fault of the horsenot of Fred'sjudgment.  He kept his love of horsemanshipbut he rarelyallowed himself a day's hunting; and when he did soit wasremarkable that he submitted to be laughed at for cowardliness at thefencesseeming to see Mary and the boys sitting on the five-barredgateor showing their curly heads between hedge and ditch.

There werethree boys:  Mary was not discontented that she brought forthmen-children only; and when Fred wished to have a girl like hershesaidlaughingly"that would be too great a trial to yourmother." Mrs. Vincy in her declining yearsand in thediminished lustre of her housekeepingwas much comforted by herperception that two at least of Fred's boys were real Vincysand didnot "feature the Garths." But Mary secretly rejoiced thatthe youngest of the three was very much what her father must havebeen when he wore a round jacketand showed a marvellous nicety ofaim in playing at marblesor in throwing stones to bring down themellow pears.

Ben andLetty Garthwho were uncle and aunt before they were well in theirteensdisputed much as to whether nephews or nieces were moredesirable; Ben contending that it was clear girls were good for lessthan boyselse they would not be always in petticoatswhich showedhow little they were meant for; whereupon Lettywho argued much frombooksgot angry in replying that God made coats of skins for bothAdam and Eve alike--also it occurred to her that in the East the mentoo wore petticoats.  But this latter argumentobscuring themajesty of the formerwas one too manyfor Ben answeredcontemptuously"The more spooneys they!" and immediatelyappealed to his mother whether boys were not better than girls. Mrs.Garth pronounced that both were alike naughtybut that boys wereundoubtedly strongercould run fasterand throw with more precisionto a greater distance.  With this oracular sentence Ben was wellsatisfiednot minding the naughtiness; but Letty took it illherfeeling of superiority being stronger than her muscles.

Fred neverbecame rich--his hopefulness had not led him to expect that; but hegradually saved enough to become owner of the stock and furniture atStone Courtand the work which Mr. Garth put into his hands carriedhim in plenty through those "bad times" which are alwayspresent with farmers.  Maryin her matronly daysbecame assolid in figure as her mother; butunlike hergave the boys littleformal teachingso that Mrs. Garth was alarmed lest they shouldnever be well grounded in grammar and geography.  Neverthelessthey were found quite forward enough when they went to school;perhapsbecause they had liked nothing so well as being with theirmother. When Fred was riding home on winter evenings he had apleasant vision beforehand of the bright hearth in the wainscotedparlorand was sorry for other men who could not have Mary for theirwife; especially for Mr. Farebrother.  "He was ten timesworthier of you than I was" Fred could now say to hermagnanimously.  "To be sure he was" Mary answered;"and for that reason he could do better without me.  Butyou--I shudder to think what you would have been-- a curate in debtfor horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs!"

On inquiryit might possibly be found that Fred and Mary still inhabit StoneCourt--that the creeping plants still cast the foam of their blossomsover the fine stone-wall into the field where the walnut-trees standin stately row--and that on sunny days the two lovers who were firstengaged with the umbrella-ring may be seen in white-haired placidityat the open window from which Mary Garthin the days of old PeterFeatherstonehad often been ordered to look out for Mr. Lydgate.

Lydgate'shair never became white.  He died when he was only fiftyleaving his wife and children provided for by a heavy insurance onhis life.  He had gained an excellent practicealternatingaccording to the seasonbetween London and a Continentalbathing-place; having written a treatise on Gouta disease which hasa good deal of wealth on its side.  His skill was relied on bymany paying patientsbut he always regarded himself as a failure: he had not done what he once meant to do.  His acquaintancesthought him enviable to have so charming a wifeand nothing happenedto shake their opinion. Rosamond never committed a secondcompromising indiscretion.  She simply continued to be mild inher temperinflexible in her judgmentdisposed to admonish herhusbandand able to frustrate him by stratagem.  As the yearswent on he opposed her less and lesswhence Rosamond concluded thathe had learned the value of her opinion; on the other handshe had amore thorough conviction of his talents now that he gained a goodincomeand instead of the threatened cage in Bride Street providedone all flowers and gildingfit for the bird of paradise that sheresembled.  In briefLydgate was what is called a successfulman.  But he died prematurely of diphtheriaand Rosamondafterwards married an elderly and wealthy physicianwho took kindlyto her four children.  She made a very pretty show with herdaughtersdriving out in her carriageand often spoke of herhappiness as "a reward"--she did not say for whatbutprobably she meant that it was a reward for her patience withTertiuswhose temper never became faultlessand to the lastoccasionally let slip a bitter speech which was more memorable thanthe signs he made of his repentance.  He once called her hisbasil plant; and when she asked for an explanationsaid that basilwas a plant which had flourished wonderfully on a murdered man'sbrains. Rosamond had a placid but strong answer to such speeches. Why then had he chosen her?  It was a pity he had not had Mrs.Ladislawwhom he was always praising and placing above her. And thus the conversation ended with the advantage on Rosamond'sside. But it would be unjust not to tellthat she never uttered aword in depreciation of Dorotheakeeping in religious remembrancethe generosity which had come to her aid in the sharpest crisis ofher life.

Dorotheaherself had no dreams of being praised above other womenfeelingthat there was always something better which she might have doneifshe had only been better and known better.  Stillshe neverrepented that she had given up position and fortune to marry WillLadislawand he would have held it the greatest shame as well assorrow to him if she had repented.  They were bound to eachother by a love stronger than any impulses which could have marredit. No life would have been possible to Dorothea which was not filledwith emotionand she had now a life filled also with a beneficentactivity which she had not the doubtful pains of discovering andmarking out for herself.  Will became an ardent public manworking well in those times when reforms were begun with a younghopefulness of immediate good which has been much checked in ourdaysand getting at last returned to Parliament by a constituencywho paid his expenses.  Dorothea could have liked nothingbettersince wrongs existedthan that her husband should be in thethick of a struggle against themand that she should give him wifelyhelp. Many who knew herthought it a pity that so substantive andrare a creature should have been absorbed into the life of anotherand be only known in a certain circle as a wife and mother. But noone stated exactly what else that was in her power she ought ratherto have done--not even Sir James Chettamwho went no further thanthe negative prescription that she ought not to have married WillLadislaw.

But thisopinion of his did not cause a lasting alienation; and the way inwhich the family was made whole again was characteristic of allconcerned.  Mr. Brooke could not resist the pleasure ofcorresponding with Will and Dorothea; and one morning when his penhad been remarkably fluent on the prospects of Municipal Reformitran off into an invitation to the Grangewhichonce writtencouldnot be done away with at less cost than the sacrifice (hardly to beconceived) of the whole valuable letter. During the months of thiscorrespondence Mr. Brooke had continuallyin his talk with Sir JamesChettambeen presupposing or hinting that the intention of cuttingoff the entail was still maintained; and the day on which his pengave the daring invitationhe went to Freshitt expressly to intimatethat he had a stronger sense than ever of the reasons for taking thatenergetic step as a precaution against any mixture of low blood inthe heir of the Brookes.

But thatmorning something exciting had happened at the Hall. A letter hadcome to Celia which made her cry silently as she read it; and whenSir Jamesunused to see her in tearsasked anxiously what was themattershe burst out in a wail such as he had never heard from herbefore.

"Dorotheahas a little boy.  And you will not let me go and see her. And Iam sure she wants to see me.  And she will not know what to dowith the baby--she will do wrong things with it.  And theythought she would die.  It is very dreadful!  Suppose ithad been me and little Arthurand Dodo had been hindered from comingto see me! I wish you would be less unkindJames!"

"GoodheavensCelia!" said Sir Jamesmuch wrought upon"whatdo you wish?  I will do anything you like.  I will take youto town to-morrow if you wish it."  And Celia did wish it.

It wasafter this that Mr. Brooke cameand meeting the Baronet in thegroundsbegan to chat with him in ignorance of the newswhich SirJames for some reason did not care to tell him immediately. But whenthe entail was touched on in the usual wayhe said"My dearsirit is not for me to dictate to youbut for my part I would letthat alone.  I would let things remain as they are."

Mr. Brookefelt so much surprised that he did not at once find out how much hewas relieved by the sense that he was not expected to do anything inparticular.

Such beingthe bent of Celia's heartit was inevitable that Sir James shouldconsent to a reconciliation with Dorothea and her husband. Wherewomen love each othermen learn to smother their mutual dislike. SirJames never liked Ladislawand Will always preferred to have SirJames's company mixed with another kind:  they were on a footingof reciprocal tolerance which was made quite easy only when Dorotheaand Celia were present.

It becamean understood thing that Mr. and Mrs. Ladislaw should pay at leasttwo visits during the year to the Grangeand there came gradually asmall row of cousins at Freshitt who enjoyed playing with the twocousins Visiting Tipton as much as if the blood of these cousins hadbeen less dubiously mixed.

Mr. Brookelived to a good old ageand his estate was inherited by Dorothea'ssonwho might have represented Middlemarchbut declinedthinkingthat his opinions had less chance of being stifled if he remained outof doors.

Sir Jamesnever ceased to regard Dorothea's second marriage as a mistake; andindeed this remained the tradition concerning it in Middlemarchwhere she was spoken of to a younger generation as a fine girl whomarried a sickly clergymanold enough to be her fatherand inlittle more than a year after his death gave up her estate to marryhis cousin--young enough to have been his sonwith no propertyandnot well-born. Those who had not seen anything of Dorothea usuallyobserved that she could not have been "a nice woman" elseshe would not have married either the one or the other.

Certainlythose determining acts of her life were not ideally beautiful. Theywere the mixed result of young and noble impulse struggling amidstthe conditions of an imperfect social statein which great feelingswill often take the aspect of errorand great faith the aspect ofillusion.  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 aconventual lifeany more than a new Antigone will spend her heroicpiety in daring all for the sake of a brother's burial: the medium inwhich their ardent deeds took shape is forever gone. But weinsignificant people with our daily words and acts are preparing thelives of many Dorotheassome of which may present a far saddersacrifice than that of the Dorothea whose story we know.

Her finelytouched spirit had still its fine issuesthough they were not widelyvisible.  Her full naturelike that river of which Cyrus brokethe strengthspent itself in channels which had no great name on theearth.  But the effect of her being on those around her wasincalculably diffusive:  for the growing good of the world ispartly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so illwith you and me as they might have beenis half owing to the numberwho lived faithfully a hidden lifeand rest in unvisited tombs.

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