book6.xml

<A NAME="chap54"></A>
<H2 ALIGN="center">
BOOK VI.
</H2>

<BR/>

<H2 ALIGN="center">
THE WIDOW AND THE WIFE.
</H2>

<BR/><BR/>

<H3 ALIGN="center">
CHAPTER LIV.
</H3>

<epigraph>
        <said>Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore;
             Per che si fa gentil ciò ch'ella mira:
             Ov'ella passa, ogni uom ver lei si gira,
             E cui saluta fa tremar lo core.

         Sicchè, bassando il viso, tutto smore,
             E d'ogni suo difetto allor sospira:
             Fuggon dinanzi a lei Superbia ed Ira:
             Aiutatemi, donne, a farle onore.

         Ogni dolcezza, ogni pensiero umile
             Nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente;
             Ond'è beato chi prima la vide.
         Quel ch'ella par quand' un poco sorride,
             Non si può dicer, nè tener a mente,
             Si è nuovo miracolo gentile.</said>
                            —DANTE: la Vita Nuova.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
By that delightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were
scenting the air quite impartially, as if Mr. Raffles had been a guest
worthy of finest incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode at
Lowick Manor. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> After three months Freshitt had become rather
oppressive: to sit like a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously
at Celia's baby would not do for many hours in the day, and to remain
in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a
course that could not have been tolerated in a childless sister.
Dorothea would have been capable of carrying baby joyfully for a mile
if there had been need, and of loving it the more tenderly for that
labor; but to an aunt who does not recognize her infant nephew as
Bouddha, and has nothing to do for him but to admire, his behavior is
apt to appear monotonous, and the interest of watching him exhaustible. </said>
This possibility was quite hidden from Celia, who felt that Dorothea's
childless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the birth of little
Arthur (baby was named after Mr. Brooke).
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">Dodo is just the creature not to mind about having anything of her
own—children or anything!</said> said Celia to her husband.  <said who="#Celia">And if she
had had a baby, it never could have been such a dear as Arthur.  Could
it, James?
</P>

<P>
<said who="#JC"> Not if it had been like Casaubon,</said> said Sir James, conscious of some
indirectness in his answer, and of holding a strictly private opinion
as to the perfections of his first-born.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">No! just imagine!  Really it was a mercy,</said> said Celia; <said who="#Celia">and I think it
is very nice for Dodo to be a widow.  She can be just as fond of our
baby as if it were her own, and she can have as many notions of her own
as she likes.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#JC">It is a pity she was not a queen,</said> said the devout Sir James.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">But what should we have been then?  We must have been something else,</said>
said Celia, objecting to so laborious a flight of imagination.  <said who="#Celia">I like
her better as she is.</said>
</P>

<P>
Hence, when she found that Dorothea was making arrangements for her
final departure to Lowick, Celia raised her eyebrows with
disappointment, and <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> in her quiet unemphatic way shot a needle-arrow of
sarcasm. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">What will you do at Lowick, Dodo?  You say yourself there is nothing
to be done there: everybody is so clean and well off, it makes you
quite melancholy.  And here you have been so happy going all about
Tipton with Mr. Garth into the worst backyards.  And now uncle is
abroad, you and Mr. Garth can have it all your own way; and I am sure
James does everything you tell him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I shall often come here, and I shall see how baby grows all the
better,</said> said Dorothea.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">But you will never see him washed,</said> said Celia; <said who="#Celia">and that is quite the
best part of the day.</said>  She was almost pouting: it did seem to her very
hard in Dodo to go away from the baby when she might stay.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Dear Kitty, I will come and stay all night on purpose,</said> said Dorothea;
<said who="#D">but I want to be alone now, and in my own home.  I wish to know the
Farebrothers better, and to talk to Mr. Farebrother about what there is
to be done in Middlemarch.</said>
</P>

<P>
Dorothea's native strength of will was no longer all converted into
resolute submission.  She had a great yearning to be at Lowick, and was
simply determined to go, not feeling bound to tell all her reasons.
But every one around her disapproved.  <said who="#JC" direct="false" aloud="false">Sir James was much pained, and
offered that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for a few months
with the sacred ark, otherwise called a cradle: at that period a man
could hardly know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected. </said>
</P>

<P>
The Dowager Lady Chettam, just returned from a visit to her daughter in
town, wished, at least, that Mrs. Vigo should be written to, and
invited to accept the office of companion to Mrs. Casaubon: <said who="#LC" direct="false" aloud="false">it was not
credible that Dorothea as a young widow would think of living alone in
the house at Lowick.  Mrs. Vigo had been reader and secretary to royal
personages, and in point of knowledge and sentiments even Dorothea
could have nothing to object to her. </said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Cadwallader said, privately, <said who="#MrsCad">You will certainly go mad in that
house alone, my dear.  You will see visions.  We have all got to exert
ourselves a little to keep sane, and call things by the same names as
other people call them by.  To be sure, for younger sons and women who
have no money, it is a sort of provision to go mad: they are taken care
of then.  But you must not run into that.  I dare say you are a little
bored here with our good dowager; but think what a bore you might
become yourself to your fellow-creatures if you were always playing
tragedy queen and taking things sublimely.  Sitting alone in that
library at Lowick you may fancy yourself ruling the weather; you must
get a few people round you who wouldn't believe you if you told them.
That is a good lowering medicine.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I never called everything by the same name that all the people about
me did,</said> said Dorothea, stoutly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">But I suppose you have found out your mistake, my dear,</said> said Mrs.
Cadwallader, <said who="#MrsCad">and that is a proof of sanity.</said>
</P>

<P>
Dorothea was aware of the sting, but it did not hurt her.  <said who="#D">No,</said> she
said, <said who="#D">I still think that the greater part of the world is mistaken
about many things.  Surely one may be sane and yet think so, since the
greater part of the world has often had to come round from its opinion.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Cadwallader said no more on that point to Dorothea, but to her
husband she remarked, <said who="#MrsCad">It will be well for her to marry again as soon
as it is proper, if one could get her among the right people.  Of
course the Chettams would not wish it.  But I see clearly a husband is
the best thing to keep her in order.  If we were not so poor I would
invite Lord Triton.  He will be marquis some day, and there is no
denying that she would make a good marchioness: she looks handsomer
than ever in her mourning.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrCad">My dear Elinor, do let the poor woman alone.  Such contrivances are of
no use,</said> said the easy Rector.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">No use?  How are matches made, except by bringing men and women
together?  And it is a shame that her uncle should have run away and
shut up the Grange just now.  There ought to be plenty of eligible
matches invited to Freshitt and the Grange.  Lord Triton is precisely
the man: full of plans for making the people happy in a soft-headed
sort of way.  That would just suit Mrs. Casaubon.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrCad">Let Mrs. Casaubon choose for herself, Elinor.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">That is the nonsense you wise men talk!  How can she choose if she has
no variety to choose from?  A woman's choice usually means taking the
only man she can get.  Mark my words, Humphrey.  If her friends don't
exert themselves, there will be a worse business than the Casaubon
business yet.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrCad">For heaven's sake don't touch on that topic, Elinor! It is a very sore
point with Sir James. He would be deeply offended if you entered on it
to him unnecessarily.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">I have never entered on it,</said> said Mrs Cadwallader, opening her hands.
<said who="#MrsCad">Celia told me all about the will at the beginning, without any asking
of mine.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrCad">Yes, yes; but they want the thing hushed up, and I understand that the
young fellow is going out of the neighborhood.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Cadwallader said nothing, but gave her husband three significant
nods, with a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes.
</P>

<P>
Dorothea quietly persisted in spite of remonstrance and persuasion.  So
by the end of June the shutters were all opened at Lowick Manor, and
the morning gazed calmly into the library, shining on the rows of
note-books as it shines on the weary waste planted with huge stones,
the mute memorial of a forgotten faith; and the evening laden with
roses entered silently into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea chose
oftenest to sit.  At first she walked into every room, questioning the
eighteen months of her married life, and carrying on her thoughts as if
they were a speech to be heard by her husband.  Then, she lingered in
the library and could not be at rest till she had carefully ranged all
the note-books as she imagined that he would wish to see them, in
orderly sequence.  The pity which had been the restraining compelling
motive in her life with him still clung about his image, even while she
remonstrated with him in indignant thought and told him that he was
unjust.  One little act of hers may perhaps be smiled at as
superstitious.  The Synoptical Tabulation for the use of Mrs. Casaubon,
she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope, <said who="#D">I
could not use it.  Do you not see now that I could not submit my soul
to yours, by working hopelessly at what I have no belief in—Dorothea?</said>
Then she deposited the paper in her own desk.
</P>

<P>
That silent colloquy was perhaps only the more earnest because
underneath and through it all there was always the deep longing which
had really determined her to come to Lowick. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> The longing was to see
Will Ladislaw.  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 for any unfairness in his lot.  But her soul thirsted to see him.
How could it be otherwise?  If a princess in the days of enchantment
had seen a four-footed creature from among those which live in herds
come to her once and again with a human gaze which rested upon her with
choice and beseeching, what would she think of in her journeying, what
would she look for when the herds passed her?  Surely for the gaze
which had found her, and which she would know again. </said> <first> Life would be no
better than candle-light tinsel and daylight rubbish if our spirits
were not touched by what has been, to issues of longing and constancy. </first>
It was true that Dorothea wanted to know the Farebrothers better, and
especially to talk to the new rector, but also true that remembering
what Lydgate had told her about Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble,
she counted on Will's coming to Lowick to see the Farebrother family.
The very first Sunday, <emph rend="italics">before</emph> she entered the church, she saw him as
she had seen him the last time she was there, alone in the clergyman's
pew; but <emph rend="italics">when</emph> she entered his figure was gone.
</P>

<P>
In the week-days when she went to see the ladies at the Rectory, she
listened in vain for some word that they might let fall about Will; but
it seemed to her that Mrs. Farebrother talked of every one else in the
neighborhood and out of it.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Probably some of Mr. Farebrother's Middlemarch hearers may follow him
to Lowick sometimes.  Do you not think so?</said> said Dorothea, rather
despising herself for having a secret motive in asking the question.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MFB">If they are wise they will, Mrs. Casaubon,</said> said the old lady.  <said who="#MFB">I see
that you set a right value on my son's preaching.  His grandfather on
my side was an excellent clergyman, but his father was in the law:—most
exemplary and honest nevertheless, which is a reason for our never
being rich.  They say Fortune is a woman and capricious.  But sometimes
she is a good woman and gives to those who merit, which has been the
case with you, Mrs. Casaubon, who have given a living to my son.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Farebrother recurred to her knitting with a dignified satisfaction
in her neat little effort at oratory, but this was not what Dorothea
wanted to hear.  Poor thing! she did not even know whether Will
Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and there was no one whom she dared
to ask, unless it were Lydgate.  But just now she could not see Lydgate
without sending for him or going to seek him. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> Perhaps Will Ladislaw,
having heard of that strange ban against him left by Mr. Casaubon, had
felt it better that he and she should not meet again, and perhaps she
was wrong to wish for a meeting that others might find many good
reasons against. </said> Still <said who="#D">I do wish it</said> came at the end of those wise
reflections as naturally as a sob after holding the breath.  And the
meeting did happen, but in a formal way quite unexpected by her.
</P>

<P>
One morning, about eleven, Dorothea was seated in her boudoir with a
map of the land attached to the manor and other papers before her,
which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself of her
income and affairs.  She had not yet applied herself to her work, but
was seated with her hands folded on her lap, looking out along the
avenue of limes to the distant fields. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> Every leaf was at rest in the
sunshine, the familiar scene was changeless, and seemed to represent
the prospect of her life, full of motiveless ease—motiveless, if her
own energy could not seek out reasons for ardent action. </said> The widow's
cap of those times made an oval frame for the face, and had a crown
standing up; the dress was an experiment in the utmost laying on of
crape; but this heavy solemnity of clothing made her face look all the
younger, with its recovered bloom, and the sweet, inquiring candor of
her eyes.
</P>

<P>
Her reverie was broken by Tantripp, who came to say that Mr. Ladislaw
was below, and begged permission to see Madam if it were not too early.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I will see him,</said> said Dorothea, rising immediately.  <said who="#D">Let him be shown
into the drawing-room.</said>
</P>

<P>
<second> The drawing-room was the most neutral room in the house to her—the
one least associated with the trials of her married life: the damask
matched the wood-work, which was all white and gold; there were two
tall mirrors and tables with nothing on them—in brief, it was a room
where you had no reason for sitting in one place rather than in
another. </second> It was below the boudoir, and had also a bow-window looking
out on the avenue.  But when Pratt showed Will Ladislaw into it the
window was open; and a winged visitor, buzzing in and out now and then
without minding the furniture, made the room look less formal and
uninhabited.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Pratt">Glad to see you here again, sir,</said> said Pratt, lingering to adjust a
blind.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I am only come to say good-by, Pratt,</said> said Will, who wished even the
butler to know that he was too proud to hang about Mrs. Casaubon now
she was a rich widow.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Pratt">Very sorry to hear it, sir,</said> said Pratt, retiring.  Of course, as a
servant who was to be told nothing, he knew the fact of which Ladislaw
was still ignorant, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, had not
differed from his betrothed Tantripp when she said, <said who="#Pratt">Your master was as
jealous as a fiend—and no reason.  Madam would look higher than Mr.
Ladislaw, else I don't know her.  Mrs. Cadwallader's maid says there's
a lord coming who is to marry her when the mourning's over.</said>
</P>

<P>
There were not many moments for Will to walk about with his hat in his
hand before Dorothea entered.  The meeting was very different from that
first meeting in Rome when Will had been embarrassed and Dorothea calm.
This time he felt miserable but determined, while she was in a state of
agitation which could not be hidden.  Just outside the door she had
felt that this longed-for meeting was after all too difficult, and when
she saw Will advancing towards her, the deep blush which was rare in
her came with painful suddenness.  Neither of them knew how it was, but
neither of them spoke.  She gave her hand for a moment, and then they
went to sit down near the window, she on one settee and he on another
opposite. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> Will was peculiarly uneasy: it seemed to him not like
Dorothea that the mere fact of her being a widow should cause such a
change in her manner of receiving him; and he knew of no other
condition which could have affected their previous relation to each
other—except that, as his imagination at once told him, her friends
might have been poisoning her mind with their suspicions of him. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I hope I have not presumed too much in calling,</said> said Will; <said who="#Lad">I could
not bear to leave the neighborhood and begin a new life without seeing
you to say good-by.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Presumed?  Surely not.  I should have thought it unkind if you had not
wished to see me,</said> said Dorothea, her habit of speaking with perfect
genuineness asserting itself through all her uncertainty and agitation.
<said>Are you going away immediately?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Very soon, I think.  I intend to go to town and eat my dinners as a
barrister, since, they say, that is the preparation for all public
business.  There will be a great deal of political work to be done
by-and-by, and I mean to try and do some of it.  Other men have managed
to win an honorable position for themselves without family or money.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">And that will make it all the more honorable,</said> said Dorothea,
ardently.  <said who="#D">Besides, you have so many talents.  I have heard from my
uncle how well you speak in public, so that every one is sorry when you
leave off, and how clearly you can explain things.  And you care that
justice should be done to every one.  I am so glad.  When we were in
Rome, I thought you only cared for poetry and art, and the things that
adorn life for us who are well off.  But now I know you think about the
rest of the world.</said>
</P>

<P>
While she was speaking Dorothea had lost her personal embarrassment,
and had become like her former self.  She looked at Will with a direct
glance, full of delighted confidence.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">You approve of my going away for years, then, and never coming here
again till I have made myself of some mark in the world?</said> said Will,
trying hard to reconcile the utmost pride with the utmost effort to get
an expression of strong feeling from Dorothea.
</P>

<P>
She was not aware how long it was before she answered.  She had turned
her head and was looking out of the window on the rose-bushes, <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> which
seemed to have in them the summers of all the years when Will would be
away.  This was not judicious behavior.  But Dorothea never thought of
studying her manners: she thought only of bowing to a sad necessity
which divided her from Will.  Those first words of his about his
intentions had seemed to make everything clear to her: he knew, she
supposed, all about Mr. Casaubon's final conduct in relation to him,
and it had come to him with the same sort of shock as to herself.  He
had never felt more than friendship for her—had never had anything in
his mind to justify what she felt to be her husband's outrage on the
feelings of both: and that friendship he still felt. </said> Something which
may be called an inward silent sob had gone on in Dorothea before she
said with a pure voice, just trembling in the last words as if only
from its liquid flexibility—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Yes, it must be right for you to do as you say.  I shall be very happy
when I hear that you have made your value felt.  But you must have
patience.  It will perhaps be a long while.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will never quite knew how it was that he saved himself from falling
down at her feet, when the <said who="#D">long while</said> came forth with its gentle
tremor.  He used to say that the horrible hue and surface of her crape
dress was most likely the sufficient controlling force.  He sat still,
however, and only said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I shall never hear from you.  And you will forget all about me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">No,</said> said Dorothea, <said who="#D">I shall never forget you.  I have never forgotten
any one whom I once knew.  My life has never been crowded, and seems
not likely to be so.  And I have a great deal of space for memory at
Lowick, haven't I?</said>  She smiled.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Good God!</said>  Will burst out passionately, rising, with his hat still in
his hand, and walking away to a marble table, where he suddenly turned
and leaned his back against it.  The blood had mounted to his face and
neck, and he looked almost angry. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> It had seemed to him as if they were
like two creatures slowly turning to marble in each other's presence,
while their hearts were conscious and 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 had come with bitter resolution he had ended by a
confession which might be interpreted into asking for her fortune.
Moreover, it was actually true that he was fearful of the effect which
such confessions might have on Dorothea herself. </said>
</P>

<P>
She looked at him from that distance in some trouble, imagining that
there might have been an offence in her words.  But all the while there
was a current of thought in her about his probable want of money, and
the impossibility of her helping him. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> If her uncle had been at home,
something might have been done through him!  It was this preoccupation
with the hardship of Will's wanting money, while she had what ought to
have been his share, </said> which led her to say, seeing that he remained
silent and looked away from her—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I wonder whether you would like to have that miniature which hangs
up-stairs—I mean that beautiful miniature of your grandmother.  I
think it is not right for me to keep it, if you would wish to have it.
It is wonderfully like you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">You are very good,</said> said Will, irritably.  <said who="#Lad">No; I don't mind about it.
It is not very consoling to have one's own likeness.  It would be more
consoling if others wanted to have it.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I thought you would like to cherish her memory—I thought—</said> Dorothea
broke off an instant, her imagination suddenly warning her away from
Aunt Julia's history—<said who="#Lad"> you would surely like to have the miniature as a
family memorial.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Why should I have that, when I have nothing else!  A man with only a
portmanteau for his stowage must keep his memorials in his head.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will spoke at random: he was merely venting his petulance; <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> it was a
little too exasperating to have his grandmother's portrait offered him
at that moment. </said> But to Dorothea's feeling his words had a peculiar
sting.  She rose and said with a touch of indignation as well as
hauteur—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Ladislaw, to have nothing.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will was startled.  Whatever the words might be, the tone seemed like a
dismissal; and quitting his leaning posture, he walked a little way
towards her.  Their eyes met, but with a strange questioning gravity.
Something was keeping their minds aloof, and each was left to
conjecture what was in the other.  Will had really never thought of
himself as having a claim of inheritance on the property which was held
by Dorothea, and would have required a narrative to make him understand
her present feeling.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I never felt it a misfortune to have nothing till now,</said> he said.  <said who="#Lad">But
poverty may be as bad as leprosy, if it divides us from what we most
care for.</said>
</P>

<P>
The words cut Dorothea to the heart, and made her relent.  She answered
in a tone of sad fellowship.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Sorrow comes in so many ways.  Two years ago I had no notion of
that—I mean of the unexpected way in which trouble comes, and ties our
hands, and makes us silent when we long to speak.  I used to despise
women a little for not shaping their lives more, and doing better
things.  I was very fond of doing as I liked, but I have almost given
it up,</said> she ended, smiling playfully.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I have not given up doing as I like, but I can very seldom do it,</said>
said Will.  He was standing two yards from her with his mind full of
contradictory desires and resolves—desiring some unmistakable proof
that she loved him, and yet dreading the position into which such a
proof might bring him.  <said who="#Lad">The thing one most longs for may be surrounded
with conditions that would be intolerable.</said>
</P>

<P>
At this moment Pratt entered and said, <said who="#Pratt">Sir James Chettam is in the
library, madam.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Ask Sir James to come in here,</said> said Dorothea, immediately.  It was as
if the same electric shock had passed through her and Will.  Each of
them felt proudly resistant, and neither looked at the other, while
they awaited Sir James's entrance.
</P>

<P>
After shaking hands with Dorothea, he bowed as slightly as possible to
Ladislaw, who repaid the slightness exactly, and then going towards
Dorothea, said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I must say good-by, Mrs. Casaubon; and probably for a long while.</said>
</P>

<P>
Dorothea put out her hand and said her good-by cordially.  The sense
that Sir James was depreciating Will, and behaving rudely to him,
roused her resolution and dignity: there was no touch of confusion in
her manner.  And when Will had left the room, she looked with such calm
self-possession at Sir James, saying, <said who="#D">How is Celia?</said> that he was
obliged to behave as if nothing had annoyed him. <said who="#JC" direct="false" aloud="false"> And what would be the
use of behaving otherwise?Indeed, Sir James shrank with so much
dislike from the association even in thought of Dorothea with Ladislaw
as her possible lover, that he would himself have wished to avoid an
outward show of displeasure which would have recognized the
disagreeable possibility. </said> <first> If any one had asked him why he shrank in
that way, I am not sure that he would at first have said anything
fuller or more precise than <said who="#JC"><emph rend="italics">That</emph> Ladislaw!</said> —though on reflection
he might have urged that Mr. Casaubon's codicil, barring Dorothea's
marriage with Will, except under a penalty, was enough to cast
unfitness over any relation at all between them. <first> His aversion was all
the stronger because he felt himself unable to interfere.
</P>

<P>
But Sir James was a power in a way unguessed by himself. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> Entering at
that moment, he was an incorporation of the strongest reasons through
which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from
Dorothea. </said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="55"><head>CHAPTER LV.</head>

<epigraph>
          Hath she her faults?  I would you had them too.
          They are the fruity must of soundest wine;
          Or say, they are regenerating fire
          Such as hath turned the dense black element
          Into a crystal pathway for the sun.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
<first> If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that
our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think
its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind.  Each
crisis seems final, simply because it is new. </first> <first> We are told that the
oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the
earthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock, and reflect that
there are plenty more to come. </first>
</P>

<P>
To Dorothea, still in that time of youth when the eyes with their long
full lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied
as a freshly opened passion-flower, that morning's parting with Will
Ladislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> He was
going away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back
he would be another man.  The actual state of his mind—his proud
resolve to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that he would play
the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman—lay quite out of her
imagination, and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by
her supposition that Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to him, as it did to
her, a gross and cruel interdict on any active friendship between them.
Their young delight in speaking to each other, and saying what no one
else would care to hear, was forever ended, and become a treasure of
the past. For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check.
That unique happiness too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber
she might vent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at.</said>  For
the first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it
before her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged
with the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended.  Can any
one who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it a reproach to her
that she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it
there, and leaned her cheek upon it, as if that would soothe the
creatures who had suffered unjust condemnation?  She did not know then
that it was Love who had come to her briefly, as in a dream before
awaking, with the hues of morning on his wings—that it was Love to
whom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the
blameless rigor of irresistible day.  She only felt that there was
something irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot, and her thoughts about
the future were the more readily shapen into resolve.  Ardent souls,
ready to construct their coming lives, are apt to commit themselves to
the fulfilment of their own visions.
</P>

<P>
One day that she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all
night and seeing baby washed, Mrs. Cadwallader came to dine, the Rector
being gone on a fishing excursion.  It was a warm evening, and even in
the delightful drawing-room, where the fine old turf sloped from the
open window towards a lilied pool and well-planted mounds, the heat was
enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curls reflect with
pity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and close cap. <said who="#Celia" direct="false" aloud="false"> But this
was not until some episodes with baby were over, and had left her mind
at leisure. </said> She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time
before she said, in her quiet guttural—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia"> Dear Dodo, do throw off that cap.  I am sure your dress must make you
feel ill.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I am so used to the cap—it has become a sort of shell,</said> said
Dorothea, smiling.  <said who="#D">I feel rather bare and exposed when it is off.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">I must see you without it; it makes us all warm,</said> said Celia, throwing
down her fan, and going to Dorothea.  It was a pretty picture to see
this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap from her
more majestic sister, and tossing it on to a chair.  Just as the coils
and braids of dark-brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the
room.  He looked at the released head, and said, <said who="#JC">Ah!</said> in a tone of
satisfaction.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">It was I who did it, James,</said> said Celia.  <said who="#Celia">Dodo need not make such a
slavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap any more among her
friends.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#LC">My dear Celia,</said> said Lady Chettam, <said who="#LC">a widow must wear her mourning at
least a year.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">Not if she marries again before the end of it,</said> said Mrs. Cadwallader,
who had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager.  Sir
James was annoyed, and leaned forward to play with Celia's Maltese dog.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#LC">That is very rare, I hope,</said> said Lady Chettam, in a tone intended to
guard against such events.  <said who="#LC">No friend of ours ever committed herself
in that way except Mrs. Beevor, and it was very painful to Lord
Grinsell when she did so.  Her first husband was objectionable, which
made it the greater wonder.  And severely she was punished for it.
They said Captain Beevor dragged her about by the hair, and held up
loaded pistols at her.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">Oh, if she took the wrong man!</said> said Mrs. Cadwallader, who was in a
decidedly wicked mood.  <said who="#MrsCad">Marriage is always bad then, first or second.
Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other.
I would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#LC">My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you,</said> said Lady Chettam.
<said who="#LC">I am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if
our dear Rector were taken away.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">Oh, I make no vows; it might be a necessary economy.  It is lawful to
marry again, I suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos instead of
Christians.  Of course if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take
the consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate.
But if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery—the sooner the
better.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#JC">I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen,</said> said Sir
James, with a look of disgust.  <said who="#JC">Suppose we change it.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Not on my account, Sir James,</said> said Dorothea, determined not to lose
the opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to
excellent matches.  <said who="#D">If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you
that no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than
second marriage.  It is no more to me than if you talked of women going
fox-hunting: whether it is admirable in them or not, I shall not follow
them.  Pray let Mrs. Cadwallader amuse herself on that subject as much
as on any other.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#LC">My dear Mrs. Casaubon,</said> said Lady Chettam, in her stateliest way, <said who="#LC">you
do not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning
Mrs. Beevor.  It was only an instance that occurred to me.  She was
step-daughter to Lord Grinsell: he married Mrs. Teveroy for his second
wife.  There could be no possible allusion to you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">Oh no,</said> said Celia.  <said who="#Celia">Nobody chose the subject; it all came out of
Dodo's cap.  Mrs. Cadwallader only said what was quite true.  A woman
could not be married in a widow's cap, James.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">Hush, my dear!</said> said Mrs. Cadwallader.  <said who="#MrsCad">I will not offend again.  I
will not even refer to Dido or Zenobia.  Only what are we to talk
about?  I, for my part, object to the discussion of Human Nature,
because that is the nature of rectors' wives.</said>
</P>

<P>
Later in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwallader was gone, Celia said
privately to Dorothea, <said who="#Celia">Really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like
yourself again in more ways than one.  You spoke up just as you used to
do, when anything was said to displease you.  But I could hardly make
out whether it was James that you thought wrong, or Mrs. Cadwallader.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Neither,</said> said Dorothea.  <said who="#D">James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he
was mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said.  I
should only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of
blood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better
to have blood and beauty,</said> said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Casaubon had
not been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to
caution Dorothea in time.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Don't be anxious, Kitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life.  I
shall never marry again,</said> said Dorothea, touching her sister's chin,
and looking at her with indulgent affection.  Celia was nursing her
baby, and Dorothea had come to say good-night to her.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">Really—quite?</said> said Celia.  <said who="#Celia">Not anybody at all—if he were very
wonderful indeed?</said>
</P>

<P>
Dorothea shook her head slowly.  <said who="#D">Not anybody at all.  I have
delightful plans.  I should like to take a great deal of land, and
drain it, and make a little colony, where everybody should work, and
all the work should be done well.  I should know every one of the
people and be their friend.  I am going to have great consultations
with Mr. Garth: he can tell me almost everything I want to know.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Celia">Then you <emph rend="italics">will</emph> be happy, if you have a plan, Dodo?</said> said Celia.
<said who="#Celia">Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he
can help you.</said>
</P>

<P>
Sir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite
set against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to <said who="#Celia">all
sorts of plans,</said> just like what she used to have.  Sir James made no
remark.  To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a
woman's second marriage, and no match would prevent him from feeling it
a sort of desecration for Dorothea.  He was aware that the world would
regard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a
woman of one-and-twenty; the practice of <said>the world</said> being to treat of
a young widow's second marriage as certain and probably near, and to
smile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly.  But if Dorothea did
choose to espouse her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well
become her.
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="56"><head>CHAPTER LVI.</head>

<epigraph>
          <said>How happy is he born and taught
          That serveth not another's will;
          Whose armor is his honest thought,
          And simple truth his only skill!
              .   .   .   .   .   .   .
          This man is freed from servile bands
          Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
          Lord of himself though not of lands;
          And having nothing yet hath all.</said>
                             —SIR HENRY WOTTON.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Dorothea's confidence in Caleb Garth's knowledge, which had begun on
her hearing that he approved of her cottages, had grown fast during her
stay at Freshitt, Sir James having induced her to take rides over the
two estates in company with himself and Caleb, who quite returned her
admiration, and told his wife that Mrs. Casaubon had a head for
business most uncommon in a woman.  It must be remembered that by
<said>business</said> Caleb never meant money transactions, but the skilful
application of labor.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Most uncommon!</said> repeated Caleb.  <said who="#MrG">She said a thing I often used to
think myself when I was a lad:—'Mr. Garth, I should like to feel, if I
lived to be old, that I had improved a great piece of land and built a
great many good cottages, because the work is of a healthy kind while
it is being done, and after it is done, men are the better for it.'
Those were the very words: she sees into things in that way.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">But womanly, I hope,</said> said Mrs. Garth, half suspecting that Mrs.
Casaubon might not hold the true principle of subordination.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Oh, you can't think!</said> said Caleb, shaking his head.  <said who="#MrG">You would like
to hear her speak, Susan.  She speaks in such plain words, and a voice
like music.  Bless me! it reminds me of bits in the 'Messiah'—'and
straightway there appeared a multitude of the heavenly host, praising
God and saying;' it has a tone with it that satisfies your ear.</said>
</P>

<P>
Caleb was very fond of music, and when he could afford it went to hear
an oratorio that came within his reach, returning from it with a
profound reverence for this mighty structure of tones, which made him
sit meditatively, looking on the floor and throwing much unutterable
language into his outstretched hands.
</P>

<P>
With this good understanding between them, it was natural that Dorothea
asked Mr. Garth to undertake any business connected with the three
farms and the numerous tenements attached to Lowick Manor; indeed, his
expectation of getting work for two was being fast fulfilled.  As he
said, <said who="#MrG">Business breeds.</said>  And one form of business which was beginning
to breed just then was the construction of railways.  A projected line
was to run through Lowick parish where the cattle had hitherto grazed
in a peace unbroken by astonishment; and thus it happened that the
infant struggles of the railway system entered into the affairs of
Caleb Garth, and determined the course of this history with regard to
two persons who were dear to him.  The submarine railway may have its
difficulties; but the bed of the sea is not divided among various
landed proprietors with claims for damages not only measurable but
sentimental.  In the hundred to which Middlemarch belonged railways
were as exciting a topic as the Reform Bill or the imminent horrors of
Cholera, and those who held the most decided views on the subject were
women and landholders.  Women both old and young regarded travelling by
steam as presumptuous and dangerous, and argued against it by saying
that nothing should induce them to get into a railway carriage; while
proprietors, differing from each other in their arguments as much as
Mr. Solomon Featherstone differed from Lord Medlicote, were yet
unanimous in the opinion that in selling land, whether to the Enemy of
mankind or to a company obliged to purchase, these pernicious agencies
must be made to pay a very high price to landowners for permission to
injure mankind.
</P>

<P>
But the slower wits, such as Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule, who both
occupied land of their own, took a long time to arrive at this
conclusion, their minds halting at the vivid conception of what it
would be to cut the Big Pasture in two, and turn it into three-cornered
bits, which would be <said>nohow;</said> while accommodation-bridges and high
payments were remote and incredible.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsWaule">The cows will all cast their calves, brother,</said> said Mrs. Waule, in a
tone of deep melancholy, <said who="#MrsWaule">if the railway comes across the Near Close;
and I shouldn't wonder at the mare too, if she was in foal.  It's a
poor tale if a widow's property is to be spaded away, and the law say
nothing to it.  What's to hinder 'em from cutting right and left if
they begin?  It's well known, <emph rend="italics">I</emph> can't fight.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Solomon">The best way would be to say nothing, and set somebody on to send 'em
away with a flea in their ear, when they came spying and measuring,</said>
said Solomon.  <said who="#Solomon">Folks did that about Brassing, by what I can
understand.  It's all a pretence, if the truth was known, about their
being forced to take one way.  Let 'em go cutting in another parish.
And I don't believe in any pay to make amends for bringing a lot of
ruffians to trample your crops.  Where's a company's pocket?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsWaule">Brother Peter, God forgive him, got money out of a company,</said> said Mrs.
Waule.  <said who="#MrsWaule">But that was for the manganese.  That wasn't for railways to
blow you to pieces right and left.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Solomon">Well, there's this to be said, Jane,</said> Mr. Solomon concluded, lowering
his voice in a cautious manner—<said who="#Solomon"> the more spokes we put in their wheel,
the more they'll pay us to let 'em go on, if they must come whether or
not. </said>
</P>

<P>
This reasoning of Mr. Solomon's was perhaps less thorough than he
imagined, his cunning bearing about the same relation to the course of
railways as the cunning of a diplomatist bears to the general chill or
catarrh of the solar system.  But he set about acting on his views in a
thoroughly diplomatic manner, by stimulating suspicion.  His side of
Lowick was the most remote from the village, and the houses of the
laboring people were either lone cottages or were collected in a hamlet
called Frick, where a water-mill and some stone-pits made a little
centre of slow, heavy-shouldered industry.
</P>

<P>
In the absence of any precise idea as to what railways were, public
opinion in Frick was against them; for the human mind in that grassy
corner had not the proverbial tendency to admire the unknown, holding
rather that it was likely to be against the poor man, and that
suspicion was the only wise attitude with regard to it.  Even the rumor
of Reform had not yet excited any millennial expectations in Frick,
there being no definite promise in it, as of gratuitous grains to
fatten Hiram Ford's pig, or of a publican at the "Weights and Scales"
who would brew beer for nothing, or of an offer on the part of the
three neighboring farmers to raise wages during winter.  And without
distinct good of this kind in its promises, Reform seemed on a footing
with the bragging of pedlers, which was a hint for distrust to every
knowing person.  The men of Frick were not ill-fed, and were less given
to fanaticism than to a strong muscular suspicion; less inclined to
believe that they were peculiarly cared for by heaven, than to regard
heaven itself as rather disposed to take them in—a disposition
observable in the weather.
</P>

<P>
Thus the mind of Frick was exactly of the sort for Mr. Solomon
Featherstone to work upon, he having more plenteous ideas of the same
order, with a suspicion of heaven and earth which was better fed and
more entirely at leisure. <second> Solomon was overseer of the roads at that
time, and on his slow-paced cob often took his rounds by Frick to look
at the workmen getting the stones there, pausing with a mysterious
deliberation, which might have misled you into supposing that he had
some other reason for staying than the mere want of impulse to move. </second>
After looking for a long while at any work that was going on, he would
raise his eyes a little and look at the horizon; finally he would shake
his bridle, touch his horse with the whip, and get it to move slowly
onward.  The hour-hand of a clock was quick by comparison with Mr.
Solomon, who had an agreeable sense that he could afford to be slow.
He was in the habit of pausing for a cautious, vaguely designing chat
with every hedger or ditcher on his way, and was especially willing to
listen even to news which he had heard before, feeling himself at an
advantage over all narrators in partially disbelieving them.  One day,
however, he got into a dialogue with Hiram Ford, a wagoner, in which he
himself contributed information.  He wished to know whether Hiram had
seen fellows with staves and instruments spying about:<said who="#Solomon" direct="false" aloud="false"> they called
themselves railroad people, but there was no telling what they were or
what they meant to do.  The least they pretended was that they were
going to cut Lowick Parish into sixes and sevens. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hiram">Why, there'll be no stirrin' from one pla-ace to another,</said> said Hiram,
thinking of his wagon and horses.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Solomon">Not a bit,</said> said Mr. Solomon.  <said who="#Solomon">And cutting up fine land such as this
parish!  Let 'em go into Tipton, say I. But there's no knowing what
there is at the bottom of it.  Traffic is what they put for'ard; but
it's to do harm to the land and the poor man in the long-run.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hiram">Why, they're Lunnon chaps, I reckon,</said> said Hiram, who had a dim notion
of London as a centre of hostility to the country.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Solomon">Ay, to be sure.  And in some parts against Brassing, by what I've
heard say, the folks fell on 'em when they were spying, and broke their
peep-holes as they carry, and drove 'em away, so as they knew better
than come again.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hiram">It war good foon, I'd be bound,</said> said Hiram, whose fun was much
restricted by circumstances.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Solomon">Well, I wouldn't meddle with 'em myself,</said> said Solomon.  <said who="#Solomon">But some say
this country's seen its best days, and the sign is, as it's being
overrun with these fellows trampling right and left, and wanting to cut
it up into railways; and all for the big traffic to swallow up the
little, so as there shan't be a team left on the land, nor a whip to
crack.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hiram">I'll crack <emph rend="italics">my</emph> whip about their ear'n, afore they bring it to that,
though,</said> said Hiram, while Mr. Solomon, shaking his bridle, moved
onward.
</P>

<P>
Nettle-seed needs no digging.  The ruin of this countryside by
railroads was discussed, not only at the "Weights and Scales" but in
the hay-field, where the muster of working hands gave opportunities for
talk such as were rarely had through the rural year.
</P>

<P>
One morning, not long after that interview between Mr. Farebrother and
Mary Garth, in which she confessed to him her feeling for Fred Vincy,
it happened that her father had some business which took him to
Yoddrell's farm in the direction of Frick: it was to measure and value
an outlying piece of land belonging to Lowick Manor, which Caleb
expected to dispose of advantageously for Dorothea (<said who="#MrG" direct="false" aloud="false"> it must be
confessed that his bias was towards getting the best possible terms
from railroad companies).</said> He put up his gig at Yoddrell's, and in
walking with his assistant and measuring-chain to the scene of his
work, he encountered the party of the company's agents, who were
adjusting their spirit-level. After a little chat he left them,
observing that by-and-by they would reach him again where he was going
to measure.  It was one of those gray mornings after light rains, which
become delicious about twelve o'clock, when the clouds part a little,
and the scent of the earth is sweet along the lanes and by the
hedgerows.
</P>

<P>
The scent would have been sweeter to Fred Vincy, who was coming along
the lanes on horseback, if his mind had not been worried by
unsuccessful efforts to imagine what he was to do, with his father on
one side expecting him straightway to enter the Church, with Mary on
the other threatening to forsake him if he did enter it, and with the
working-day world showing no eager need whatever of a young gentleman
without capital and generally unskilled. <said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> It was the harder to Fred's
disposition because his father, satisfied that he was no longer
rebellious, was in good humor with him, and had sent him on this
pleasant ride to see after some greyhounds.  Even when he had fixed on
what he should do, there would be the task of telling his father.  But
it must be admitted that the fixing, which had to come first, was the
more difficult task:—what secular avocation on earth was there for a
young man (whose friends could not get him an "appointment") which was
at once gentlemanly, lucrative, and to be followed without special
knowledge? </said> Riding along the lanes by Frick in this mood, and
slackening his pace while he reflected whether he should venture to go
round by Lowick Parsonage to call on Mary, he could see over the hedges
from one field to another.  Suddenly a noise roused his attention, and
on the far side of a field on his left hand he could see six or seven
men in smock-frocks with hay-forks in their hands making an offensive
approach towards the four railway agents who were facing them, while
Caleb Garth and his assistant were hastening across the field to join
the threatened group.  Fred, delayed a few moments by having to find
the gate, could not gallop up to the spot before the party in
smock-frocks, whose work of turning the hay had not been too pressing
after swallowing their mid-day beer, were driving the men in coats
before them with their hay-forks; while Caleb Garth's assistant, a lad
of seventeen, who had snatched up the spirit-level at Caleb's order,
had been knocked down and seemed to be lying helpless.  The coated men
had the advantage as runners, and Fred covered their retreat by getting
in front of the smock-frocks and charging them suddenly enough to throw
their chase into confusion.  <said who="#F"> What do you confounded fools mean?</said>
shouted Fred, pursuing the divided group in a zigzag, and cutting right
and left with his whip.  <said who="#F">I'll swear to every one of you before the
magistrate.  You've knocked the lad down and killed him, for what I
know.  You'll every one of you be hanged at the next assizes, if you
don't mind,</said> said Fred, who afterwards laughed heartily as he
remembered his own phrases.
</P>

<P>
The laborers had been driven through the gate-way into their hay-field,
and Fred had checked his horse, when Hiram Ford, observing himself at a
safe challenging distance, turned back and shouted a defiance which he
did not know to be Homeric.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hiram">Yo're a coward, yo are.  Yo git off your horse, young measter, and
I'll have a round wi' ye, I wull.  Yo daredn't come on wi'out your hoss
an' whip.  I'd soon knock the breath out on ye, I would.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Wait a minute, and I'll come back presently, and have a round with you
all in turn, if you like,</said> said Fred, who felt confidence in his power
of boxing with his dearly beloved brethren.  But just now he wanted to
hasten back to Caleb and the prostrate youth.
</P>

<P>
The lad's ankle was strained, and he was in much pain from it, but he
was no further hurt, and Fred placed him on the horse that he might
ride to Yoddrell's and be taken care of there.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Let them put the horse in the stable, and tell the surveyors they can
come back for their traps,</said> said Fred.  <said who="#F">The ground is clear now.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">No, no,</said> said Caleb, <said who="#MrG">here's a breakage.  They'll have to give up for
to-day, and it will be as well.  Here, take the things before you on
the horse, Tom.  They'll see you coming, and they'll turn back.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I'm glad I happened to be here at the right moment, Mr. Garth,</said> said
Fred, as Tom rode away.  <said who="#F">No knowing what might have happened if the
cavalry had not come up in time.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Ay, ay, it was lucky,</said> said Caleb, speaking rather absently, and
looking towards the spot where he had been at work at the moment of
interruption.  <said who="#MrG">But—deuce take it—this is what comes of men being
fools—I'm hindered of my day's work.  I can't get along without
somebody to help me with the measuring-chain. However!</said> He was
beginning to move towards the spot with a look of vexation, as if he
had forgotten Fred's presence, but suddenly he turned round and said
quickly, <said who="#MrG">What have you got to do to-day, young fellow?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Nothing, Mr. Garth.  I'll help you with pleasure—can I?</said> said Fred,
with a sense that he should be courting Mary when he was helping her
father.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Well, you mustn't mind stooping and getting hot.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I don't mind anything.  Only I want to go first and have a round with
that hulky fellow who turned to challenge me.  It would be a good
lesson for him.  I shall not be five minutes.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG"Nonsense!</said> said Caleb, with his most peremptory intonation.  <said who="#MrG">I shall
go and speak to the men myself.  It's all ignorance.  Somebody has been
telling them lies.  The poor fools don't know any better.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I shall go with you, then,</said> said Fred.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">No, no; stay where you are.  I don't want your young blood.  I can
take care of myself.</said>
</P>

<P>
Caleb was a powerful man and knew little of any fear except the fear of
hurting others and the fear of having to speechify.  But he felt it his
duty at this moment to try and give a little harangue.  There was a
striking mixture in him—which came from his having always been a
hard-working man himself—of rigorous notions about workmen and
practical indulgence towards them.  To do a good day's work and to do
it well, he held to be part of their welfare, as it was the chief part
of his own happiness; but he had a strong sense of fellowship with
them.  When he advanced towards the laborers they had not gone to work
again, but were standing in that form of rural grouping which consists
in each turning a shoulder towards the other, at a distance of two or
three yards.  They looked rather sulkily at Caleb, who walked quickly
with one hand in his pocket and the other thrust between the buttons of
his waistcoat, and had his every-day mild air when he paused among them.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Why, my lads, how's this?</said> he began, taking as usual to brief phrases,
which seemed pregnant to himself, because he had many thoughts lying
under them, like the abundant roots of a plant that just manages to
peep above the water.  <said who="#MrG">How came you to make such a mistake as this?
Somebody has been telling you lies.  You thought those men up there
wanted to do mischief.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said>Aw!</said> was the answer, dropped at intervals by each according to his
degree of unreadiness.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Nonsense!  No such thing!  They're looking out to see which way the
railroad is to take.  Now, my lads, you can't hinder the railroad: it
will be made whether you like it or not.  And if you go fighting
against it, you'll get yourselves into trouble.  The law gives those
men leave to come here on the land.  The owner has nothing to say
against it, and if you meddle with them you'll have to do with the
constable and Justice Blakesley, and with the handcuffs and Middlemarch
jail.  And you might be in for it now, if anybody informed against you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG" direct="false" aloud="false"> Caleb paused here, and perhaps the greatest orator could not have
chosen either his pause or his images better for the occasion. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">But come, you didn't mean any harm.  Somebody told you the railroad
was a bad thing.  That was a lie.  It may do a bit of harm here and
there, to this and to that; and so does the sun in heaven.  But the
railway's a good thing.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Timothy">Aw! good for the big folks to make money out on,</said> said old Timothy
Cooper, who had stayed behind turning his hay while the others had been
gone on their spree;—<said who="#Timothy"> I'n seen lots o' things turn up sin' I war a
young un—the war an' the peace, and the canells, an' the oald King
George, an' the Regen', an' the new King George, an' the new un as has
got a new ne-ame—an' it's been all aloike to the poor mon.  What's the
canells been t' him?  They'n brought him neyther me-at nor be-acon, nor
wage to lay by, if he didn't save it wi' clemmin' his own inside.
Times ha' got wusser for him sin' I war 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 as meddle, and so I told the chaps here.  This is the
big folks's world, this is.  But yo're for the big folks, Muster Garth,
yo are. </said>
</P>

<P>
Timothy was a wiry old laborer, of a type lingering in those times—who
had his savings in a stocking-foot, lived in a lone cottage, and was
not to be wrought on by any oratory, having as little of the feudal
spirit, and believing as little, as if he had not been totally
unacquainted with the Age of Reason and the Rights of Man. <said who="#MrG" direct="false" aloud="false"> <second> Caleb was
in a difficulty known to any person attempting in dark times and
unassisted by miracle to reason with rustics who are in possession of
an undeniable truth which they know through a hard process of feeling,
and can let it fall like a giant's club on your neatly carved argument
for a social benefit which they do not feel. </second> </said>Caleb had no cant at
command, even if he could have chosen to use it; and he had been
accustomed to meet all such difficulties in no other way than by doing
his <said>business</said> faithfully.  He answered—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">If you don't think well of me, Tim, never mind; that's neither here
nor there 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 for
themselves.  The cattle may have a heavy load, but it won't help 'em to
throw it over into the roadside pit, when it's partly their own fodder.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hiram">We war on'y for a bit o' foon,</said> said Hiram, who was beginning to see
consequences.  <said who="#Hiram">That war all we war arter.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Well, promise me not to meddle again, and I'll see that nobody informs
against you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Timothy">I'n ne'er meddled, an' I'n no call to promise,</said> said Timothy.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">No, but the rest.  Come, I'm as hard at work as any of you to-day, and
I can't spare much time.  Say you'll be quiet without the constable.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said>Aw, we wooant meddle—they may do as they loike for oos</said>—were the
forms in which Caleb got his pledges; and then he hastened back to
Fred, who had followed him, and watched him in the gateway.
</P>

<P>
They went to work, and Fred helped vigorously.  His spirits had risen,
and he heartily enjoyed a good slip in the moist earth under the
hedgerow, which soiled his perfect summer trousers. Was it his
successful onset which had elated him, or the satisfaction of helping
Mary's father?  Something more.  The accidents of the morning had
helped his frustrated imagination to shape an employment for himself
which had several attractions. <first> I am not sure that certain fibres in
Mr. Garth's mind had not resumed their old vibration towards the very
end which now revealed itself to Fred. </first> For the effective accident is
but the touch of fire where there is oil and tow; and it always
appeared to Fred that the railway brought the needed touch.  But they
went on in silence except when their business demanded speech.  At
last, when they had finished and were walking away, Mr. Garth said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG"> A young fellow needn't be a B. A. to do this sort of work, eh, Fred?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I wish I had taken to it before I had thought of being a B. A.,</said> said
Fred.  He paused a moment, and then added, more hesitatingly, <said who="#F">Do you
think I am too old to learn your business, Mr. Garth?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">My business is of many sorts, my boy,</said> said Mr. Garth, smiling.  <said who="#MrG">A
good deal of what I know can only come from experience: you can't learn
it off as you learn things out of a book.  But you are young enough to
lay a foundation yet.</said>  Caleb pronounced the last sentence
emphatically, but paused in some uncertainty.  He had been under the
impression lately that Fred had made up his mind to enter the Church.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">You do think I could do some good at it, if I were to try?</said> said Fred,
more eagerly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">That depends,</said> said Caleb, turning his head on one side and lowering
his voice, with the air of a man who felt himself to be saying
something deeply religious.  <said who="#MrG">You must be sure of two things: you must
love your work, and not be always looking over the edge of it, wanting
your play to begin.  And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your
work, and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something
else.  You must have a pride in your own work and in learning to do it
well, and not be always saying, There's this and there's that—if I had
this or that to do, I might make something of it.  No matter what a man
is—I wouldn't give twopence for him"—here Caleb's mouth looked
bitter, and he snapped his fingers—"whether he was the prime minister
or the rick-thatcher, if he didn't do well what he undertook to do.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I can never feel that I should do that in being a clergyman,</said> said
Fred, meaning to take a step in argument.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Then let it alone, my boy,</said> said Caleb, abruptly, <said who="#MrG">else you'll never
be easy.  Or, if you <emph rend="italics">are</emph> easy, you'll be a poor stick.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">That is very nearly what Mary thinks about it,</said> said Fred, coloring.
<said who="#F">I think you must know what I feel for Mary, Mr. Garth: I hope it does
not displease you that I have always loved her better than any one
else, and that I shall never love any one as I love her.</said>
</P>

<P>
The expression of Caleb's face was visibly softening while Fred spoke.
But he swung his head with a solemn slowness, and said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">That makes things more serious, Fred, if you want to take Mary's
happiness into your keeping.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I know that, Mr. Garth,</said> said Fred, eagerly, <said who="#F">and I would do anything
for <emph rend="italics">her</emph>.  She says she will never have me if I go into the Church;
and I shall be the most miserable devil in the world if I lose all hope
of Mary.  Really, if I could get some other profession,
business—anything that I am at all fit for, I would work hard, I would
deserve your good opinion.  I should like to have to do with outdoor
things.  I know a good deal about land and cattle already.  I used to
believe, you know—though you will think me rather foolish for it—that
I should have land of my own.  I am sure knowledge of that sort would
come easily to me, especially if I could be under you in any way.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Softly, my boy,</said> said Caleb, having the image of <said>Susan</said> before his
eyes.  <said who="#MrG">What have you said to your father about all this?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Nothing, yet; but I must tell him.  I am only waiting to know what I
can do instead of entering the Church.  I am very sorry to disappoint
him, but a man ought to be allowed to judge for himself when he is
four-and-twenty. How could I know when I was fifteen, what it would be
right for me to do now?  My education was a mistake.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">But hearken to this, Fred,</said> said Caleb.  <said who="#MrG">Are you sure Mary is fond of
you, or would ever have you?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I asked Mr. Farebrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden
me—I didn't know what else to do,</said> said Fred, apologetically.  <said who="#F">And he
says that I have every reason to hope, if I can put myself in an
honorable position—I mean, out of the Church. I dare say you think it
unwarrantable in me, Mr. Garth, to be troubling you and obtruding my
own wishes about Mary, before I have done anything at all for myself.
Of course I have not the least claim—indeed, I have already a debt to
you which will never be discharged, even when I have been able to pay
it in the shape of money.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Yes, my boy, you have a claim,</said> said Caleb, with much feeling in his
voice.  <said who="#MrG">The young ones have always a claim on the old to help them
forward.  I was young myself once and had to do without much help; but
help would have been welcome to me, if it had been only for the
fellow-feeling's sake.  But I must consider.  Come to me to-morrow at
the office, at nine o'clock. At the office, mind.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Garth would take no important step without consulting Susan, but it
must be confessed that before he reached home he had taken his
resolution.  With regard to a large number of matters about which other
men are decided or obstinate, he was the most easily manageable man in
the world.  He never knew what meat he would choose, and if Susan had
said that they ought to live in a four-roomed cottage, in order to
save, he would have said, <said who="#MrG">Let us go,</said> without inquiring into details.
But where Caleb's feeling and judgment strongly pronounced, he was a
ruler; and in spite of his mildness and timidity in reproving, every
one about him knew that on the exceptional occasions when he chose, he
was absolute.  He never, indeed, chose to be absolute except on some
one else's behalf.  On ninety-nine points Mrs. Garth decided, but on
the hundredth she was often aware that she would have to perform the
singularly difficult task of carrying out her own principle, and to
make herself subordinate.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">It is come round as I thought, Susan,</said> said Caleb, when they were
seated alone in the evening.  He had already narrated the adventure
which had brought about Fred's sharing in his work, but had kept back
the further result.  <said who="#MrG">The children <emph rend="italics">are</emph> fond of each other—I mean,
Fred and Mary.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Garth laid her work on her knee, and fixed her penetrating eyes
anxiously on her husband.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">After we'd done our work, Fred poured it all out to me.  He can't bear
to be a clergyman, and Mary says she won't have him if he is one; and
the lad would like to be under me and give his mind to business.  And
I've determined to take him and make a man of him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Caleb!</said> said Mrs. Garth, in a deep contralto, expressive of resigned
astonishment.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">It's a fine thing to do,</said> said Mr. Garth, settling himself firmly
against the back of his chair, and grasping the elbows.  <said who="#MrG">I shall have
trouble with him, but I think I shall carry it through.  The lad loves
Mary, and a true love for a good woman is a great thing, Susan.  It
shapes many a rough fellow.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Has Mary spoken to you on the subject?</said> said Mrs Garth, secretly a
little hurt that she had to be informed on it herself.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Not a word.  I asked her about Fred once; I gave her a bit of a
warning.  But she assured me she would never marry an idle
self-indulgent man—nothing since.  But it seems Fred set on Mr.
Farebrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden him to speak
himself, and Mr. Farebrother has found out that she is fond of Fred,
but says he must not be a clergyman.  Fred's heart is fixed on Mary,
that I can see: it gives me a good opinion of the lad—and we always
liked him, Susan.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">It is a pity for Mary, I think,</said> said Mrs. Garth.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Why—a pity?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Because, Caleb, she might have had a man who is worth twenty Fred
Vincy's.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Ah?</said> said Caleb, with surprise.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">I firmly believe that Mr. Farebrother is attached to her, and meant to
make her an offer; but of course, now that Fred has used him as an
envoy, there is an end to that better prospect.</said> There was a severe
precision in Mrs. Garth's utterance.  She was vexed and disappointed,
but she was bent on abstaining from useless words.
</P>

<P>
Caleb was silent a few moments under a conflict of feelings.  He looked
at the floor and moved his head and hands in accompaniment to some
inward argumentation.  At last he said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">That would have made me very proud and happy, Susan, and I should have
been glad for your sake.  I've always felt that your belongings have
never been on a level with you.  But you took me, though I was a plain
man.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">I took the best and cleverest man I had ever known,</said> said Mrs. Garth,
convinced that <emph rend="italics">she</emph> would never have loved any one who came short of
that mark.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Well, perhaps others thought you might have done better.  But it would
have been worse for me.  And that is what touches me close about Fred.
The lad is good at bottom, and clever enough to do, if he's put in the
right way; and he loves and honors my daughter beyond anything, and she
has given him a sort of promise according to what he turns out.  I say,
that young man's soul is in my hand; and I'll do the best I can for
him, so help me God!  It's my duty, Susan.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Garth was not given to tears, but there was a large one rolling
down her face before her husband had finished.  It came from the
pressure of various feelings, in which there was much affection and
some vexation.  She wiped it away quickly, saying—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Few men besides you would think it a duty to add to their anxieties in
that way, Caleb.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">That signifies nothing—what other men would think.  I've got a clear
feeling inside me, and that I shall follow; and I hope your heart will
go with me, Susan, in making everything as light as can be to Mary,
poor child.</said>
</P>

<P>
Caleb, leaning back in his chair, looked with anxious appeal towards
his wife.  She rose and kissed him, saying, <said who="#MrsG">God bless you, Caleb!  Our
children have a good father.</said>
</P>

<P>
But she went out and had a hearty cry to make up for the suppression of
her words.  She felt sure that her husband's conduct would be
misunderstood, and about Fred she was rational and unhopeful. <said who="#MrsG" direct="false" aloud="false"> Which
would turn out to have the more foresight in it—her rationality or
Caleb's ardent generosity?
</P>

<P>
When Fred went to the office the next morning, there was a test to be
gone through which he was not prepared for.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Now Fred,</said> said Caleb, <said who="#MrG">you will have some desk-work. I have always
done a good deal of writing myself, but I can't do without help, and as
I want you to understand the accounts and get the values into your
head, I mean to do without another clerk.  So you must buckle to.  How
are you at writing and arithmetic?</said>
</P>

<P>
Fred felt an awkward movement of the heart; he had not thought of
desk-work; but he was in a resolute mood, and not going to shrink.
<said who="#F">I'm not afraid of arithmetic, Mr. Garth: it always came easily to me.
I think you know my writing.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Let us see,</said> said Caleb, taking up a pen, examining it carefully and
handing it, well dipped, to Fred with a sheet of ruled paper.  <said who="#MrG">Copy me
a line or two of that valuation, with the figures at the end.</said>
</P>

<P>
At that time the opinion existed that it was beneath a gentleman to
write legibly, or with a hand in the least suitable to a clerk. <second> Fred
wrote the lines demanded in a hand as gentlemanly as that of any
viscount or bishop of the day: the vowels were all alike and the
consonants only distinguishable as turning up or down, the strokes had
a blotted solidity and the letters disdained to keep the line—in
short, it was a manuscript of that venerable kind easy to interpret
when you know beforehand what the writer means. </second>
</P>

<P>
As Caleb looked on, his visage showed a growing depression, but when
Fred handed him the paper he gave something like a snarl, and rapped
the paper passionately with the back of his hand.  Bad work like this
dispelled all Caleb's mildness.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">The deuce!</said> he exclaimed, snarlingly.  <said who="#MrG">To think that this is a
country where a man's education may cost hundreds and hundreds, and it
turns you out this!</said>  Then in a more pathetic tone, pushing up his
spectacles and looking at the unfortunate scribe, <said who="#MrG">The Lord have mercy
on us, Fred, I can't put up with this!</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">What can I do, Mr. Garth?</said> said Fred, whose spirits had sunk very low,
not only at the estimate of his handwriting, but at the vision of
himself as liable to be ranked with office clerks.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Do?  Why, you must learn to form your letters and keep the line.
What's the use of writing at all if nobody can understand it?</said> asked
Caleb, energetically, quite preoccupied with the bad quality of the
work.  <said who="#MrG">Is there so little business in the world that you must be
sending puzzles over the country?  But that's the way people are
brought up.  I should lose no end of time with the letters some people
send me, if Susan did not make them out for me.  It's disgusting.</said> Here
Caleb tossed the paper from him.
</P>

<P>
Any stranger peeping into the office at that moment might have wondered
what was the drama between the indignant man of business, and the
fine-looking young fellow whose blond complexion was getting rather
patchy as he bit his lip with mortification.  Fred was struggling with
many thoughts.  Mr. Garth had been so kind and encouraging at the
beginning of their interview, that gratitude and hopefulness had been
at a high pitch, and the downfall was proportionate.  He had not
thought of desk-work—in fact, like the majority of young gentlemen, he
wanted an occupation which should be free from disagreeables. <first> I cannot
tell what might have been the consequences if he had not distinctly
promised himself that he would go to Lowick to see Mary and tell her
that he was engaged to work under her father. </first> <said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> He did not like to
disappoint himself there.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I am very sorry,</said> were all the words that he could muster.  But Mr.
Garth was already relenting.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">We must make the best of it, Fred,</said> he began, with a return to his
usual quiet tone.  <said who="#MrG">Every man can learn to write.  I taught myself.  Go
at it with a will, and sit up at night if the day-time isn't enough.
We'll be patient, my boy.  Callum shall go on with the books for a bit,
while you are learning.  But now I must be off,</said> said Caleb, rising.
<said who="#MrG">You must let your father know our agreement.  You'll save me Callum's
salary, you know, when you can write; and I can afford to give you
eighty pounds for the first year, and more after.</said>
</P>

<P>
When Fred made the necessary disclosure to his parents, the relative
effect on the two was a surprise which entered very deeply into his
memory.  He went straight from Mr. Garth's office to the warehouse,
rightly feeling that the most respectful way in which he could behave
to his father was to make the painful communication as gravely and
formally as possible. <said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> Moreover, the decision would be more certainly
understood to be final, if the interview took place in his father's
gravest hours, which were always those spent in his private room at the
warehouse. </said>
</P>

<P>
Fred entered on the subject directly, and declared briefly what he had
done and was resolved to do, expressing at the end his regret that he
should be the cause of disappointment to his father, and taking the
blame on his own deficiencies.  The regret was genuine, and inspired
Fred with strong, simple words.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Vincy listened in profound surprise without uttering even an
exclamation, a silence which in his impatient temperament was a sign of
unusual emotion.  He had not been in good spirits about trade that
morning, and the slight bitterness in his lips grew intense as he
listened.  When Fred had ended, there was a pause of nearly a minute,
during which Mr. Vincy replaced a book in his desk and turned the key
emphatically.  Then he looked at his son steadily, and said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">So you've made up your mind at last, sir?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Yes, father.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">Very well; stick to it.  I've no more to say.  You've thrown away your
education, and gone down a step in life, when I had given you the means
of rising, that's all.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I am very sorry that we differ, father.  I think I can be quite as
much of a gentleman at the work I have undertaken, as if I had been a
curate.  But I am grateful to you for wishing to do the best for me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">Very well; I have no more to say.  I wash my hands of you.  I only
hope, when you have a son of your own he will make a better return for
the pains you spend on him.</said>
</P>

<P>
This was very cutting to Fred. <first> His father was using that unfair
advantage possessed by us all when we are in a pathetic situation and
see our own past as if it were simply part of the pathos. </first> In reality,
Mr. Vincy's wishes about his son had had a great deal of pride,
inconsiderateness, and egoistic folly in them.  But still the
disappointed father held a strong lever; and Fred felt as if he were
being banished with a malediction.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I hope you will not object to my remaining at home, sir?</said> he said,
after rising to go; <said who="#F">I shall have a sufficient salary to pay for my
board, as of course I should wish to do.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">Board be hanged!</said> said Mr. Vincy, recovering himself in his disgust at
the notion that Fred's keep would be missed at his table.  <said who="#MrV">Of course
your mother will want you to stay.  But I shall keep no horse for you,
you understand; and you will pay your own tailor.  You will do with a
suit or two less, I fancy, when you have to pay for 'em.</said>
</P>

<P>
Fred lingered; <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> there was still something to be said.  At last it came. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I hope you will shake hands with me, father, and forgive me the
vexation I have caused you.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Vincy from his chair threw a quick glance upward at his son, who
had advanced near to him, and then gave his hand, saying hurriedly,
<said who="#MrV">Yes, yes, let us say no more.</said>
</P>

<P>
Fred went through much more narrative and explanation with his mother,
but she was inconsolable, having before her eyes what perhaps her
husband had never thought of, <said who="#MrsV" direct="false" aloud="false"> the certainty that Fred would marry Mary
Garth, that her life would henceforth be spoiled by a perpetual
infusion of Garths and their ways, and that her darling boy, with his
beautiful face and stylish air <said who="#MrsV">beyond anybody else's son in
Middlemarch,</said> would be sure to get like that family in plainness of
appearance and carelessness about his clothes.  To her it seemed that
there was a Garth conspiracy to get possession of the desirable Fred,
but she dared not enlarge on this opinion, because a slight hint of it
had made him <said who="#MrsV">fly out</said> at her as he had never done before. </said> Her temper
was too sweet for her to show any anger, but she felt that her
happiness had received a bruise, and for several days merely to look at
Fred made her cry a little as if he were the subject of some baleful
prophecy. <said who="#MrsV" direct="false" aloud="false"> Perhaps she was the slower to recover her usual cheerfulness
because Fred had warned her that she must not reopen the sore question
with his father, who had accepted his decision and forgiven him.  If
her husband had been vehement against Fred, she would have been urged
into defence of her darling. </said> It was the end of the fourth day when Mr.
Vincy said to her—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">Come, Lucy, my dear, don't be so down-hearted. You always have spoiled
the boy, and you must go on spoiling him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsV">Nothing ever did cut me so before, Vincy,</said> said the wife, her fair
throat and chin beginning to tremble again, <said who="#MrsV">only his illness.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">Pooh, pooh, never mind!  We must expect to have trouble with our
children.  Don't make it worse by letting me see you out of spirits.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsV">Well, I won't,</said> said Mrs. Vincy, roused by this appeal and adjusting
herself with a little shake as of a bird which lays down its ruffled
plumage.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">It won't do to begin making a fuss about one,</said> said Mr. Vincy, wishing
to combine a little grumbling with domestic cheerfulness.  <said who="#MrV">There's
Rosamond as well as Fred.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsV">Yes, poor thing.  I'm sure I felt for her being disappointed of her
baby; but she got over it nicely.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrV">Baby, pooh!  I can see Lydgate is making a mess of his practice, and
getting into debt too, by what I hear.  I shall have Rosamond coming to
me with a pretty tale one of these days.  But they'll get no money from
me, I know.  Let <emph rend="italics">his</emph> family help him.  I never did like that
marriage.  But it's no use talking.  Ring the bell for lemons, and
don't look dull any more, Lucy.  I'll drive you and Louisa to Riverston
to-morrow.</said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="57"><head>CHAPTER LVII.</head>

<epigraph>
        They numbered scarce eight summers when a name
            Rose on their souls and stirred such motions there
        As thrill the buds and shape their hidden frame
            At penetration of the quickening air:
        His name who told of loyal Evan Dhu,
            Of quaint Bradwardine, and Vich Ian Vor,
        Making the little world their childhood knew
            Large with a land of mountain lake and scaur,
        And larger yet with wonder, love, belief
            Toward Walter Scott who living far away
        Sent them this wealth of joy and noble grief.
            The book and they must part, but day by day,
                In lines that thwart like portly spiders ran
                They wrote the tale, from Tully Veolan.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
The evening that Fred Vincy walked to Lowick parsonage (<said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> he had begun to
see that this was a world in which even a spirited young man must
sometimes walk for want of a horse to carry him </said>) he set out at five
o'clock and called on Mrs. Garth by the way, wishing to assure himself
that she accepted their new relations willingly.
</P>

<P>
He found the family group, dogs and cats included, under the great
apple-tree in the orchard.  It was a festival with Mrs. Garth, for her
eldest son, Christy, her peculiar joy and pride, had come home for a
short holiday— <said who="#MrsV" direct="false" aloud="false">Christy, who held it the most desirable thing in the
world to be a tutor, to study all literatures and be a regenerate
Porson, and who was an incorporate criticism on poor Fred, a sort of
object-lesson given to him by the educational mother. </said> Christy himself,
a square-browed, broad-shouldered masculine edition of his mother not
much higher than Fred's shoulder— <said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false">which made it the harder that he
should be held superior </said> —was always as simple as possible, and thought
no more of Fred's disinclination to scholarship than of a giraffe's,
wishing that he himself were more of the same height.  He was lying on
the ground now by his mother's chair, with his straw hat laid flat over
his eyes, while Jim on the other side was reading aloud from that
beloved writer who has made a chief part in the happiness of many young
lives.  The volume was <said>Ivanhoe,</said> and Jim was in the great archery
scene at the tournament, but <said who="#Letty" direct="false" aloud="false"> suffered much interruption from Ben, who
had fetched his own old bow and arrows, and was making himself
dreadfully disagreeable, Letty thought, by begging all present to
observe his random shots, which no one wished to do except Brownie, the
active-minded but probably shallow mongrel, while the grizzled
Newfoundland lying in the sun looked on with the dull-eyed neutrality
of extreme old age. </said> Letty herself, showing as to her mouth and
pinafore some slight signs that she had been assisting at the gathering
of the cherries which stood in a coral-heap on the tea-table, was now
seated on the grass, listening open-eyed to the reading.
</P>

<P>
But the centre of interest was changed for all by the arrival of Fred
Vincy.  When, seating himself on a garden-stool, he said that he was on
his way to Lowick Parsonage, Ben, who had thrown down his bow, and
snatched up a reluctant half-grown kitten instead, strode across Fred's
outstretched leg, and said <said who="#Ben">Take me!</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Letty">Oh, and me too,</said> said Letty.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Ben">You can't keep up with Fred and me,</said> said Ben.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Letty">Yes, I can.  Mother, please say that I am to go,</said> urged Letty, <said who="#Letty" direct="false" aloud="false"> whose
life was much checkered by resistance to her depreciation as a girl. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Jim">I shall stay with Christy,</said> observed Jim; <said who="#Jim" direct="false" aloud="false">as much as to say that he
had the advantage of those simpletons;</said> whereupon Letty put her hand up
to her head and looked with jealous indecision from the one to the
other.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Christy">Let us all go and see Mary,</said> said Christy, opening his arms.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">No, my dear child, we must not go in a swarm to the parsonage.  And
that old Glasgow suit of yours would never do.  Besides, your father
will come home.  We must let Fred go alone.  He can tell Mary that you
are here, and she will come back to-morrow.</said>
</P>

<P>
Christy glanced at his own threadbare knees, and then at Fred's
beautiful white trousers. <said who="#Christy" direct="false" aloud="false"> Certainly Fred's tailoring suggested the
advantages of an English university, and he had a graceful way even of
looking warm and of pushing his hair back with his handkerchief. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Children, run away,</said> said Mrs. Garth; <said who="#MrsG">it is too warm to hang about
your friends.  Take your brother and show him the rabbits.</said>
</P>

<P>
The eldest understood, and led off the children immediately.  Fred felt
that Mrs. Garth wished to give him an opportunity of saying anything he
had to say, but he could only begin by observing—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">How glad you must be to have Christy here!</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Yes; he has come sooner than I expected.  He got down from the coach
at nine o'clock, just after his father went out.  I am longing for
Caleb to come and hear what wonderful progress Christy is making.  He
has paid his expenses for the last year by giving lessons, carrying on
hard study at the same time.  He hopes soon to get a private tutorship
and go abroad.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">He is a great fellow,</said> said Fred, to whom these cheerful truths had a
medicinal taste, <said who="#F">and no trouble to anybody.</said> After a slight pause, he
added, <said who="#F">But I fear you will think that I am going to be a great deal of
trouble to Mr. Garth.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Caleb likes taking trouble: he is one of those men who always do more
than any one would have thought of asking them to do,</said> answered Mrs.
Garth.  She was knitting, and could either look at Fred or not, as she
chose— <said who="#MrsG" direct="false" aloud="false">always an advantage when one is bent on loading speech with
salutary meaning;</said> and though Mrs. Garth intended to be duly reserved,
she did wish to say something that Fred might be the better for.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I know you think me very undeserving, Mrs. Garth, and with good
reason,</said> said Fred, his spirit rising a little at the perception of
something like a disposition to lecture him.  <said who="#F">I happen to have behaved
just the worst to the people I can't help wishing for the most from.
But while two men like Mr. Garth and Mr. Farebrother have not given me
up, I don't see why I should give myself up.</said>  Fred thought it might be
well to suggest these masculine examples to Mrs. Garth.
</P>

<P>
<said> who="#MrsG"Assuredly,</said> said she, with gathering emphasis.  <said who="#MrsG">A young man for whom
two such elders had devoted themselves would indeed be culpable if he
threw himself away and made their sacrifices vain.</said>
</P>

<P>
Fred wondered a little at this strong language, but only said, <said who="#F">I hope
it will not be so with me, Mrs. Garth, since I have some encouragement
to believe that I may win Mary.  Mr. Garth has told you about that?
You were not surprised, I dare say?</said>  Fred ended, innocently referring
only to his own love as probably evident enough.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Not surprised that Mary has given you encouragement?</said> returned Mrs.
Garth, who thought it would be well for Fred to be more alive to the
fact that Mary's friends could not possibly have wished this
beforehand, whatever the Vincys might suppose.  <said who="#MrsG">Yes, I confess I was
surprised.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">She never did give me any—not the least in the world, when I talked
to her myself,</said> said Fred, eager to vindicate Mary.  <said who="#F">But when I asked
Mr. Farebrother to speak for me, she allowed him to tell me there was a
hope.</said>
</P>

<P>
The power of admonition which had begun to stir in Mrs. Garth had not
yet discharged itself. <said who="#MrsG" direct="false" aloud="false"> It was a little too provoking even for <emph rend="italics">her</emph>
self-control that this blooming youngster should flourish on the
disappointments of sadder and wiser people—making a meal of a
nightingale and never knowing it—and that all the while his family
should suppose that hers was in eager need of this sprig; and her
vexation had fermented the more actively because of its total
repression towards her husband. </said> Exemplary wives will sometimes find
scapegoats in this way.  She now said with energetic decision, <said who="#MrsG">You
made a great mistake, Fred, in asking Mr. Farebrother to speak for you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Did I?</said> said Fred, reddening instantaneously.  He was alarmed, but at
a loss to know what Mrs. Garth meant, and added, in an apologetic tone,
<said who="#F">Mr. Farebrother has always been such a friend of ours; and Mary, I
knew, would listen to him gravely; and he took it on himself quite
readily.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Yes, young people are usually blind to everything but their own
wishes, and seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others,</said> said
Mrs. Garth. She did not mean to go beyond this salutary general
doctrine, and threw her indignation into a needless unwinding of her
worsted, knitting her brow at it with a grand air.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I cannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Farebrother,</said> said
Fred, who nevertheless felt that surprising conceptions were beginning
to form themselves.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">Precisely; you cannot conceive,</said> said Mrs. Garth, cutting her words as
neatly as possible.
</P>

<P>
For a moment Fred looked at the horizon with a dismayed anxiety, and
then turning with a quick movement said almost sharply—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Do you mean to say, Mrs. Garth, that Mr. Farebrother is in love with
Mary?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">And if it were so, Fred, I think you are the last person who ought to
be surprised,</said> returned Mrs. Garth, laying her knitting down beside her
and folding her arms. <said who="#MrsG" direct="false" aloud="false"> It was an unwonted sign of emotion in her that
she should put her work out of her hands. </said> In fact her feelings were
divided between the satisfaction of giving Fred his discipline and the
sense of having gone a little too far.  Fred took his hat and stick and
rose quickly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Then you think I am standing in his way, and in Mary's too?</said> he said,
in a tone which seemed to demand an answer.
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Garth could not speak immediately. <said who="#MrsG" direct="false" aloud="false"> She had brought herself into
the unpleasant position of being called on to say what she really felt,
yet what she knew there were strong reasons for concealing.  And to her
the consciousness of having exceeded in words was peculiarly
mortifying.  Besides, Fred had given out unexpected electricity,</said> and he
now added, <said who="#F">Mr. Garth seemed pleased that Mary should be attached to
me.  He could not have known anything of this.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Garth felt a severe twinge at this mention of her husband, <said who="#MrsG" direct="false" aloud="false">the
fear that Caleb might think her in the wrong not being easily
endurable. </said> She answered, wanting to check unintended consequences—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">I spoke from inference only.  I am not aware that Mary knows anything
of the matter.</said>
</P>

<P>
But she hesitated to beg that he would keep entire silence on a subject
which she had herself unnecessarily mentioned, not being used to stoop
in that way; and while she was hesitating there was already a rush of
unintended consequences under the apple-tree where the tea-things
stood.  Ben, bouncing across the grass with Brownie at his heels, and
seeing the kitten dragging the knitting by a lengthening line of wool,
shouted and clapped his hands; Brownie barked, the kitten, desperate,
jumped on the tea-table and upset the milk, then jumped down again and
swept half the cherries with it; and Ben, snatching up the half-knitted
sock-top, fitted it over the kitten's head as a new source of madness,
while Letty arriving cried out to her mother against this cruelty—it
was a history as full of sensation as <said>This is the house that Jack
built.</said> Mrs. Garth was obliged to interfere, the other young ones came
up and the <i>tete-a-tete</i> with Fred was ended.  He got away as soon as he
could, and Mrs. Garth could only imply some retractation of her
severity by saying <said who="#MrsG">God bless you</said> when she shook hands with him.
</P>

<P>
She was unpleasantly conscious that she had been on the verge of
speaking as <said>one of the foolish women speaketh</said>— <said who="#MrsG" direct="false" aloud="false">telling first and
entreating silence after. But she had not entreated silence, and to
prevent Caleb's blame she determined to blame herself and confess all
to him that very night.  It was curious what an awful tribunal the mild
Caleb's was to her, whenever he set it up.  But she meant to point out
to him that the revelation might do Fred Vincy a great deal of good. </said>
</P>

<P>
No doubt it was having a strong effect on him as he walked to Lowick.
<said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> Fred's light hopeful nature had perhaps never had so much of a bruise
as from this suggestion that if he had been out of the way Mary might
have made a thoroughly good match.  Also he was piqued that he had been
what he called such a stupid lout as to ask that intervention from Mr.
Farebrother.  But it was not in a lover's nature—it was not in
Fred's, that the new anxiety raised about Mary's feeling should not
surmount every other.  Notwithstanding his trust in Mr. Farebrother's
generosity, notwithstanding what Mary had said to him, Fred could not
help feeling that he had a rival: it was a new consciousness, and he
objected to it extremely, not being in the least ready to give up Mary
for her good, being ready rather to fight for her with any man
whatsoever.  But the fighting with Mr. Farebrother must be of a
metaphorical kind, which was much more difficult to Fred than the
muscular. </said> Certainly this experience was a discipline for Fred hardly
less sharp than his disappointment about his uncle's will.  The iron
had not entered into his soul, but he had begun to imagine what the
sharp edge would be.  It did not once occur to Fred that Mrs. Garth
might be mistaken about Mr. Farebrother, but he suspected that she
might be wrong about Mary. <said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> Mary had been staying at the parsonage
lately, and her mother might know very little of what had been passing
in her mind. </said>
</P>

<P>
He did not feel easier when he found her looking cheerful with the
three ladies in the drawing-room. They were in animated discussion on
some subject which was dropped when he entered, and Mary was copying
the labels from a heap of shallow cabinet drawers, in a minute
handwriting which she was skilled in.  Mr. Farebrother was somewhere in
the village, and the three ladies knew nothing of Fred's peculiar
relation to Mary: it was impossible for either of them to propose that
they should walk round the garden, and Fred predicted to himself that
he should have to go away without saying a word to her in private.  He
told her first of Christy's arrival and then of his own engagement with
her father; and he was comforted by seeing that this latter news
touched her keenly.  She said hurriedly, <said who="#M">I am so glad,</said> and then bent
over her writing to hinder any one from noticing her face.  But here
was a subject which Mrs. Farebrother could not let pass.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MFB">You don't mean, my dear Miss Garth, that you are glad to hear of a
young man giving up the Church for which he was educated: you only mean
that things being so, you are glad that he should be under an excellent
man like your father.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">No, really, Mrs. Farebrother, I am glad of both, I fear,</said> said Mary,
cleverly getting rid of one rebellious tear.  <said who="#M">I have a dreadfully
secular mind.  I never liked any clergyman except the Vicar of
Wakefield and Mr. Farebrother.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MFB">Now why, my dear?</said> said Mrs. Farebrother, pausing on her large wooden
knitting-needles and looking at Mary.  <said who="#MFB">You have always a good reason
for your opinions, but this astonishes me.  Of course I put out of the
question those who preach new doctrine.  But why should you dislike
clergymen?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">Oh dear,</said> said Mary, her face breaking into merriment as she seemed to
consider a moment, <said who="#M">I don't like their neckcloths.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Winifred">Why, you don't like Camden's, then,</said> said Miss Winifred, in some
anxiety.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">Yes, I do,</said> said Mary.  <said who="#M">I don't like the other clergymen's
neckcloths, because it is they who wear them.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Noble">How very puzzling!</said> said Miss Noble, feeling that her own intellect
was probably deficient.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MFB">My dear, you are joking.  You would have better reasons than these for
slighting so respectable a class of men,</said> said Mrs. Farebrother,
majestically.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Miss Garth has such severe notions of what people should be that it is
difficult to satisfy her,</said> said Fred.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MFB">Well, I am glad at least that she makes an exception in favor of my
son,</said> said the old lady.
</P>

<P>
Mary was wondering at Fred's piqued tone, when Mr. Farebrother came in
and had to hear the news about the engagement under Mr. Garth.  At the
end he said with quiet satisfaction, <said who="#FB"><emph rend="italics">That</emph> is right;</said> and then bent
to look at Mary's labels and praise her handwriting.  Fred felt
horribly jealous— <said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false">was glad, of course, that Mr. Farebrother was so
estimable, but wished that he had been ugly and fat as men at forty
sometimes are.  It was clear what the end would be, since Mary openly
placed Farebrother above everybody, and these women were all evidently
encouraging the affair.</said>  He was feeling sure that he should have no
chance of speaking to Mary, when Mr. Farebrother said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Fred, help me to carry these drawers back into my study—you have
never seen my fine new study.  Pray come too, Miss Garth.  I want you
to see a stupendous spider I found this morning.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mary at once saw the Vicar's intention.  He had never since the
memorable evening deviated from his old pastoral kindness towards her,
and her momentary wonder and doubt had quite gone to sleep.  Mary was
accustomed to think rather rigorously of what was probable, and if a
belief flattered her vanity she felt warned to dismiss it as
ridiculous, having early had much exercise in such dismissals.  It was
as she had foreseen: when Fred had been asked to admire the fittings of
the study, and she had been asked to admire the spider, Mr. Farebrother
said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Wait here a minute or two.  I am going to look out an engraving which
Fred is tall enough to hang for me.  I shall be back in a few minutes.</said>
And then he went out.  Nevertheless, the first word Fred said to Mary
was—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">It is of no use, whatever I do, Mary.  You are sure to marry
Farebrother at last.</said>  There was some rage in his tone.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">What do you mean, Fred?</said>  Mary exclaimed indignantly, blushing deeply,
and surprised out of all her readiness in reply.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough—you
who see everything.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">I only see that you are behaving very ill, Fred, in speaking so of Mr.
Farebrother after he has pleaded your cause in every way.  How can you
have taken up such an idea?</said>
</P>

<P>
Fred was rather deep, in spite of his irritation. <said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> If Mary had really
been unsuspicious, there was no good in telling her what Mrs. Garth had
said. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">It follows as a matter of course,</said> he replied.  <said who="#F">When you are
continually seeing a man who beats me in everything, and whom you set
up above everybody, I can have no fair chance.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">You are very ungrateful, Fred,</said> said Mary.  <said who="#M">I wish I had never told
Mr. Farebrother that I cared for you in the least.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">No, I am not ungrateful; I should be the happiest fellow in the world
if it were not for this.  I told your father everything, and he was
very kind; he treated me as if I were his son.  I could go at the work
with a will, writing and everything, if it were not for this.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">For this? for what?</said> said Mary, imagining now that something specific
must have been said or done.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">This dreadful certainty that I shall be bowled out by Farebrother.</said>
Mary was appeased by her inclination to laugh.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">Fred,</said> she said, peeping round to catch his eyes, which were sulkily
turned away from her, <said who="#M">you are too delightfully ridiculous.  If you
were not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to
play the wicked coquette, and let you suppose that somebody besides you
has made love to me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Do you really like me best, Mary?</said> said Fred, turning eyes full of
affection on her, and trying to take her hand.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">I don't like you at all at this moment,</said> said Mary, retreating, and
putting her hands behind her.  <said who="#M">I only said that no mortal ever made
love to me besides you.  And that is no argument that a very wise man
ever will,</said> she ended, merrily.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I wish you would tell me that you could not possibly ever think of
him,</said> said Fred.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">Never dare to mention this any more to me, Fred,</said> said Mary, getting
serious again.  <said who="#M">I don't know whether it is more stupid or ungenerous
in you not to see that Mr. Farebrother has left us together on purpose
that we might speak freely.  I am disappointed that you should be so
blind to his delicate feeling.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F" direct="false" aloud="false"> There was no time to say any more before Mr. Farebrother came back with
the engraving; and Fred had to return to the drawing-room still with a
jealous dread in his heart, but yet with comforting arguments from
Mary's words and manner. </said> The result of the conversation was on the
whole more painful to Mary: <said who="#M" direct="false" aloud="false"> inevitably her attention had taken a new
attitude, and she saw the possibility of new interpretations.  She was
in a position in which she seemed to herself to be slighting Mr.
Farebrother, and this, in relation to a man who is much honored, is
always dangerous to the firmness of a grateful woman.  To have a reason
for going home the next day was a relief, for Mary earnestly desired to
be always clear that she loved Fred best. </said> <first> When a tender affection has
been storing itself in us through many of our years, the idea that we
could accept any exchange for it seems to be a cheapening of our lives. </first>
 <first>And we can set a watch over our affections and our constancy as we can
over other treasures. </first>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">Fred has lost all his other expectations; he must keep this,</said> Mary
said to herself, with a smile curling her lips. <said who="#M" direct="false" aloud="false"> It was impossible to
help fleeting visions of another kind—new dignities and an
acknowledged value of which she had often felt the absence.  But these
things with Fred outside them, Fred forsaken and looking sad for the
want of her, could never tempt her deliberate thought. </said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="58"><head>CHAPTER LVIII.</head>

<epigraph>
        <said>For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
         Therefore in that I cannot know thy change:
         In many's looks the false heart's history
         Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange:
         But Heaven in thy creation did decree
         That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell:
         Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be
         Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.</said>
                                           —SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
At the time when Mr. Vincy uttered that presentiment about Rosamond,
she herself had never had the idea that she should be driven to make
the sort of appeal which he foresaw.  She had not yet had any anxiety
about ways and means, although her domestic life had been expensive as
well as eventful.  Her baby had been born prematurely, and all the
embroidered robes and caps had to be laid by in darkness.  This
misfortune was attributed entirely to her having persisted in going out
on horseback one day when her husband had desired her not to do so; but
it must not be supposed that she had shown temper on the occasion, or
rudely told him that she would do as she liked.
</P>

<P>
<first> What led her particularly to desire horse-exercise was a visit from
Captain Lydgate, the baronet's third son, who, I am sorry to say, was
detested by our Tertius of that name as a vapid fop <said who="#Lyd">parting his hair
from brow to nape in a despicable fashion</said> (not followed by Tertius
himself), and showing an ignorant security that he knew the proper
thing to say on every topic. </first> Lydgate inwardly cursed his own folly
that he had drawn down this visit by consenting to go to his uncle's on
the wedding-tour, and he made himself rather disagreeable to Rosamond
by saying so in private.  For to Rosamond this visit was a source of
unprecedented but gracefully concealed exultation.  She was so
intensely conscious of having a cousin who was a baronet's son staying
in the house, that she imagined the knowledge of what was implied by
his presence to be diffused through all other minds; and when she
introduced Captain Lydgate to her guests, she had a placid sense that
his rank penetrated them as if it had been an odor. <said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false"> The satisfaction
was enough for the time to melt away some disappointment in the
conditions of marriage with a medical man even of good birth: it seemed
now that her marriage was visibly as well as ideally floating her above
the Middlemarch level, and the future looked bright with letters and
visits to and from Quallingham, and vague advancement in consequence
for Tertius.  Especially as, probably at the Captain's suggestion, his
married sister, Mrs. Mengan, had come with her maid, and stayed two
nights on her way from town.  Hence it was clearly worth while for
Rosamond to take pains with her music and the careful selection of her
lace. </said>
</P>

<P>
As to Captain Lydgate himself, his low brow, his aquiline nose bent on
one side, and his rather heavy utterance, might have been
disadvantageous in any young gentleman who had not a military bearing
and mustache to give him what is doted on by some flower-like blond
heads as <said>style.</said>  He had, moreover, that sort of high-breeding which
consists in being free from the petty solicitudes of middle-class
gentility, and he was a great critic of feminine charms.  Rosamond
delighted in his admiration now even more than she had done at
Quallingham, and he found it easy to spend several hours of the day in
flirting with her. <said who="#CaptainLyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> The visit altogether was one of the pleasantest
larks he had ever had, not the less so perhaps because he suspected
that his queer cousin Tertius wished him away: </said> <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> though Lydgate, who
would rather (hyperbolically speaking) have died than have failed in
polite hospitality, suppressed his dislike, and only pretended
generally not to hear what the gallant officer said, consigning the
task of answering him to Rosamond.  For he was not at all a jealous
husband, and preferred leaving a feather-headed young gentleman alone
with his wife to bearing him company. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I wish you would talk more to the Captain at dinner, Tertius,</said> said
Rosamond, one evening when the important guest was gone to Loamford to
see some brother officers stationed there.  <said who="#R">You really look so absent
sometimes—you seem to be seeing through his head into something behind
it, instead of looking at him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">My dear Rosy, you don't expect me to talk much to such a conceited ass
as that, I hope,</said> said Lydgate, brusquely.  <said who="#Lyd">If he got his head broken,
I might look at it with interest, not before.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I cannot conceive why you should speak of your cousin so
contemptuously,</said> said Rosamond, her fingers moving at her work while
she spoke with a mild gravity which had a touch of disdain in it.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Ask Ladislaw if he doesn't think your Captain the greatest bore he
ever met with.  Ladislaw has almost forsaken the house since he came.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond thought she knew perfectly well why Mr. Ladislaw disliked the
Captain: <said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false"> he was jealous, and she liked his being jealous. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">It is impossible to say what will suit eccentric persons,</said> she
answered, <said who="#R">but in my opinion Captain Lydgate is a thorough gentleman,
and I think you ought not, out of respect to Sir Godwin, to treat him
with neglect.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No, dear; but we have had dinners for him.  And he comes in and goes
out as he likes.  He doesn't want me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Still, when he is in the room, you might show him more attention.  He
may not be a phoenix of cleverness in your sense; his profession is
different; but it would be all the better for you to talk a little on
his subjects.  <emph rend="italics">I</emph> think his conversation is quite agreeable.  And he
is anything but an unprincipled man.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">The fact is, you would wish me to be a little more like him, Rosy,</said>
said Lydgate, in a sort of resigned murmur, with a smile which was not
exactly tender, and certainly not merry.  Rosamond was silent and did
not smile again; but the lovely curves of her face looked good-tempered
enough without smiling.
</P>

<P>
Those words of Lydgate's were like a sad milestone marking how far he
had travelled from his old dreamland, in which Rosamond Vincy appeared
to be that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverence her husband's
mind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaid, using her comb and
looking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of his adored
wisdom alone.  He had begun to distinguish between that imagined
adoration and the attraction towards a man's talent because it gives
him prestige, and is like an order in his button-hole or an Honorable
before his name.
</P>

<P>
It might have been supposed that Rosamond had travelled too, <said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false"> since she
had found the pointless conversation of Mr. Ned Plymdale perfectly
wearisome; but to most mortals there is a stupidity which is
unendurable and a stupidity which is altogether acceptable—else,
indeed, what would become of social bonds?  Captain Lydgate's stupidity
was delicately scented, carried itself with <said>style,</said> talked with a good
accent, and was closely related to Sir Godwin. </said> Rosamond found it quite
agreeable and caught many of its phrases.
</P>

<P>
<first> Therefore since Rosamond, as we know, was fond of horseback, there were
plenty of reasons why she should be tempted to resume her riding when
Captain Lydgate, who had ordered his man with two horses to follow him
and put up at the "Green Dragon" begged her to go out on the gray
which he warranted to be gentle and trained to carry a lady—indeed, he
had bought it for his sister, and was taking it to Quallingham. </first>
Rosamond went out the first time without telling her husband, and came
back before his return; <said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false"> but the ride had been so thorough a success,
and she declared herself so much the better in consequence, that he was
informed of it with full reliance on his consent that she should go
riding again. </said>
</P>

<P>
On the contrary Lydgate was more than hurt—he was utterly confounded
that she had risked herself on a strange horse without referring the
matter to his wish.  After the first almost thundering exclamations of
astonishment, which sufficiently warned Rosamond of what was coming, he
was silent for some moments.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">However, you have come back safely,</said> he said, at last, in a decisive
tone.  <said who="#Lyd">You will not go again, Rosy; that is understood.  If it were
the quietest, most familiar horse in the world, there would always be
the chance of accident.  And you know very well that I wished you to
give up riding the roan on that account.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">But there is the chance of accident indoors, Tertius.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">My darling, don't talk nonsense,</said> said Lydgate, in an imploring tone;
<said who="#Lyd">surely I am the person to judge for you.  I think it is enough that I
say you are not to go again.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond was arranging her hair before dinner, and the reflection of
her head in the glass showed no change in its loveliness except a
little turning aside of the long neck.  Lydgate had been moving about
with his hands in his pockets, and now paused near her, as if he
awaited some assurance.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I wish you would fasten up my plaits, dear,</said> said Rosamond, letting
her arms fall with a little sigh, so as to make a husband ashamed of
standing there like a brute.  Lydgate had often fastened the plaits
before, being among the deftest of men with his large finely formed
fingers.  He swept up the soft festoons of plaits and fastened in the
tall comb (<said who="#R">to such uses do men come!</said>); <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false" direct="false" aloud="false">and what could he do then but
kiss the exquisite nape which was shown in all its delicate curves? </said>
<first> But when we do what we have done before, it is often with a difference. </first>
Lydgate was still angry, and had not forgotten his point.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I shall tell the Captain that he ought to have known better than offer
you his horse,</said> he said, as he moved away.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I beg you will not do anything of the kind, Tertius,</said> said Rosamond,
looking at him with something more marked than usual in her speech.
<said who="#R">It will be treating me as if I were a child.  Promise that you will
leave the subject to me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd"> There did seem to be some truth in her objection. </said> Lydgate said, <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">Very
well,</said> with a surly obedience, and thus the discussion ended with his
promising Rosamond, and not with her promising him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false"> In fact, she had been determined not to promise.  Rosamond had that
victorious obstinacy which never wastes its energy in impetuous
resistance.  What she liked to do was to her the right thing, and all
her cleverness was directed to getting the means of doing it.  She
meant to go out riding again on the gray, and she did go on the next
opportunity of her husband's absence, not intending that he should know
until it was late enough not to signify to her.  The temptation was
certainly great: she was very fond of the exercise, and the
gratification of riding on a fine horse, with Captain Lydgate, Sir
Godwin's son, on another fine horse by her side, and of being met in
this position by any one but her husband, was something as good as her
dreams before marriage: moreover she was riveting the connection with
the family at Quallingham, which must be a wise thing to do. </said>
</P>

<P>
But the gentle gray, unprepared for the crash of a tree that was being
felled on the edge of Halsell wood, took fright, and caused a worse
fright to Rosamond, leading finally to the loss of her baby.  Lydgate
could not show his anger towards her, but he was rather bearish to the
Captain, whose visit naturally soon came to an end.
</P>

<P>
In all future conversations on the subject,<said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false"> Rosamond was mildly certain
that the ride had made no difference, and that if she had stayed at
home the same symptoms would have come on and would have ended in the
same way, because she had felt something like them before. </FI>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate could only say, <said who="#R">Poor, poor darling!</said>—but he secretly wondered
over the terrible tenacity of this mild creature. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> There was gathering
within him an amazed sense of his powerlessness over Rosamond. His
superior knowledge and mental force, instead of being, as he had
imagined, a shrine to consult on all occasions, was simply set aside on
every practical question.  He had regarded Rosamond's cleverness as
precisely of the receptive kind which became a woman.  He was now
beginning to find out what that cleverness was—what was the shape into
which it had run as into a close network aloof and independent.  No one
quicker than Rosamond to see causes and effects which lay within the
track of her own tastes and interests: she had seen clearly Lydgate's
preeminence in Middlemarch society, and could go on imaginatively
tracing still more agreeable social effects when his talent should have
advanced him; but for her, his professional and scientific ambition had
no other relation to these desirable effects than if they had been the
fortunate discovery of an ill-smelling oil.  And that oil apart, with
which she had nothing to do, of course she believed in her own opinion
more than she did in his.  Lydgate was astounded to find in numberless
trifling matters, as well as in this last serious case of the riding,
that affection did not make her compliant.  He had no doubt that the
affection was there, and had no presentiment that he had done anything
to repel it.  For his own part he said to himself that he loved her as
tenderly as ever, and could make up his mind to her negations;
but—well! </said> Lydgate was much worried, and conscious of new elements in
his life as noxious to him as an inlet of mud to a creature that has
been used to breathe and bathe and dart after its illuminated prey in
the clearest of waters.
</P>

<P>
Rosamond was soon looking lovelier than ever at her worktable, enjoying
drives in her father's phaeton and thinking it likely that she might be
invited to Quallingham.  She knew that she was a much more exquisite
ornament to the drawing-room there than any daughter of the family, and
in reflecting that the gentlemen were aware of that, did not perhaps
sufficiently consider whether the ladies would be eager to see
themselves surpassed.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate, relieved from anxiety about her, relapsed into what she
inwardly called his moodiness—a name which to her covered his
thoughtful preoccupation with other subjects than herself, as well as
that uneasy look of the brow and distaste for all ordinary things as if
they were mixed with bitter herbs, which really made a sort of
weather-glass to his vexation and foreboding.  These latter states of
mind had one cause amongst others, which he had generously but
mistakenly avoided mentioning to Rosamond, lest it should affect her
health and spirits. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> Between him and her indeed there was that total
missing of each other's mental track, which is too evidently possible
even between persons who are continually thinking of each other.  To
Lydgate it seemed that he had been spending month after month in
sacrificing more than half of his best intent and best power to his
tenderness for Rosamond; bearing her little claims and interruptions
without impatience, and, above all, bearing without betrayal of
bitterness to look through less and less of interfering illusion at the
blank unreflecting surface her mind presented to his ardor for the more
impersonal ends of his profession and his scientific study, an ardor
which he had fancied that the ideal wife must somehow worship as
sublime, though not in the least knowing why. </said> <first> But his endurance was
mingled with a self-discontent which, if we know how to be candid, we
shall confess to make more than half our bitterness under grievances,
wife or husband included. </first>  <first> It always remains true that if we had been
greater, circumstance would have been less strong against us. </first> Lydgate
was aware that his concessions to Rosamond were often little more than
the lapse of slackening resolution, the creeping paralysis apt to seize
an enthusiasm which is out of adjustment to a constant portion of our
lives.  And on Lydgate's enthusiasm there was constantly pressing not a
simple weight of sorrow, but the biting presence of a petty degrading
care, such as casts the blight of irony over all higher effort.
</P>

<P>
This was the care which he had hitherto abstained from mentioning to
Rosamond; and he believed, with some wonder, that it had never entered
her mind, though certainly no difficulty could be less mysterious.  It
was an inference with a conspicuous handle to it, and had been easily
drawn by indifferent observers, that Lydgate was in debt; and he could
not succeed in keeping out of his mind for long together that he was
every day getting deeper into that swamp, which tempts men towards it
with such a pretty covering of flowers and verdure.  It is wonderful
how soon a man gets up to his chin there—in a condition in which,
in spite of himself, he is forced to think chiefly of release, though he
had a scheme of the universe in his soul.
</P>

<P>
Eighteen months ago Lydgate was poor, but had never known the eager
want of small sums, and felt rather a burning contempt for any one who
descended a step in order to gain them.  He was now experiencing
something worse than a simple deficit: he was assailed by the vulgar
hateful trials of a man who has bought and used a great many things
which might have been done without, and which he is unable to pay for,
though the demand for payment has become pressing.
</P>

<P>
How this came about may be easily seen without much arithmetic or
knowledge of prices.  When a man in setting up a house and preparing
for marriage finds that his furniture and other initial expenses come
to between four and five hundred pounds more than he has capital to pay
for; when at the end of a year it appears that his household expenses,
horses and et caeteras, amount to nearly a thousand, while the proceeds
of the practice reckoned from the old books to be worth eight hundred
per annum have sunk like a summer pond and make hardly five hundred,
chiefly in unpaid entries, the plain inference is that, whether he
minds it or not, he is in debt. <first> Those were less expensive times than
our own, and provincial life was comparatively modest; but the ease
with which a medical man who had lately bought a practice, who thought
that he was obliged to keep two horses, whose table was supplied
without stint, and who paid an insurance on his life and a high rent
for house and garden, might find his expenses doubling his receipts,
can be conceived by any one who does not think these details beneath
his consideration. </first> Rosamond, accustomed from her childhood to an extravagant
household, thought that good housekeeping consisted simply in ordering
the best of everything—nothing else <said who="#R">answered;</said> and Lydgate supposed
that <said who="#Lyd">if things were done at all, they must be done properly</said>— <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">he did
not see how they were to live otherwise. </said> If each head of household
expenditure had been mentioned to him beforehand, he would have
probably observed that <said who="#Lyd"> it could hardly come to much,</said> and <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">if any one
had suggested a saving on a particular article—for example, the
substitution of cheap fish for dear—it would have appeared to him
simply a penny-wise, mean notion. Rosamond, even without such an
occasion as Captain Lydgate's visit, was fond of giving invitations,
and Lydgate, though he often thought the guests tiresome, did not
interfere.  This sociability seemed a necessary part of professional
prudence, and the entertainment must be suitable. </said><first> It is true Lydgate
was constantly visiting the homes of the poor and adjusting his
prescriptions of diet to their small means; but, dear me! has it not by
this time ceased to be remarkable—is it not rather that we expect in
men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by
side and never compare them with each other? </first><first> Expenditure—like
ugliness and errors—becomes a totally new thing when we attach our own
personality to it, and measure it by that wide difference which is
manifest (in our own sensations) between ourselves and others. </first> Lydgate
believed himself to be careless about his dress, and he despised a man
who calculated the effects of his costume; it seemed to him only a
matter of course that he had abundance of fresh garments—such things
were naturally ordered in sheaves.  It must be remembered that he had
never hitherto felt the check of importunate debt, and he walked by
habit, not by self-criticism.  But the check had come.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> Its novelty made it the more irritating.  He was amazed, disgusted that
conditions so foreign to all his purposes, so hatefully disconnected
with the objects he cared to occupy himself with, should have lain in
ambush and clutched him when he was unaware.  And there was not only
the actual debt; there was the certainty that in his present position
he must go on deepening it.  Two furnishing tradesmen at Brassing,
whose bills had been incurred before his marriage, and whom
uncalculated current expenses had ever since prevented him from paying,
had repeatedly sent him unpleasant letters which had forced themselves
on his attention. </said>  This could hardly have been more galling to any
disposition than to Lydgate's, with his intense pride—his dislike of
asking a favor or being under an obligation to any one.  He had scorned
even to form conjectures about Mr. Vincy's intentions on money matters,
and nothing but extremity could have induced him to apply to his
father-in-law, even if he had not been made aware in various indirect
ways since his marriage that Mr. Vincy's own affairs were not
flourishing, and that the expectation of help from him would be
resented.  Some men easily trust in the readiness of friends; it had
never in the former part of his life occurred to Lydgate that he should
need to do so: he had never thought what borrowing would be to him; but
now that the idea had entered his mind, he felt that he would rather
incur any other hardship.  In the mean time he had no money or
prospects of money; and his practice was not getting more lucrative.
</P>

<P>
No wonder that Lydgate had been unable to suppress all signs of inward
trouble during the last few months, and now that Rosamond was regaining
brilliant health, he meditated taking her entirely into confidence on
his difficulties.  New conversance with tradesmen's bills had forced
his reasoning into a new channel of comparison: he had begun to
consider from a new point of view what was necessary and unnecessary in
goods ordered, and to see that there must be some change of habits.<said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">
How could such a change be made without Rosamond's concurrence?  The
immediate occasion of opening the disagreeable fact to her was forced
upon him. </said>
</P>

<P>
Having no money, and having privately sought advice as to what security
could possibly be given by a man in his position, Lydgate had offered
the one good security in his power to the less peremptory creditor, who
was a silversmith and jeweller, and who consented to take on himself
the upholsterer's credit also, accepting interest for a given term.
The security necessary was a bill of sale on the furniture of his
house, which might make a creditor easy for a reasonable time about a
debt amounting to less than four hundred pounds; and the silversmith,
Mr. Dover, was willing to reduce it by taking back a portion of the
plate and any other article which was as good as new.  <said who="#Dover">Any other
article</said> was a phrase delicately implying jewellery, and more
particularly some purple amethysts costing thirty pounds, which Lydgate
had bought as a bridal present.
</P>

<P>
Opinions may be divided as to his wisdom in making this present: some
may think that it was a graceful attention to be expected from a man
like Lydgate, and that the fault of any troublesome consequences lay in
the pinched narrowness of provincial life at that time, which offered
no conveniences for professional people whose fortune was not
proportioned to their tastes; also, in Lydgate's ridiculous
fastidiousness about asking his friends for money.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> However, it had seemed a question of no moment to him on that fine
morning when he went to give a final order for plate: in the presence
of other jewels enormously expensive, and as an addition to orders of
which the amount had not been exactly calculated, thirty pounds for
ornaments so exquisitely suited to Rosamond's neck and arms could
hardly appear excessive when there was no ready cash for it to exceed. </said>
But at this crisis Lydgate's imagination could not help dwelling on the
possibility of letting the amethysts take their place again among Mr.
Dover's stock, though he shrank from the idea of proposing this to
Rosamond.  Having been roused to discern consequences which he had
never been in the habit of tracing, he was preparing to act on this
discernment with some of the rigor (by no means all) that he would have
applied in pursuing experiment.  He was nerving himself to this rigor
as he rode from Brassing, and meditated on the representations he must
make to Rosamond.
</P>

<P>
It was evening when he got home.  He was intensely miserable, this
strong man of nine-and-twenty and of many gifts.  He was not saying
angrily within himself that he had made a profound mistake; but the
mistake was at work in him like a recognized chronic disease, mingling
its uneasy importunities with every prospect, and enfeebling every
thought.  As he went along the passage to the drawing-room, he heard
the piano and singing. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">  Of course, Ladislaw was there.  It was some
weeks since Will had parted from Dorothea, yet he was still at the old
post in Middlemarch. </said>  Lydgate had no objection in general to Ladislaw's
coming, but just now he was annoyed that he could not find his hearth
free.  When he opened the door the two singers went on towards the
key-note, raising their eyes and looking at him indeed, but not
regarding his entrance as an interruption.  To a man galled with his
harness as poor Lydgate was, it is not soothing to see two people
warbling at him, as he comes in with the sense that the painful day has
still pains in store.  His face, already paler than usual, took on a
scowl as he walked across the room and flung himself into a chair.
</P>

<P>
The singers feeling themselves excused by the fact that they had only
three bars to sing, now turned round.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">How are you, Lydgate?</said> said Will, coming forward to shake hands.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate took his hand, but did not think it necessary to speak.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Have you dined, Tertius?  I expected you much earlier,</said> said Rosamond,
who had already seen that her husband was in a <said>horrible humor.</said> She
seated herself in her usual place as she spoke.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I have dined.  I should like some tea, please,</said> said Lydgate, curtly,
still scowling and looking markedly at his legs stretched out before
him.
</P>

<P>
Will was too quick to need more.  <said who="#Lad">I shall be off,</said> he said, reaching
his hat.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Tea is coming,</said> said Rosamond; <said who="#R">pray don't go.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Yes, Lydgate is bored,</said> said Will, who had more comprehension of
Lydgate than Rosamond had, and was not offended by his manner, easily
imagining outdoor causes of annoyance.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">There is the more need for you to stay,</said> said Rosamond, playfully, and
in her lightest accent; <said who="#R">he will not speak to me all the evening.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Yes, Rosamond, I shall,</said> said Lydgate, in his strong baritone.  <said who="#Lyd">I
have some serious business to speak to you about.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> No introduction of the business could have been less like that which
Lydgate had intended; but her indifferent manner had been too provoking. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">There! you see,</said> said Will.  <said who="#Lad">I'm going to the meeting about the
Mechanics' Institute.  Good-by;</said> and he went quickly out of the room.
</P>

<P>
Rosamond did not look at her husband, but presently rose and took her
place before the tea-tray. She was thinking that she had never seen him
so disagreeable.  Lydgate turned his dark eyes on her and watched her
as she delicately handled the tea-service with her taper fingers, <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> and
looked at the objects immediately before her with no curve in her face
disturbed, and yet with an ineffable protest in her air against all
people with unpleasant manners. </said>  For the moment he lost the sense of
his wound in a sudden speculation about this new form of feminine
impassibility revealing itself in the sylph-like frame which he had
once interpreted as the sign of a ready intelligent sensitiveness.  His
mind glancing back to Laure while he looked at Rosamond, he said
inwardly, <said who="#Lyd">Would <emph rend="italics">she</emph> kill me because I wearied her?</said> and then, <said who="#Lyd">It is
the way with all women.</said> But this power of generalizing which gives men
so much the superiority in mistake over the dumb animals, was
immediately thwarted by Lydgate's memory of wondering impressions from
the behavior of another woman—from Dorothea's looks and tones of
emotion about her husband when Lydgate began to attend him—from her
passionate cry to be taught what would best comfort that man for whose
sake it seemed as if she must quell every impulse in her except the
yearnings of faithfulness and compassion.  These revived impressions
succeeded each other quickly and dreamily in Lydgate's mind while the
tea was being brewed.  He had shut his eyes in the last instant of
reverie while he heard Dorothea saying, <said who="#D">Advise me—think what I can
do—he has been all his life laboring and looking forward.  He minds
about nothing else—and I mind about nothing else.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> That voice of deep-souled womanhood had remained within him as the
enkindling conceptions of dead and sceptred genius had remained within
him (is there not a genius for feeling nobly which also reigns over
human spirits and their conclusions?); the tones were a music from
which he was falling away </said> —he had really fallen into a momentary doze,
when Rosamond said in her silvery neutral way, <said who="#R">Here is your tea,
Tertius,</said> setting it on the small table by his side, and then moved
back to her place without looking at him. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">  Lydgate was too hasty in
attributing insensibility to her; after her own fashion, she was
sensitive enough, and took lasting impressions.  Her impression now was
one of offence and repulsion. </said>  But then, Rosamond had no scowls and had
never raised her voice: she was quite sure that no one could justly
find fault with her.
</P>

<P>
Perhaps Lydgate and she had never felt so far off each other before;
but there were strong reasons for not deferring his revelation, even if
he had not already begun it by that abrupt announcement; indeed some of
the angry desire to rouse her into more sensibility on his account
which had prompted him to speak prematurely, still mingled with his
pain in the prospect of her pain. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">  But he waited till the tray was
gone, the candles were lit, and the evening quiet might be counted on:
the interval had left time for repelled tenderness to return into the
old course. </said>  He spoke kindly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Dear Rosy, lay down your work and come to sit by me,</said> he said, gently,
pushing away the table, and stretching out his arm to draw a chair near
his own.
</P>

<P>
Rosamond obeyed. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">  As she came towards him in her drapery of transparent
faintly tinted muslin, her slim yet round figure never looked more
graceful; as she sat down by him and laid one hand on the elbow of his
chair, at last looking at him and meeting his eyes, her delicate neck
and cheek and purely cut lips never had more of that untarnished beauty
which touches as in spring-time and infancy and all sweet freshness. </said>
It touched Lydgate now, and mingled the early moments of his love for
her with all the other memories which were stirred in this crisis of
deep trouble.  He laid his ample hand softly on hers, saying—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Dear!</said> with the lingering utterance which affection gives to the word.
Rosamond too was still under the power of that same past, and her
husband was still in part the Lydgate whose approval had stirred
delight.  She put his hair lightly away from his forehead, then laid
her other hand on his, and was conscious of forgiving him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I am obliged to tell you what will hurt you, Rosy.  But there are
things which husband and wife must think of together.  I dare say it
has occurred to you already that I am short of money.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate paused; but Rosamond turned her neck and looked at a vase on
the mantel-piece.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I was not able to pay for all the things we had to get before we were
married, and there have been expenses since which I have been obliged
to meet.  The consequence is, there is a large debt at Brassing—three
hundred and eighty pounds—which has been pressing on me a good while,
and in fact we are getting deeper every day, for people don't pay me
the faster because others want the money.  I took pains to keep it from
you while you were not well; but now we must think together about it,
and you must help me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">What can—I—do, Tertius?</said> said Rosamond, turning her eyes on him
again.  That little speech of four words, like so many others in all
languages, is capable by varied vocal inflections of expressing all
states of mind from helpless dimness to exhaustive argumentative
perception, from the completest self-devoting fellowship to the most
neutral aloofness.  Rosamond's thin utterance threw into the words
<said who="#R">What can—I—do!</said> 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 the heart.  And when he
spoke again it was more in the tone of a man who forces himself to
fulfil a task.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">It is necessary for you to know, because I have to give security for a
time, and a man must come to make an inventory of the furniture.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond colored deeply.  <said who="#R">Have you not asked papa for money?</said> she
said, as soon as she could speak.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Then I must ask him!</said> she said, releasing her hands from Lydgate's,
and rising to stand at two yards' distance from him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No, Rosy,</said> said Lydgate, decisively.  <said who="#Lyd">It is too late to do that.  The
inventory will be begun to-morrow. Remember it is a mere security: it
will make no difference: it is a temporary affair.  I insist upon it
that your father shall not know, unless I choose to tell him,</said> added
Lydgate, with a more peremptory emphasis.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> This certainly was unkind, but Rosamond had thrown him back on evil
expectation as to what she would do in the way of quiet steady
disobedience. </said>  The unkindness seemed unpardonable to her: she was not
given to weeping and disliked it, but now her chin and lips began to
tremble and the tears welled up.  Perhaps it was not possible for
Lydgate, under the double stress of outward material difficulty and of
his own proud resistance to humiliating consequences, to imagine fully
what this sudden trial was to a young creature who had known nothing
but indulgence, and whose dreams had all been of new indulgence, more
exactly to her taste.  But he did wish to spare her as much as he
could, and her tears cut him to the heart.  He could not speak again
immediately; but Rosamond did not go on sobbing: she tried to conquer
her agitation and wiped away her tears, continuing to look before her
at the mantel-piece.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Try not to grieve, darling,</said> said Lydgate, turning his eyes up towards
her. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">  That she had chosen to move away from him in this moment of her
trouble made everything harder to say, but he must absolutely go on. </said>
<said who="#Lyd">We must brace ourselves to do what is necessary.  It is I who have
been in fault: I ought to have seen that I could not afford to live in
this way. But many things have told against me in my practice, and it
really just now has ebbed to a low point.  I may recover it, but in the
mean time we must pull up—we must change our way of living.  We shall
weather it.  When I have given this security I shall have time to look
about me; and you are so clever that if you turn your mind to managing
you will school me into carefulness.  I have been a thoughtless rascal
about squaring prices—but come, dear, sit down and forgive me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<first> Lydgate was bowing his neck under the yoke like a creature who had
talons, but who had Reason too, which often reduces us to meekness. </first>
When he had spoken the last words in an imploring tone, Rosamond
returned to the chair by his side.  His self-blame gave her some hope
that he would attend to her opinion, and she said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Why can you not put off having the inventory made?  You can send the
men away to-morrow when they come.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I shall not send them away,</said> said Lydgate, the peremptoriness rising
again.  Was it of any use to explain?
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">If we left Middlemarch? there would of course be a sale, and that
would do as well.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">But we are not going to leave Middlemarch.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I am sure, Tertius, it would be much better to do so.  Why can we not
go to London?  Or near Durham, where your family is known?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">We can go nowhere without money, Rosamond.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Your friends would not wish you to be without money.  And surely these
odious tradesmen might be made to understand that, and to wait, if you
would make proper representations to them.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">This is idle Rosamond,</said> said Lydgate, angrily.  <said who="#Lyd">You must learn to
take my judgment on questions you don't understand.  I have made
necessary arrangements, and they must be carried out.  As to friends, I
have no expectations whatever from them, and shall not ask them for
anything.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond sat perfectly still.  The thought in her mind was that if she
had known how Lydgate would behave, she would never have married him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">We have no time to waste now on unnecessary words, dear,</said> said
Lydgate, trying to be gentle again.  <said who="#Lyd">There are some details that I
want to consider with you.  Dover says he will take a good deal of the
plate back again, and any of the jewellery we like.  He really behaves
very well.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Are we to go without spoons and forks then?</said> said Rosamond, <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false"> whose very
lips seemed to get thinner with the thinness of her utterance. </said>  She was
determined to make no further resistance or suggestions.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Oh no, dear!</said> said Lydgate.  <said who="#Lyd">But look here,</said> he continued, drawing a
paper from his pocket and opening it; <said who="#Lyd">here is Dover's account.  See, I
have marked a number of articles, which if we returned them would
reduce the amount by thirty pounds and more.  I have not marked any
of the jewellery.</said>  Lydgate had really felt this point of the jewellery
very bitter to himself; but he had overcome the feeling by severe
argument.  He could not propose to Rosamond that she should return any
particular present of his, but he had told himself that he was bound to
put Dover's offer before her, and her inward prompting might make the
affair easy.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">It is useless for me to look, Tertius,</said> said Rosamond, calmly; <said who="#R">you
will return what you please.</said>  She would not turn her eyes on the
paper, and Lydgate, flushing up to the roots of his hair, drew it back
and let it fall on his knee.  Meanwhile Rosamond quietly went out of
the room, leaving Lydgate helpless and wondering. <said who="#Lyd" direct="false" aloud="false">  Was she not coming
back?  It seemed that she had no more identified herself with him than
if they had been creatures of different species and opposing interests.
He tossed his head and thrust his hands deep into his pockets with a
sort of vengeance.  There was still science—there were still good
objects to work for.  He must give a tug still—all the stronger
because other satisfactions were going. </said>
</P>

<P>
But the door opened and Rosamond re-entered. She carried the leather
box containing the amethysts, and a tiny ornamental basket which
contained other boxes, and laying them on the chair where she had been
sitting, she said, with perfect propriety in her air—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">This is all the jewellery you ever gave me.  You can return what you
like of it, and of the plate also.  You will not, of course, expect me
to stay at home to-morrow. I shall go to papa's.</said>
</P>

<P>
To many women the look Lydgate cast at her would have been more
terrible than one of anger: it had in it a despairing acceptance of the
distance she was placing between them.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">And when shall you come back again?</said> he said, with a bitter edge on
his accent.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Oh, in the evening.  Of course I shall not mention the subject to
mamma.</said>  Rosamond was convinced that no woman could behave more
irreproachably than she was behaving; and she went to sit down at her
work-table. Lydgate sat meditating a minute or two, and the result was
that he said, with some of the old emotion in his tone—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Now we have been united, Rosy, you should not leave me to myself in
the first trouble that has come.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Certainly not,</said> said Rosamond; <said who="#R">I shall do everything it becomes me to
do.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">It is not right that the thing should be left to servants, or that I
should have to speak to them about it.  And I shall be obliged to go
out—I don't know how early.  I understand your shrinking from the
humiliation of these money affairs.  But, my dear Rosamond, as a
question of pride, which I feel just as much as you can, it is surely
better to manage the thing ourselves, and let the servants see as
little of it as possible; and since you are my wife, there is no
hindering your share in my disgraces—if there were disgraces.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond did not answer immediately, but at last she said, <said who="#R">Very well,
I will stay at home.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I shall not touch these jewels, Rosy.  Take them away again.  But I
will write out a list of plate that we may return, and that can be
packed up and sent at once.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">The servants will know <emph rend="italics">that</emph>,</said> said Rosamond, with the slightest
touch of sarcasm.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Well, we must meet some disagreeables as necessities.  Where is the
ink, I wonder?</said> said Lydgate, rising, and throwing the account on the
larger table where he meant to write.
</P>

<P>
Rosamond went to reach the inkstand, and after setting it on the table
was going to turn away, when Lydgate, who was standing close by, put
his arm round her and drew her towards him, saying—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Come, darling, let us make the best of things.  It will only be for a
time, I hope, that we shall have to be stingy and particular.  Kiss me.</said>
</P>

<P>
His native warm-heartedness took a great deal of quenching, and it is a
part of manliness for a husband to feel keenly the fact that an
inexperienced girl has got into trouble by marrying him.  She received
his kiss and returned it faintly, and in this way an appearance of
accord was recovered for the time.  But Lydgate could not help looking
forward with dread to the inevitable future discussions about
expenditure and the necessity for a complete change in their way of
living.
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="59"><head>CHAPTER LIX.</head>

<epigraph>
       <said>They said of old the Soul had human shape,
        But smaller, subtler than the fleshly self,
        So wandered forth for airing when it pleased.
        And see! beside her cherub-face there floats
        A pale-lipped form aerial whispering
        Its promptings in that little shell her ear.</said>
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
News is often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen
which the bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when
they are buzzing in search of their particular nectar.  This fine
comparison has reference to Fred Vincy, who on that evening at Lowick
Parsonage heard a lively discussion among the ladies on the news which
their old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr. Casaubon's
strange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his will made not long
before his death.  Miss Winifred was astounded to find that her brother
had known the fact before, and observed that Camden was the most
wonderful man for knowing things and not telling them; whereupon Mary
Garth said that the codicil had perhaps got mixed up with the habits of
spiders, which Miss Winifred never would listen to.  Mrs. Farebrother
considered that the news had something to do with their having only
once seen Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick, and Miss Noble made many small
compassionate mewings.
</P>

<P>
Fred knew little and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubons, and
his mind never recurred to that discussion till one day calling on
Rosamond at his mother's request to deliver a message as he passed, he
happened to see Ladislaw going away.  Fred and Rosamond had little to
say to each other now that marriage had removed her from collision with
the unpleasantness of brothers, and especially now that he had taken
what she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving up the
Church to take to such a business as Mr. Garth's. Hence Fred talked by
preference of what he considered indifferent news, and <said who="#F">a propos of
that young Ladislaw</said> mentioned what he had heard at Lowick Parsonage.
</P>

<P>
Now Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, knew a great deal more than he told,
and when he had once been set thinking about the relation between Will
and Dorothea his conjectures had gone beyond the fact.  He imagined
that there was a passionate attachment on both sides, and this struck
him as much too serious to gossip about.  He remembered Will's
irritability when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubon, and was the more
circumspect.  On the whole his surmises, in addition to what he knew of
the fact, increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw,
and made him understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch
after he had said that he should go away.  It was significant of the
separateness between Lydgate's mind and Rosamond's that he had no
impulse to speak to her on the subject; indeed, he did not quite trust
her reticence towards Will.  And he was right there; though he had no
vision of the way in which her mind would act in urging her to speak.
</P>

<P>
When she repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, he said, <said who="#Lyd">Take care you don't
drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy.  He is likely to fly out as
if you insulted him.  Of course it is a painful affair.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of
placid indifference.  But the next time Will came when Lydgate was
away, she spoke archly about his not going to London as he had
threatened.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I know all about it.  I have a confidential little bird,</said> said she,
showing very pretty airs of her head over the bit of work held high
between her active fingers.  <said who="#R">There is a powerful magnet in this
neighborhood.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">To be sure there is.  Nobody knows that better than you,</said> said Will,
with light gallantry, but inwardly prepared to be angry.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">It is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and
foreseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much
like to marry, and no one who would so much like to marry her as a
certain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by making her
forfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman—and then—and
then—and then—oh, I have no doubt the end will be thoroughly
romantic.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Great God! what do you mean?</said> said Will, flushing over face and ears,
his features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake.
<said who="#Lad">Don't joke; tell me what you mean.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">You don't really know?</said> said Rosamond, no longer playful, and desiring
nothing better than to tell in order that she might evoke effects.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">No!</said> he returned, impatiently.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Don't know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs.
Casaubon marries you she is to forfeit all her property?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">How do you know that it is true?</said> said Will, eagerly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">My brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers.</said>  Will started up from
his chair and reached his hat.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I dare say she likes you better than the property,</said> said Rosamond,
looking at him from a distance.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Pray don't say any more about it,</said> said Will, in a hoarse undertone
extremely unlike his usual light voice.  <said who="#R">It is a foul insult to her
and to me.</said>  Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing
nothing.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Now you are angry with <emph rend="italics">me</emph>,</said> said Rosamond.  <said who="#R">It is too bad to bear
<emph rend="italics">me</emph> malice.  You ought to be obliged to me for telling you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">So I am,</said> said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul
which belongs to dreamers who answer questions.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I expect to hear of the marriage,</said> said Rosamond, playfully.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Never!  You will never hear of the marriage!</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false">With those words uttered impetuously,</said> Will rose, put out his hand to
Rosamond, still with the air of a somnambulist, and went away.
</P>

<P>
When he was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end
of the room, leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and
looking out of the window wearily.  She was oppressed by ennui, and by
that dissatisfaction which in women's minds is continually turning into
a trivial jealousy, referring to no real claims, springing from no
deeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoism, and yet capable
of impelling action as well as speech.  <said who="#R">There really is nothing to
care for much,</said> said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking of the family at
Quallingham, who did not write to her; <said who="#R" direct="false" aloud="false"> and that perhaps Tertius when he
came home would tease her about expenses. </said> She had already secretly
disobeyed him by asking her father to help them, and he had ended
decisively by saying, <said who="#MrV">I am more likely to want help myself.</said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="60"><head>CHAPTER LX.</head>

<epigraph>
        Good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable.
                                              —Justice Shallow.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
A few days afterwards—it was already the end of August—there was an
occasion which caused some excitement in Middlemarch: the public, if it
chose, was to have the advantage of buying, under the distinguished
auspices of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, the furniture, books, and pictures
which anybody might see by the handbills to be the best in every kind,
belonging to Edwin Larcher, Esq. This was not one of the sales
indicating the depression of trade; on the contrary, it was due to Mr.
Larcher's great success in the carrying business, which warranted his
purchase of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high style by
an illustrious Spa physician—furnished indeed with such large
framefuls of expensive flesh-painting in the dining-room, that Mrs.
Larcher was nervous until reassured by finding the subjects to be
Scriptural.  Hence the fine opportunity to purchasers which was well
pointed out in the handbills of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, whose
acquaintance with the history of art enabled him to state that the hall
furniture, to be sold without reserve, comprised a piece of carving by
a contemporary of Gibbons.
</P>

<P>
At Middlemarch in those times a large sale was regarded as a kind of
festival.  There was a table spread with the best cold eatables, as at
a superior funeral; and facilities were offered for that
generous-drinking of cheerful glasses which might lead to generous and
cheerful bidding for undesirable articles.  Mr. Larcher's sale was the
more attractive in the fine weather because the house stood just at the
end of the town, with a garden and stables attached, in that pleasant
issue from Middlemarch called the London Road, which was also the road
to the New Hospital and to Mr. Bulstrode's retired residence, known as
the Shrubs.  In short, the auction was as good as a fair, and drew all
classes with leisure at command: to some, who risked making bids in
order simply to raise prices, it was almost equal to betting at the
races.  The second day, when the best furniture was to be sold,
<said>everybody</said> was there; even Mr. Thesiger, the rector of St. Peter's,
had looked in for a short time, wishing to buy the carved table, and
had rubbed elbows with Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Horrock.  There was a
wreath of Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the large
table in the dining-room, where Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with
desk and hammer; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were
often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the door and the
large bow-window opening on to the lawn.
</P>

<P>
<said>Everybody</said> that day did not include Mr. Bulstrode, whose health could
not well endure crowds and draughts.  But Mrs. Bulstrode had
particularly wished to have a certain picture—a "Supper at Emmaus"
attributed in the catalogue to Guido; and at the last moment before the
day of the sale Mr. Bulstrode had called at the office of the
"Pioneer" of which he was now one of the proprietors, to beg of Mr.
Ladislaw as a great favor that he would obligingly use his remarkable
knowledge of pictures on behalf of Mrs. Bulstrode, and judge of the
value of this particular painting—<said who="#B"> if,</said> added the scrupulously polite
banker, <said who="#B">attendance at the sale would not interfere with the
arrangements for your departure, which I know is imminent.</said>
</P>

<P>
This proviso might have sounded rather satirically in Will's ear if he
had been in a mood to care about such satire.  It referred to an
understanding entered into many weeks before with the proprietors of
the paper, that he should be at liberty any day he pleased to hand over
the management to the subeditor whom he had been training; since he
wished finally to quit Middlemarch. <first> But indefinite visions of ambition
are weak against the ease of doing what is habitual or beguilingly
agreeable; and we all know the difficulty of carrying out a resolve
when we secretly long that it may turn out to be unnecessary. </first> <first> In such
states of mind the most incredulous person has a private leaning
towards miracle: impossible to conceive how our wish could be
fulfilled, still—very wonderful things have happened! </first> Will did not
confess this weakness to himself, but he lingered. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> What was the use of
going to London at that time of the year?  The Rugby men who would
remember him were not there; and so far as political writing was
concerned, he would rather for a few weeks go on with the "Pioneer". </said>
At the present moment, however, when Mr. Bulstrode was speaking to him,
he had both a strengthened resolve to go and an equally strong resolve
not to go till he had once more seen Dorothea.  Hence he replied that
he had reasons for deferring his departure a little, and would be happy
to go to the sale.
</P>

<P>
Will was in a defiant mood, his consciousness being deeply stung with
the thought that the people who looked at him probably knew a fact
tantamount to an accusation against him as a fellow with low designs
which were to be frustrated by a disposal of property.  Like most
people who assert their freedom with regard to conventional
distinction, he was prepared to be sudden and quick at quarrel with any
one who might hint that he had personal reasons for that assertion—that
there was anything in his blood, his bearing, or his character to
which he gave the mask of an opinion.  When he was under an irritating
impression of this kind he would go about for days with a defiant look,
the color changing in his transparent skin as if he were on the <i>qui
vive</i>, watching for something which he had to dart upon.
</P>

<P>
This expression was peculiarly noticeable in him at the sale, and those
who had only seen him in his moods of gentle oddity or of bright
enjoyment would have been struck with a contrast. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> He was not sorry to
have this occasion for appearing in public before the Middlemarch
tribes of Toller, Hackbutt, and the rest, who looked down on him as an
adventurer, and were in a state of brutal ignorance about Dante—who
sneered at his Polish blood, and were themselves of a breed very much
in need of crossing. </said> He stood in a conspicuous place not far from the
auctioneer, with a fore-finger in each side-pocket and his head thrown
backward, not caring to speak to anybody, though he had been cordially
welcomed as a connoiss<emph rend="italics">ure</emph> by Mr. Trumbull, who was enjoying the
utmost activity of his great faculties.
</P>

<P>
And surely among all men whose vocation requires them to exhibit their
powers of speech, the happiest is a prosperous provincial auctioneer
keenly alive to his own jokes and sensible of his encyclopedic
knowledge.  Some saturnine, sour-blooded persons might object to be
constantly insisting on the merits of all articles from boot-jacks to
"Berghems"; but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull had a kindly liquid in his veins;
he was an admirer by nature, and would have liked to have the universe
under his hammer, feeling that it would go at a higher figure for his
recommendation.
</P>

<P>
Meanwhile Mrs. Larcher's drawing-room furniture was enough for him.
When Will Ladislaw had come in, a second fender, said to have been
forgotten in its right place, suddenly claimed the auctioneer's
enthusiasm, which he distributed on the equitable principle of praising
those things most which were most in need of praise.  The fender was of
polished steel, with much lancet-shaped open-work and a sharp edge.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">Now, ladies,</said> said he, <said who="#MrTrumbull">I shall appeal to you.  Here is a fender which
at any other sale would hardly be offered with out reserve, being, as I
may say, for quality of steel and quaintness of design, a kind of
thing</said>—here Mr. Trumbull dropped his voice and became slightly nasal,
trimming his outlines with his left finger—<said who="#MrTrumbull">that might not fall in
with ordinary tastes.  Allow me to tell you that by-and-by this style
of workmanship will be the only one in vogue—half-a-crown, you said?
thank you—going at half-a-crown, this characteristic fender; and I
have particular information that the antique style is very much sought
after in high quarters.  Three shillings—three-and-sixpence—hold it
well up, Joseph!  Look, ladies, at the chastity of the design—I have
no doubt myself that it was turned out in the last century!  Four
shillings, Mr. Mawmsey?—four shillings.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsMawmsey">It's not a thing I would put in <emph rend="italics">my</emph> drawing-room,</said> said Mrs. Mawmsey,
audibly, for the warning of the rash husband.  <said>I wonder <emph rend="italics">at</emph> Mrs.
Larcher.  Every blessed child's head that fell against it would be cut
in two.  The edge is like a knife.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">Quite true,</said> rejoined Mr. Trumbull, quickly, <said who="#MrTrumbull">and most uncommonly
useful to have a fender at hand that will cut, if you have a leather
shoe-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 cut him
down.  Gentlemen, here's a fender that if you had the misfortune to
hang yourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing
celerity—four-and-sixpence—five—five-and-sixpence—an appropriate
thing for a spare bedroom where there was a four-poster and a guest a
little out of his mind—six shillings—thank you, Mr. Clintup—going
at six shillings—going—gone!</said>  The auctioneer's glance, which had
been searching round him with a preternatural susceptibility to all
signs of bidding, here dropped on the paper before him, and his voice
too dropped into a tone of indifferent despatch as he said, <said who="#MrTrumbull">Mr.
Clintup.  Be handy, Joseph.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Clintup"> It was worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell that
joke on,</said> said Mr. Clintup, laughing low and apologetically to his next
neighbor.  He was a diffident though distinguished nurseryman, and
feared that the audience might regard his bid as a foolish one.
</P>

<P>
Meanwhile Joseph had brought a trayful of small articles.  <said who="#MrTrumbull">Now,
ladies,</said> said Mr. Trumbull, taking up one of the articles, <said who="#MrTrumbull">this tray
contains a very recherchy lot—a collection of trifles for the
drawing-room table—and trifles make the sum <emph rend="italics">of</emph> human things—nothing
more important than trifles—(yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes, by-and-by)—but
pass the tray round, Joseph—these bijoux must be examined, ladies.
This I have in my hand is an ingenious contrivance—a sort of
practical rebus, I may call it: here, you see, it looks like an elegant
heart-shaped box, portable—for the pocket; there, again, it becomes
like a splendid double flower—an ornament for the table; and now"—Mr.
Trumbull allowed the flower to fall alarmingly into strings of
heart-shaped leaves—"a book of riddles!  No less than five hundred
printed in a beautiful red.  Gentlemen, if I had less of a conscience,
I should not wish you to bid high for this lot—I have a longing for
it myself.  What can promote innocent mirth, and I may say virtue, more
than a good riddle?—it hinders profane language, and attaches a man to
the society of refined females.  This ingenious article itself, without
the elegant domino-box, card-basket, &amp;c., ought alone to give a high
price to the lot.  Carried in the pocket it might make an individual
welcome in any society.  Four shillings, sir?—four shillings for this
remarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras.  Here is a
sample: 'How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds?
Answer—money.'  You hear?—lady-birds—honey money.  This is an
amusement to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting—it has what we call
satire, and wit without indecency.  Four-and-sixpence—five shillings.</said>
</P>

<P>
The bidding ran on with warming rivalry. <said who="#MM" direct="false" aloud="false"> Mr. Bowyer was a bidder, and
this was too exasperating.  Bowyer couldn't afford it, and only wanted
to hinder every other man from making a figure. </said> The current carried
even Mr. Horrock with it, but this committal of himself to an opinion
fell from him with so little sacrifice of his neutral expression, that
the bid might not have been detected as his but for the friendly oaths
of Mr. Bambridge, who wanted to know what Horrock would do with blasted
stuff only fit for haberdashers given over to that state of perdition
which the horse-dealer so cordially recognized in the majority of
earthly existences.  The lot was finally knocked down at a guinea to
Mr. Spilkins, a young Slender of the neighborhood, who was reckless
with his pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrToller">Come, Trumbull, this is too bad—you've been putting some old maid's
rubbish into the sale,</said> murmured Mr. Toller, getting close to the
auctioneer.  <said who="#MrToller">I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull"><emph rend="italics">Im</emph>mediately, Mr. Toller.  It was only an act of benevolence which
your noble heart would approve.  Joseph! quick with the prints—Lot
235.  Now, gentlemen, you who are connoiss<emph rend="italics">ures</emph>, you are going to have
a treat.  Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by
his staff on the Field of Waterloo; and notwithstanding recent events
which have, as it were, enveloped our great Hero in a cloud, I will be
bold to say—for a man in my line must not be blown about by political
winds—that a finer subject—of the modern order, belonging to our own
time and epoch—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels
might, perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Powderell">Who painted it?</said> said Mr. Powderell, much impressed.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">It is a proof before the letter, Mr. Powderell—the painter is not
known,</said> answered Trumbull, with a certain gaspingness in his last
words, after which he pursed up his lips and stared round him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Powderell">I'll bid a pound!</said> said Mr. Powderell, in a tone of resolved emotion,
as of a man ready to put himself in the breach.  Whether from awe or
pity, nobody raised the price on him.
</P>

<P>
Next came two Dutch prints which Mr. Toller had been eager for, and
after he had secured them he went away.  Other prints, and afterwards
some paintings, were sold to leading Middlemarchers who had come with a
special desire for them, and there was a more active movement of the
audience in and out; some, who had bought what they wanted, going away,
others coming in either quite newly or from a temporary visit to the
refreshments which were spread under the marquee on the lawn.  It was
this marquee that Mr. Bambridge was bent on buying, and he appeared to
like looking inside it frequently, as a foretaste of its possession.
On the last occasion of his return from it he was observed to bring
with him a new companion, a stranger to Mr. Trumbull and every one
else, whose appearance, however, led to the supposition that he might
be a relative of the horse-dealer's—also <said who="#unknown">given to indulgence.</said>  His
large whiskers, imposing swagger, and swing of the leg, made him a
striking figure; but his suit of black, rather shabby at the edges,
caused the prejudicial inference that he was not able to afford himself
as much indulgence as he liked.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Horrock">Who is it you've picked up, Bam?</said> said Mr. Horrock, aside.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Bambridge">Ask him yourself,</said> returned Mr. Bambridge.  <said who="#Bambridge">He said he'd just turned
in from the road.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Horrock eyed the stranger, who was leaning back against his stick
with one hand, using his toothpick with the other, and looking about
him with a certain restlessness apparently under the silence imposed on
him by circumstances.
</P>

<P>
At length the "Supper at Emmaus" was brought forward, to Will's immense
relief, for he was getting so tired of the proceedings that he had
drawn back a little and leaned his shoulder against the wall just
behind the auctioneer.  He now came forward again, and his eye caught
the conspicuous stranger, who, rather to his surprise, was staring at
him markedly.  But Will was immediately appealed to by Mr. Trumbull.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">Yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as a connoiss<emph rend="italics">ure</emph>, I
think.  It is some pleasure,</said> the auctioneer went on with a rising
fervor, <said who="#MrTrumbull">to have a picture like this to show to a company of ladies and
gentlemen—a picture worth any sum to an individual whose means were on
a level with his judgment.  It is a painting of the Italian school—by
the celebrated <i>Guydo</i>, the greatest painter in the world, the chief of
the Old Masters, as they are called—I take it, because they were up
to a thing or two beyond most of us—in possession of secrets now lost
to the bulk of mankind.  Let me tell you, gentlemen, I have seen a
great many pictures by the Old Masters, and they are not all up to this
mark—some of them are darker than you might like and not family
subjects.  But here is a <i>Guydo</i>—the frame alone is worth pounds—which
any lady might be proud to hang up—a suitable thing for what we call a
refectory in a charitable institution, if any gentleman of the
Corporation wished to show his munifi<emph rend="italics">cence</emph>. Turn it a little, sir?
yes.  Joseph, turn it a little towards Mr. Ladislaw—Mr. Ladislaw,
having been abroad, understands the merit of these things, you observe.</said>
</P>

<P>
All eyes were for a moment turned towards Will, who said, coolly, <said who="#Lad">Five
pounds.</said>  The auctioneer burst out in deep remonstrance.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">Ah!  Mr. Ladislaw! the frame alone is worth that.  Ladies and
gentlemen, for the credit of the town!  Suppose it should be discovered
hereafter that a gem of art has been amongst us in this town, and
nobody in Middlemarch awake to it.  Five guineas—five seven-six—five
ten.  Still, ladies, still!  It is a gem, and 'Full many a gem,' as the
poet says, has been allowed to go at a nominal price because the public
knew no better, because it was offered in circles where there was—I
was going to say a low feeling, but no!—Six pounds—six guineas—a
Guydo of the first order going at six guineas—it is an insult to
religion, ladies; it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, that a
subject like this should go at such a low figure—six pounds
ten—seven—</said>
</P>

<P>
The bidding was brisk, and Will continued to share in it, remembering
that Mrs. Bulstrode had a strong wish for the picture, and thinking
that he might stretch the price to twelve pounds.  But it was knocked
down to him at ten guineas, whereupon he pushed his way towards the
bow-window and went out.  He chose to go under the marquee to get a
glass of water, being hot and thirsty: it was empty of other visitors,
and he asked the woman in attendance to fetch him some fresh water; but
before she was well gone he was annoyed to see entering the florid
stranger who had stared at him.  It struck Will at this moment that the
man might be one of those political parasitic insects of the bloated
kind who had once or twice claimed acquaintance with him as having
heard him speak on the Reform question, and who might think of getting
a shilling by news. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> In this light his person, already rather heating
to behold on a summer's day, appeared the more disagreeable;</said> and Will,
half-seated on the elbow of a garden-chair, turned his eyes carefully
away from the comer. <second> But this signified little to our acquaintance Mr.
Raffles, who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling
observation, if it suited his purpose to do so. </second> He moved a step or two
till he was in front of Will, and said with full-mouthed haste, <said who="#Raffles">Excuse
me, Mr. Ladislaw—was your mother's name Sarah Dunkirk?</said>
</P>

<P>
Will, starting to his feet, moved backward a step, frowning, and saying
with some fierceness, <said who="#Lad">Yes, sir, it was.  And what is that to you?</said>
</P>

<P>
It was in Will's nature that the first spark it threw out was a direct
answer of the question and a challenge of the consequences.  To have
said, <said who="#Lad">What is that to you?</said> in the first instance, would have seemed
like shuffling—as if he minded who knew anything about his origin!
</P>

<P>
Raffles on his side had not the same eagerness for a collision which
was implied in Ladislaw's threatening air. <said who="#Raffles" direct="false" aloud="false"> The slim young fellow with
his girl's complexion looked like a tiger-cat ready to spring on him. </said>
Under such circumstances Mr. Raffles's pleasure in annoying his company
was kept in abeyance.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Raffles">No offence, my good sir, no offence!  I only remember your mother—knew
her when she was a girl.  But it is your father that you feature,
sir.  I had the pleasure of seeing your father too.  Parents alive, Mr.
Ladislaw?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">No!</said> thundered Will, in the same attitude as before.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Raffles">Should be glad to do you a service, Mr. Ladislaw—by Jove, I should!
Hope to meet again.</said>
</P>

<P>
Hereupon Raffles, who had lifted his hat with the last words, turned
himself round with a swing of his leg and walked away.  Will looked
after him a moment, and could see that he did not re-enter the
auction-room, but appeared to be walking towards the road. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> For an
instant he thought that he had been foolish not to let the man go on
talking;—but no! on the whole he preferred doing without knowledge
from that source. </said>
</P>

<P>
Later in the evening, however, Raffles overtook him in the street, and
appearing either to have forgotten the roughness of his former
reception or to intend avenging it by a forgiving familiarity, greeted
him jovially and walked by his side, remarking at first on the
pleasantness of the town and neighborhood.  Will suspected that the man
had been drinking and was considering how to shake him off when Raffles
said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Raffles">I've been abroad myself, Mr. Ladislaw—I've seen the world—used to
parley-vous a little.  It was at Boulogne I saw your father—a most
uncommon likeness you are of him, by Jove! mouth—nose—eyes—hair
turned off your brow just like his—a little in the foreign style.
John Bull doesn't do much of that.  But your father was very ill when I
saw him.  Lord, lord! hands you might see through.  You were a small
youngster then.  Did he get well?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">No,</said> said Will, curtly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Raffles">Ah!  Well!  I've often wondered what became of your mother.  She ran
away from her friends when she was a young lass—a proud-spirited
lass, and pretty, by Jove!  I knew the reason why she ran away,</said> said
Raffles, winking slowly as he looked sideways at Will.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">You know nothing dishonorable of her, sir,</said> said Will, turning on him
rather savagely.  But Mr. Raffles just now was not sensitive to shades
of manner.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Raffles">Not a bit!</said> said he, tossing his head decisively. <said who="#Raffles">She was a little too
honorable to like her friends—that was it!</said>  Here Raffles again winked
slowly.  <said who="#Raffles">Lord bless you, I knew all about 'em—a little in what you
may call the respectable thieving line—the high style of
receiving-house—none of your holes and corners—first-rate. Slap-up
shop, high profits and no mistake.  But Lord!  Sarah would have known
nothing about it—a dashing young lady she was—fine
boarding-school—fit for a lord's wife—only Archie Duncan threw it at
her out of spite, because she would have nothing to do with him.  And
so she ran away from the whole concern.  I travelled for 'em, sir, in a
gentlemanly way—at a high salary.  They didn't mind her running away
at first—godly folks, sir, very godly—and she was for the stage.  The
son was alive then, and the daughter was at a discount.  Hallo! here we
are at the Blue Bull.  What do you say, Mr. Ladislaw?—shall we turn in
and have a glass?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">No, I must say good evening,</said> said Will, dashing up a passage which
led into Lowick Gate, and almost running to get out of Raffles's reach.
</P>

<P>
He walked a long while on the Lowick road away from the town, glad of
the starlit darkness when it came.  He felt as if he had had dirt cast
on him amidst shouts of scorn. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> There was this to confirm the fellow's
statement—that his mother never would tell him the reason why she had
run away from her family. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> Well! what was he, Will Ladislaw, the worse, supposing the truth about
that family to be the ugliest?  His mother had braved hardship in order
to separate herself from it.  But if Dorothea's friends had known this
story—if the Chettams had known it—they would have had a fine color
to give their suspicions a welcome ground for thinking him unfit to
come near her.  However, let them suspect what they pleased, they would
find themselves in the wrong.  They would find out that the blood in
his veins was as free from the taint of meanness as theirs. </said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="61"><head>CHAPTER LXI.</head>

<P CLASS="intro">
<said>Inconsistencies,</said> answered Imlac, <said>cannot both be right,
but imputed to man they may both be true."—Rasselas.
</P>

<BR/>

<P>
The same night, when Mr. Bulstrode returned from a journey to Brassing
on business, his good wife met him in the entrance-hall and drew him
into his private sitting-room.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsB"> Nicholas,</said> she said, fixing her honest eyes upon him anxiously, <said who="#MrsB">there
has been such a disagreeable man here asking for you—it has made me
quite uncomfortable.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">What kind of man, my dear,</said> said Mr. Bulstrode, dreadfully certain of
the answer.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsB">A red-faced man with large whiskers, and most impudent in his manner.
He declared he was an old friend of yours, and said you would be sorry
not to see him.  He wanted to wait for you here, but I told him he
could see you at the Bank to-morrow morning.  Most impudent he
was!—stared at me, and said his friend Nick had luck in wives.  I
don't believe he would have gone away, if Blucher had not happened 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 is very fierce, and I
can't hold him.'  Do you really know anything of such a man?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I believe I know who he is, my dear,</said> said Mr. Bulstrode, in his usual
subdued voice, <said who="#B">an unfortunate dissolute wretch, whom I helped too much
in days gone by.  However, I presume you will not be troubled by him
again.  He will probably come to the Bank—to beg, doubtless.</said>
</P>

<P>
No more was said on the subject until the next day, when Mr. Bulstrode
had returned from the town and was dressing for dinner.  His wife, not
sure that he was come home, looked into his dressing-room and saw him
with his coat and cravat off, leaning one arm on a chest of drawers and
staring absently at the ground.  He started nervously and looked up as
she entered.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsB">You look very ill, Nicholas.  Is there anything the matter?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I have a good deal of pain in my head,</said> said Mr. Bulstrode, who was so
frequently ailing that his wife was always ready to believe in this
cause of depression.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsB">Sit down and let me sponge it with vinegar.</said>
</P>

<P>
Physically Mr. Bulstrode did not want the vinegar, but morally the
affectionate attention soothed him.  Though always polite, it was his
habit to receive such services with marital coolness, as his wife's
duty.  But to-day, while she was bending over him, he said, <said who="#B">You are
very good, Harriet,</said> in a tone which had something new in it to her
ear; she did not know exactly what the novelty was, but her woman's
solicitude shaped itself into a darting thought that he might be going
to have an illness.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsB">Has anything worried you?</said> she said.  <said who="#MrsB">Did that man come to you at the
Bank?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Yes; it was as I had supposed.  He is a man who at one time might have
done better.  But he has sunk into a drunken debauched creature.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsB">Is he quite gone away?</said> said Mrs. Bulstrode, anxiously; but for certain
reasons she refrained from adding, <said who="#MrsB">It was very disagreeable to hear
him calling himself a friend of yours.</said>  At that moment she would not
have liked to say anything which implied her habitual consciousness
that her husband's earlier connections were not quite on a level with
her own. <said who="#MrsB" direct="false" aloud="false"> Not that she knew much about them.  That her husband had at
first been employed in a bank, that he had afterwards entered into what
he called city business and gained a fortune before he was
three-and-thirty, that he had married a widow who was much older than
himself—a Dissenter, and in other ways probably of that
disadvantageous quality usually perceptible in a first wife if inquired
into with the dispassionate judgment of a second—was almost as much as
she had cared to learn beyond the glimpses which Mr. Bulstrode's
narrative occasionally gave of his early bent towards religion, his
inclination to be a preacher, and his association with missionary and
philanthropic efforts. </said> She believed in him as an excellent man whose
piety carried a peculiar eminence in belonging to a layman, whose
influence had turned her own mind toward seriousness, and whose share
of perishable good had been the means of raising her own position.  But
she also liked to think that it was well in every sense for Mr.
Bulstrode to have won the hand of Harriet Vincy;<said who="#MrsB" direct="false" aloud="false"> whose family was
undeniable in a Middlemarch light—a better light surely than any
thrown in London thoroughfares or dissenting chapel-yards. </FI> The
unreformed provincial mind distrusted London; and while true religion
was everywhere saving, honest Mrs. Bulstrode was convinced that to be
saved in the Church was more respectable.  She so much wished to ignore
towards others that her husband had ever been a London Dissenter, that
she liked to keep it out of sight even in talking to him.  He was quite
aware of this; <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> indeed in some respects he was rather afraid of this
ingenuous wife, whose imitative piety and native worldliness were
equally sincere, who had nothing to be ashamed of, and whom he had
married out of a thorough inclination still subsisting.  But his fears
were such as belong to a man who cares to maintain his recognized
supremacy: the loss of high consideration from his wife, as from every
one else who did not clearly hate him out of enmity to the truth, would
be as the beginning of death to him. </said>  When she said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsB">Is he quite gone away?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Oh, I trust so,</said> he answered, with an effort to throw as much sober
unconcern into his tone as possible!
</P>

<P>
But in truth Mr. Bulstrode was very far from a state of quiet trust.
In the interview at the Bank, Raffles had made it evident that his
eagerness to torment was almost as strong in him as any other greed.
He had frankly said that he had turned out of the way to come to
Middlemarch, just to look about him and see whether the neighborhood
would suit him to live in. <said who="#Raffles" direct="false" aloud="false">  He had certainly had a few debts to pay
more than he expected, but the two hundred pounds were not gone yet: a
cool five-and-twenty would suffice him to go away with for the present.
What he had wanted chiefly was to see his friend Nick and family, and
know all about the prosperity of a man to whom he was so much attached.
By-and-by he might come back for a longer stay. </said>  This time Raffles
declined to be <said who="#Raffles">seen off the premises,</said> as he expressed it—declined to
quit Middlemarch under Bulstrode's eyes. <said who="#Raffles" direct="false" aloud="false">  He meant to go by coach the
next day—if he chose. </said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode felt himself helpless. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> Neither threats nor coaxing could
avail: he could not count on any persistent fear nor on any promise.
On the contrary, he felt a cold certainty at his heart that
Raffles—unless providence sent death to hinder him—would come back
to Middlemarch before long.  And that certainty was a terror. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> It was not that he was in danger of legal punishment or of beggary: he
was in danger only of seeing disclosed to the judgment of his neighbors
and the mournful perception of his wife certain facts of his past life
which would render him an object of scorn and an opprobrium of the
religion with which he had diligently associated himself. The terror
of being judged sharpens the memory: it sends an inevitable glare over
that long-unvisited past which has been habitually recalled only in
general phrases.  Even without memory, the life is bound into one by a
zone of dependence in growth and decay; but intense memory forces a man
to own his blameworthy past.  With memory set smarting like a reopened
wound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outworn
preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose
from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing
shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> Into this second life Bulstrode's past had now risen, only the
pleasures of it seeming to have lost their quality. </said> <first> Night and day,
without interruption save of brief sleep which only wove retrospect and
fear into a fantastic present, he felt the scenes of his earlier life
coming between him and everything else, as obstinately as when we look
through the window from a lighted room, the objects we turn our backs
on are still before us, instead of the grass and the trees. </first>The
successive events inward and outward were there in one view: though
each might be dwelt on in turn, the rest still kept their hold in the
consciousness.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> Once more he saw himself the young banker's clerk, with an agreeable
person, as clever in figures as he was fluent in speech and fond of
theological definition: an eminent though young member of a Calvinistic
dissenting church at Highbury, having had striking experience in
conviction of sin and sense of pardon.  Again he heard himself called
for as Brother Bulstrode in prayer meetings, speaking on religious
platforms, preaching in private houses.  Again he felt himself thinking
of the ministry as possibly his vocation, and inclined towards
missionary labor.  That was the happiest time of his life: that was the
spot he would have chosen now to awake in and find the rest a dream.
The people among whom Brother Bulstrode was distinguished were very
few, but they were very near to him, and stirred his satisfaction the
more; his power stretched through a narrow space, but he felt its
effect the more intensely. </said>  He believed without effort in the peculiar
work of grace within him, and in the signs that God intended him for
special instrumentality.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">Then came the moment of transition; it was with the sense of promotion
he had when he, an orphan educated at a commercial charity-school, was
invited to a fine villa belonging to Mr. Dunkirk, the richest man in
the congregation.  Soon he became an intimate there, honored for his
piety by the wife, marked out for his ability by the husband, whose
wealth was due to a flourishing city and west-end trade.  That was the
setting-in of a new current for his ambition, directing his prospects
of "instrumentality" towards the uniting of distinguished religious
gifts with successful business. </said>
</P>

<P>
By-and-by came a decided external leading: a confidential subordinate
partner died, and nobody seemed to the principal so well fitted to fill
the severely felt vacancy as his young friend Bulstrode, if he would
become confidential accountant.  The offer was accepted. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">  The business
was a pawnbroker's, of the most magnificent sort both in extent and
profits; and on a short acquaintance with it Bulstrode became aware
that one source of magnificent profit was the easy reception of any
goods offered, without strict inquiry as to where they came from.  But
there was a branch house at the west end, and no pettiness or dinginess
to give suggestions of shame. </said>
</P>

<P>
He remembered his first moments of shrinking.  They were private, and
were filled with arguments; some of these taking the form of prayer.
<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> The business was established and had old roots; is it not one thing to
set up a new gin-palace and another to accept an investment in an old
one?  The profits made out of lost souls—where can the line be drawn
at which they begin in human transactions?  Was it not even God's way
of saving His chosen? </said>  <said who="#B">Thou knowest,</said>—the young Bulstrode had said
then, as the older Bulstrode was saying now—<said who="#B"> Thou knowest how loose
my soul sits from these things—how I view them all as implements for
tilling Thy garden rescued here and there from the wilderness.</said>
</P>

<P>
Metaphors and precedents were not wanting; peculiar spiritual
experiences were not wanting which at last made the retention of his
position seem a service demanded of him: the vista of a fortune had
already opened itself, and 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 scheme of
salvation.  And it was true that Bulstrode found himself carrying on
two distinct lives; his religious activity could not be incompatible
with his business as soon as he had argued himself into not feeling it
incompatible.
</P>

<P>
Mentally surrounded with that past again, Bulstrode had the same
pleas—indeed, the years had been perpetually spinning them into
intricate thickness, like masses of spider-web, padding the moral
sensibility; nay, as age made egoism more eager but less enjoying, his
soul had become more saturated with the belief that he did everything
for God's sake, being indifferent to it for his own. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">  And yet—if he
could be back in that far-off spot with his youthful poverty—why, then
he would choose to be a missionary. </said>
</P>

<P>
But the train of causes in which he had locked himself went on.  There
was trouble in the fine villa at Highbury.  Years before, the only
daughter had run away, defied her parents, and gone on the stage; and
now the only boy died, and after a short time Mr. Dunkirk died also.
The wife, a simple pious woman, left with all the wealth in and out of
the magnificent trade, of which she never knew the precise nature, had
come to believe in Bulstrode, and innocently adore him as women often
adore their priest or <said>man-made</said> minister. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">  It was natural that after a
time marriage should have been thought of between them.</said>  <said who="#MrsDunkirk" direct="false" aloud="false">  But Mrs.
Dunkirk had qualms and yearnings about her daughter, who had long been
regarded as lost both to God and her parents.  It was known that the
daughter had married, but she was utterly gone out of sight.  The
mother, having lost her boy, imagined a grandson, and wished in a
double sense to reclaim her daughter.  If she were found, there 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 marry again.  Bulstrode concurred; but after
advertisement as well as other modes of inquiry had been tried, the
mother believed that her daughter was not to be found, and consented to
marry without reservation of property. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> The daughter had been found; but only one man besides Bulstrode knew
it, and he was paid for keeping silence and carrying himself away. </said>
</P>

<P>
That was the bare fact which Bulstrode was now forced to see in the
rigid outline with which acts present themselves to onlookers.  But for
himself at that distant time, and even now in burning memory, the fact
was broken into little sequences, each justified as it came by
reasonings which seemed to prove it righteous.  Bulstrode's course up
to that time had, he thought, been sanctioned by remarkable
providences, appearing to point the way for him to be the agent in
making the best use of a large property and withdrawing it from
perversion.<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">   Death and other striking dispositions, such as feminine
trustfulness, had come; and Bulstrode would have adopted Cromwell's
words— <said who="#Crommwell"> Do you call these bare events?  The Lord pity you! </said> The
events were comparatively small, but the essential condition was
there—namely, that they were in favor of his own ends.  It was easy
for him to settle what was due from him to others by inquiring what
were God's intentions with regard to himself.  Could it be for God's
service that this fortune should in any considerable proportion go to a
young woman and her husband who were given up to the lightest pursuits,
and might scatter it abroad in triviality—people who seemed to lie
outside the path of remarkable providences? </said>  Bulstrode had never said
to himself beforehand, <said who="#B">The daughter shall not be found</said>—nevertheless
when the moment came he kept her existence hidden; and when other
moments followed, he soothed the mother with consolation in the
probability that the unhappy young woman might be no more.
</P>

<P>
There were hours in which Bulstrode felt that his action was
unrighteous; <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> but how could he go back? </said>  He had mental exercises, called
himself nought, laid hold on redemption, and went on in his course of
instrumentality.  And after five years Death again came to widen his
path, by taking away his wife.  He did gradually withdraw his capital,
but he did not make the sacrifices requisite to put an end to the
business, which was carried on for thirteen years afterwards before it
finally collapsed.  Meanwhile Nicholas Bulstrode had used his hundred
thousand discreetly, and was become provincially, solidly important—a
banker, a Churchman, a public benefactor; also a sleeping partner in
trading concerns, in which his ability was directed to economy in the
raw material, as in the case of the dyes which rotted Mr. Vincy's silk.
And now, when this respectability had lasted undisturbed for nearly
thirty years—when all that preceded it had long lain benumbed in the
consciousness—that past had risen and immersed his thought as if with
the terrible irruption of a new sense overburthening the feeble being.
</P>

<P>
Meanwhile, in his conversation with Raffles, he had learned something
momentous, something which entered actively into the struggle of his
longings and terrors.  There, he thought, lay an opening towards
spiritual, perhaps towards material rescue.
</P>

<P>
The spiritual kind of rescue was a genuine need with him.  There may be
coarse hypocrites, who consciously affect beliefs and emotions for the
sake of gulling the world, but Bulstrode was not one of them.  He was
simply a man whose desires had been stronger than his theoretic
beliefs, and who had gradually explained the gratification of his
desires into satisfactory agreement with those beliefs. <first> If this be
hypocrisy, it is a process which shows itself occasionally in us all,
to whatever confession we belong, and whether we believe in the future
perfection of our race or in the nearest date fixed for the end of the
world; whether we regard the earth as a putrefying nidus for a saved
remnant, including ourselves, or have a passionate belief in the
solidarity of mankind. </first>
</P>

<P>
The service he could do to the cause of religion had been through life
the ground he alleged to himself for his choice of action: it had been
the motive which he had poured out in his prayers. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">  Who would use money
and position better than he meant to use them?  Who could surpass him
in self-abhorrence and exaltation of God's cause?  And to Mr. Bulstrode
God's cause was something distinct from his own rectitude of conduct:
it enforced a discrimination of God's enemies, who were to be used
merely as instruments, and whom it would be as well if possible to keep
out of money and consequent influence.  Also, profitable investments in
trades where the power of the prince of this world showed its most
active devices, became sanctified by a right application of the profits
in the hands of God's servant. </said>
</P>

<P>
This implicit reasoning is essentially no more peculiar to evangelical
belief than the use of wide phrases for narrow motives is peculiar to
Englishmen. <first> There is no general doctrine which is not capable of
eating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of direct
fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men. </first>
</P>

<P>
But a man who believes in something else than his own greed, has
necessarily a conscience or standard to which he more or less adapts
himself.  Bulstrode's standard had been his serviceableness to God's
cause: <said who="#B"> I am sinful and nought—a vessel to be consecrated by use—but
use me! </said> —had been the mould into which he had constrained his immense
need of being something important and predominating. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">  And now had come
a moment in which that mould seemed in danger of being broken and
utterly cast away. </said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> What if the acts he had reconciled himself to because they made him a
stronger instrument of the divine glory, were to become the pretext of
the scoffer, and a darkening of that glory?  If this were to be the
ruling of Providence, he was cast out from the temple as one who had
brought unclean offerings. </said>
</P>

<P>
He had long poured out utterances of repentance. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">  But today a
repentance had come which was of a bitterer flavor, and a threatening
Providence urged him to a kind of propitiation which was not simply a
doctrinal transaction.  The divine tribunal had changed its aspect for
him; self-prostration was no longer enough, and he must bring
restitution in his hand.  It was really before his God that Bulstrode
was about to attempt such restitution as seemed possible: a great dread
had seized his susceptible frame, and the scorching approach of shame
wrought in him a new spiritual need. </said>  Night and day, while the
resurgent threatening past was making a conscience within him, he was
thinking by what means he could recover peace and trust—by what
sacrifice he could stay the rod.  His belief in these moments of dread
was, that if he spontaneously did something right, God would save him
from the consequences of wrong-doing. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false">  For religion can only change when
the emotions which fill it are changed; and the religion of personal
fear remains nearly at the level of the savage. </said>
</P>

<P>
He had seen Raffles actually going away on the Brassing coach, and this
was a temporary relief; it removed the pressure of an immediate dread,
but did not put an end to the spiritual conflict and the need to win
protection.  At last he came to a difficult resolve, and wrote a letter
to Will Ladislaw, begging him to be at the Shrubs that evening for a
private interview at nine o'clock. Will had felt no particular surprise
at the request, and connected it with some new notions about the
"Pioneer"; but when he was shown into Mr. Bulstrode's private room, he
was struck with the painfully worn look on the banker's face, and was
going to say, <said who="#Lad"> Are you ill?</said> when, checking himself in that abruptness,
he only inquired after Mrs. Bulstrode, and her satisfaction with the
picture bought for her.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Thank you, she is quite satisfied; she has gone out with her daughters
this evening.  I begged you to come, Mr. Ladislaw, because I have a
communication of a very private—indeed, I will say, of a sacredly
confidential nature, which I desire to make to you.  Nothing, I dare
say, has been farther from your thoughts than that there had been
important ties in the past which could connect your history with mine.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will felt something like an electric shock.  He was already in a state
of keen sensitiveness and hardly allayed agitation on the subject of
ties in the past, and his presentiments were not agreeable. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false">  It seemed
like the fluctuations of a dream—as if the action begun by that loud
bloated stranger were being carried on by this pale-eyed sickly looking
piece of respectability, whose subdued tone and glib formality of
speech were at this moment almost as repulsive to him as their
remembered contrast. </said> He answered, with a marked change of color—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">No, indeed, nothing.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You see before you, Mr. Ladislaw, a man who is deeply stricken.  But
for the urgency of conscience and the knowledge that I am before the
bar of One who seeth not as man seeth, I should be under no compulsion
to make the disclosure which has been my object in asking you to come
here to-night. So far as human laws go, you have no claim on me
whatever.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will was even more uncomfortable than wondering.  Mr. Bulstrode had
paused, leaning his head on his hand, and looking at the floor.  But he
now fixed his examining glance on Will and said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I am told that your mother's name was Sarah Dunkirk, and that she ran
away from her friends to go on the stage.  Also, that your father was
at one time much emaciated by illness.  May I ask if you can confirm
these statements?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Yes, they are all true,</said> said Will, struck with the order in which an
inquiry had come, that might have been expected to be preliminary to
the banker's previous hints.  But Mr. Bulstrode had to-night followed
the order of his emotions; he entertained no doubt that the opportunity
for restitution had come, and he had an overpowering impulse towards
the penitential expression by which he was deprecating chastisement.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Do you know any particulars of your mother's family?</said> he continued.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">No; she never liked to speak of them.  She was a very generous,
honorable woman,</said> said Will, almost angrily.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I do not wish to allege anything against her.  Did she never mention
her mother to you at all?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I have heard her say that she thought her mother did not know the
reason of her running away.  She said 'poor mother' in a pitying tone.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">That mother became my wife,</said> said Bulstrode, and then paused a moment
before he added, <said who="#B">you have a claim on me, Mr. Ladislaw: as I said
before, not a legal claim, but one which my conscience recognizes.  I
was enriched by that marriage—a result which would probably not have
taken place—certainly not to the same extent—if your grandmother
could have discovered her daughter.  That daughter, I gather, is no
longer living!</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">No,</said> said Will, feeling suspicion and repugnance rising so strongly
within him, that without quite knowing what he did, he took his hat
from the floor and stood up.  The impulse within him was to reject the
disclosed connection.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Pray be seated, Mr. Ladislaw,</said> said Bulstrode, anxiously.  <said who="#B">Doubtless
you are startled by the suddenness of this discovery.  But I entreat
your patience with one who is already bowed down by inward trial.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will reseated himself, feeling some pity which was half contempt for
this voluntary self-abasement of an elderly man.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">It is my wish, Mr. Ladislaw, to make amends for the deprivation which
befell your mother.  I know that you are without fortune, and I wish to
supply you adequately from a store which would have probably already
been yours had your grandmother been certain of your mother's existence
and been able to find her.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Bulstrode paused.  He felt that he was performing a striking piece
of scrupulosity in the judgment of his auditor, and a penitential act
in the eyes of God.  He had no clue to the state of Will Ladislaw's
mind, smarting as it was from the clear hints of Raffles, and with its
natural quickness in construction stimulated by the expectation of
discoveries which he would have been glad to conjure back into
darkness.  Will made no answer for several moments, till Mr. Bulstrode,
who at the end of his speech had cast his eyes on the floor, now raised
them with an examining glance, which Will met fully, saying—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I suppose you did know of my mother's existence, and knew where she
might have been found.</said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode shrank—there was a visible quivering in his face and hands.
He was totally unprepared to have his advances met in this way, or to
find himself urged into more revelation than he had beforehand set down
as needful.  But at that moment he dared not tell a lie, and he felt
suddenly uncertain of his ground which he had trodden with some
confidence before.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I will not deny that you conjecture rightly,</said> he answered, with a
faltering in his tone.  <said who="#B">And I wish to make atonement to you as the one
still remaining who has suffered a loss through me.  You enter, I
trust, into my purpose, Mr. Ladislaw, which has a reference to higher
than merely human claims, and as I have already said, is entirely
independent of any legal compulsion.  I am ready to narrow my own
resources and the prospects of my family by binding myself to allow you
five hundred pounds yearly during my life, and to leave you a
proportional capital at my death—nay, to do still more, if more should
be definitely necessary to any laudable project on your part.</said>  Mr.
Bulstrode had gone on to particulars in the expectation that these
would work strongly on Ladislaw, and merge other feelings in grateful
acceptance. </said>
</P>

<P>
But Will was looking as stubborn as possible, with his lip pouting and
his fingers in his side-pockets. He was not in the least touched, and
said firmly,—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Before I make any reply to your proposition, Mr. Bulstrode, I must beg
you to answer a question or two.  Were you connected with the business
by which that fortune you speak of was originally made?</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Bulstrode's thought was, <said who="#B">Raffles has told him.</said>  How could he
refuse to answer when he had volunteered what drew forth the question?
He answered, <said who="#B">Yes.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">And was that business—or was it not—a thoroughly dishonorable
one—nay, one that, if its nature had been made public, might have
ranked those concerned in it with thieves and convicts?</said>
</P>

<P>
Will's tone had a cutting bitterness: he was moved to put his question
as nakedly as he could.
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode reddened with irrepressible anger.  He had been prepared for
a scene of self-abasement, but his intense pride and his habit of
supremacy overpowered penitence, and even dread, when this young man,
whom he had meant to benefit, turned on him with the air of a judge.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">The business was established before I became connected with it, sir;
nor is it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind,</said> he answered,
not raising his voice, but speaking with quick defiantness.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Yes, it is,</said> said Will, starting up again with his hat in his hand.
<said who="#Lad">It is eminently mine to ask such questions, when I have to decide
whether I will have transactions with you and accept your money.  My
unblemished honor is important to me.  It is important to me to have no
stain on my birth and connections.  And now I find there is a stain
which I can't help.  My mother felt it, and tried to keep as clear of
it as she could, and so will I.  You shall keep your ill-gotten money.
If I had any fortune of my own, I would willingly pay it to any one who
could disprove what you have told me.  What I have to thank you for is
that you kept the money till now, when I can refuse it.  It ought to
lie with a man's self that he is a gentleman.  Good-night, sir.</said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode was going to speak, but Will, with determined quickness, was
out of the room in an instant, and in another the hall-door had closed
behind him.  He was too strongly possessed with passionate rebellion
against this inherited blot which had been thrust on his knowledge to
reflect at present whether he had not been too hard on Bulstrode—too
arrogantly merciless towards a man of sixty, who was making efforts at
retrieval when time had rendered them vain.
</P>

<P>
No third person listening could have thoroughly understood the
impetuosity of Will's repulse or the bitterness of his words.  No one
but himself then knew how everything connected with the sentiment of
his own dignity had an immediate bearing for him on his relation to
Dorothea and to Mr. Casaubon's treatment of him.  And in the rush of
impulses by which he flung back that offer of Bulstrode's there was
mingled the sense that it would have been impossible for him ever to
tell Dorothea that he had accepted it.
</P>

<P>
As for Bulstrode—when Will was gone he suffered a violent reaction,
and wept like a woman. It was the first time he had encountered an
open expression of scorn from any man higher than Raffles; and with
that scorn hurrying like venom through his system, there was no
sensibility left to consolations. <said who="#B" direct="false" aloud="false"> But the relief of weeping had to be
checked.  His wife and daughters soon came home from hearing the
address of an Oriental missionary, and were full of regret that papa
had not heard, in the first instance, the interesting things which they
tried to repeat to him. </said>
</P>

<P>
Perhaps, through all other hidden thoughts, the one that breathed most
comfort was, that Will Ladislaw at least was not likely to publish what
had taken place that evening.
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="62"><head>CHAPTER LXII.</head>

<epigraph>
         He was a squyer of lowe degre,<BR/>
         That loved the king's daughter of Hungrie.
                                        —Old Romance.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Will Ladislaw's mind was now wholly bent on seeing Dorothea again, and
forthwith quitting Middlemarch.  The morning after his agitating scene
with Bulstrode he wrote a brief letter to her, saying that various
causes had detained him in the neighborhood longer than he had
expected, and asking her permission to call again at Lowick at some
hour which she would mention on the earliest possible day, he being
anxious to depart, but unwilling to do so until she had granted him an
interview.  He left the letter at the office, ordering the messenger to
carry it to Lowick Manor, and wait for an answer.
</P>

<P>
Ladislaw felt the awkwardness of asking for more last words.  His
former farewell had been made in the hearing of Sir James Chettam, and
had been announced as final even to the butler. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> It is certainly trying
to a man's dignity to reappear when he is not expected to do so: a
first farewell has pathos in it, but to come back for a second lends an
opening to comedy, and it was possible even that there might be bitter
sneers afloat about Will's motives for lingering.  Still it was on the
whole more satisfactory to his feeling to take the directest means of
seeing Dorothea, than to use any device which might give an air of
chance to a meeting of which he wished her to understand that it was
what he earnestly sought.  When he had parted from her before, he had
been in ignorance of facts which gave a new aspect to the relation
between them, and made a more absolute severance than he had then
believed in. </said> He knew nothing of Dorothea's private fortune, and being
little used to reflect on such matters, took it for granted that
according to Mr. Casaubon's arrangement marriage to him, Will Ladislaw,
would mean that she consented to be penniless. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> That was not what he
could wish for even in his secret heart, or even if she had been ready
to meet such hard contrast for his sake.  And then, too, there was the
fresh smart of that disclosure about his mother's family, which if
known would be an added reason why Dorothea's friends should look down
upon him as utterly below her.  The secret hope that after some years
he might come back with the sense that he had at least a personal value
equal to her wealth, seemed now the dreamy continuation of a dream.
This change would surely justify him in asking Dorothea to receive him
once more. </said>
</P>

<P>
But Dorothea on that morning was not at home to receive Will's note.
In consequence of a letter from her uncle announcing his intention to
be at home in a week, she had driven first to Freshitt to carry the
news, meaning to go on to the Grange to deliver some orders with which
her uncle had intrusted her—thinking, as he said, <said who="#MB">a little mental
occupation of this sort good for a widow.</said>
</P>

<P>
If Will Ladislaw could have overheard some of the talk at Freshitt that
morning, he would have felt all his suppositions confirmed as to the
readiness of certain people to sneer at his lingering in the
neighborhood.  Sir James, indeed, though much relieved concerning
Dorothea, had been on the watch to learn Ladislaw's movements, and had
an instructed informant in Mr. Standish, who was necessarily in his
confidence on this matter.  That Ladislaw had stayed in Middlemarch
nearly two months after he had declared that he was going immediately,
was a fact to embitter Sir James's suspicions, or at least to justify
his aversion to a <said who="#JC">young fellow</said> whom he represented to himself as
slight, volatile, and likely enough to show such recklessness as
naturally went along with a position unriveted by family ties or a
strict profession.  But he had just heard something from Standish
which, while it justified these surmises about Will, offered a means of
nullifying all danger with regard to Dorothea.
</P>

<P>
<first> Unwonted circumstances may make us all rather unlike ourselves: there
are conditions under which the most majestic person is obliged to
sneeze, and our emotions are liable to be acted on in the same
incongruous manner. </first> Good Sir James was this morning so far unlike
himself that he was irritably anxious to say something to Dorothea on a
subject which he usually avoided as if it had been a matter of shame to
them both.  He could not use Celia as a medium, because he did not
choose that she should know the kind of gossip he had in his mind; and
before Dorothea happened to arrive he had been trying to imagine how,
with his shyness and unready tongue, he could ever manage to introduce
his communication. <said who="#JC" direct="false" aloud="false"> Her unexpected presence brought him to utter
hopelessness in his own power of saying anything unpleasant; but
desperation suggested a resource; </said>he sent the groom on an unsaddled
horse across the park with a pencilled note to Mrs. Cadwallader, who
already knew the gossip, and would think it no compromise of herself to
repeat it as often as required.
</P>

<P>
Dorothea was detained on the good pretext that Mr. Garth, whom she
wanted to see, was expected at the hall within the hour, and she was
still talking to Caleb on the gravel when Sir James, on the watch for
the rector's wife, saw her coming and met her with the needful hints.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad">Enough!  I understand,</said>—said Mrs. Cadwallader.  <said who="#MrsCad"> You shall be
innocent.  I am such a blackamoor that I cannot smirch myself.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#JC">I don't mean that it's of any consequence,</said> said Sir James, disliking
that Mrs. Cadwallader should understand too much.  <said who="#JC">Only it is
desirable that Dorothea should know there are reasons why she should
not receive him again; and I really can't say so to her.  It will come
lightly from you.</said>
</P>

<P>
It came very lightly indeed.  When Dorothea quitted Caleb and turned to
meet them, it appeared that Mrs. Cadwallader had stepped across the
park by the merest chance in the world, just to chat with Celia in a
matronly way about the baby. <said who="#MrsCad" direct="false" aloud="false"> And so Mr. Brooke was coming back?
Delightful!—coming back, it was to be hoped, quite cured of
Parliamentary fever and pioneering.  Apropos of the "Pioneer"—somebody
had prophesied that it would soon be like a dying dolphin, and turn all
colors for want of knowing how to help itself, because Mr. Brooke's
protege, the brilliant young Ladislaw, was gone or going.  Had Sir
James heard that? </said>
</P>

<P>
The three were walking along the gravel slowly, and Sir James, turning
aside to whip a shrub, said he had heard something of that sort.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsCad"> All false!</said> said Mrs. Cadwallader.  <said who="#MrsCad">He is not gone, or going,
apparently; the 'Pioneer' keeps its color, and Mr. Orlando Ladislaw is
making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continually with your Mr.
Lydgate's wife, who they tell me is as pretty as pretty can be.  It
seems nobody ever goes into the house without finding this young
gentleman lying on the rug or warbling at the piano.  But the people in
manufacturing towns are always disreputable.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">You began by saying that one report was false, Mrs. Cadwallader, and I
believe this is false too,</said> said Dorothea, with indignant energy; <said who="#D">at
least, I feel sure it is a misrepresentation.  I will not hear any evil
spoken of Mr. Ladislaw; he has already suffered too much injustice.</said>
</P>

<P>
Dorothea when thoroughly moved cared little what any one thought of her
feelings; and even if she had been able to reflect, she would have held
it petty to keep silence at injurious words about Will from fear of
being herself misunderstood.  Her face was flushed and her lip trembled.
</P>

<P>
Sir James, glancing at her, repented of his stratagem; but Mrs.
Cadwallader, equal to all occasions, spread the palms of her hands
outward and said— <said who="#MrsCad"> Heaven grant it, my dear!—I mean that all bad tales
about anybody may be false.  But it is a pity that young Lydgate should
have married one of these Middlemarch girls.  Considering he's a son of
somebody, he might have got a woman with good blood in her veins, and
not too young, who would have put up with his profession.  There's
Clara Harfager, for instance, whose friends don't know what to do with
her; and she has a portion.  Then we might have had her among us.
However!—it's no use being wise for other people.  Where is Celia?
Pray let us go in.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I am going on immediately to Tipton,</said> said Dorothea, rather haughtily.
<said who="#D">Good-by.</said>
</P>

<P>
Sir James could say nothing as he accompanied her to the carriage.  He
was altogether discontented with the result of a contrivance which had
cost him some secret humiliation beforehand.
</P>

<P>
Dorothea drove along between the berried hedgerows and the shorn
corn-fields, not seeing or hearing anything around.  The tears came and
rolled down her cheeks, but she did not know it.  The world, it seemed,
was turning ugly and hateful, and there was no place for her
trustfulness.  <said who="#D">It is not true—it is not true!</said> was the voice within
her that she listened to; but all the while a remembrance to which
there had always clung a vague uneasiness would thrust itself on her
attention—the remembrance of that day when she had found Will Ladislaw
with Mrs. Lydgate, and had heard his voice accompanied by the piano.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">He said he would never do anything that I disapproved—I wish I could
have told him that I disapproved of that,</said> said poor Dorothea,
inwardly, feeling a strange alternation between anger with Will and the
passionate defence of him.  <said who="#D">They all try to blacken him before me; but
I will care for no pain, if he is not to blame.  I always believed he
was good.</said>—These were her last thoughts before she felt that the
carriage was passing under the archway of the lodge-gate at the Grange,
when she hurriedly pressed her handkerchief to her face and began to
think of her errands.  The coachman begged leave to take out the horses
for half an hour as there was something wrong with a shoe; and
Dorothea, having the sense that she was going to rest, took off her
gloves and bonnet, while she was leaning against a statue in the
entrance-hall, and talking to the housekeeper.  At last she said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D"> I must stay here a little, Mrs. Kell.  I will go into the library and
write you some memoranda from my uncle's letter, if you will open the
shutters for me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Kell">The shutters are open, madam,</said> said Mrs. Kell, following Dorothea, who
had walked along as she spoke.  <said who="#Kell">Mr. Ladislaw is there, looking for
something.</said>
</P>

<P>
(Will had come to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he had
missed in the act of packing his movables, and did not choose to leave
behind.)
</P>

<P>
Dorothea's heart seemed to turn over as if it had had a blow, but she
was not perceptibly checked: in truth, the sense that Will was there
was for the moment all-satisfying to her, like the sight of something
precious that one has lost.  When she reached the door she said to Mrs.
Kell—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Go in first, and tell him that I am here.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will had found his portfolio, and had laid it on the table at the far
end of the room, to turn over the sketches and please himself by
looking at the memorable piece of art which had a relation to nature
too mysterious for Dorothea.  He was smiling at it still, and shaking
the sketches into order with the thought that he might find a letter
from her awaiting him at Middlemarch, when Mrs. Kell close to his elbow
said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Kell">Mrs. Casaubon is coming in, sir.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will turned round quickly, and the next moment Dorothea was entering.
As Mrs. Kell closed the door behind her they met: each was looking at
the other, and consciousness was overflowed by something that
suppressed utterance.  It was not confusion that kept them silent, for
they both felt that parting was near, and there is no shamefacedness in
a sad parting.
</P>

<P>
She moved automatically towards her uncle's chair against the
writing-table, and Will, after drawing it out a little for her, went a
few paces off and stood opposite to her.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Pray sit down,</said> said Dorothea, crossing her hands on her lap; <said who="#D">I am
very glad you were here.</said>  Will thought that her face looked just as it
did when she first shook hands with him in Rome; for her widow's cap,
fixed in her bonnet, had gone off with it, and he could see that she
had lately been shedding tears. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> But the mixture of anger in her
agitation had vanished at the sight of him; she had been used, when
they were face to face, always to feel confidence and the happy freedom
which comes with mutual understanding, and how could other people's
words hinder that effect on a sudden? </said> <first> Let the music which can take
possession of our frame and fill the air with joy for us, sound once
more—what does it signify that we heard it found fault with in its
absence? </first>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I have sent a letter to Lowick Manor to-day, asking leave to see you,</said>
said Will, seating himself opposite to her.  <said who="#Lad">I am going away
immediately, and I could not go without speaking to you again.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I thought we had parted when you came to Lowick many weeks ago—you
thought you were going then,</said> said Dorothea, her voice trembling a
little.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Yes; but I was in ignorance then of things which I know now—things
which have altered my feelings about the future.  When I saw you
before, I was dreaming that I might come back some day.  I don't think
I ever shall—now.</said>  Will paused here.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">You wished me to know the reasons?</said> said Dorothea, timidly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Yes,</said> said Will, impetuously, shaking his head backward, and looking
away from her with irritation in his face.  <said who="#Lad">Of course I must wish it.
I have been grossly insulted in your eyes and in the eyes of others.
There has been a mean implication against my character.  I wish you to
know that under no circumstances would I have lowered myself by—under
no circumstances would I have given men the chance of saying that I
sought money under the pretext of seeking—something else.  There was
no need of other safeguard against me—the safeguard of wealth was
enough.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will rose from his chair with the last word and went—he hardly knew
where; but it was to the projecting window nearest him, which had been
open as now about the same season a year ago, when he and Dorothea had
stood within it and talked together.  Her whole heart was going out at
this moment in sympathy with Will's indignation: she only wanted to
convince him that she had never done him injustice, and he seemed to
have turned away from her as if she too had been part of the unfriendly
world.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">It would be very unkind of you to suppose that I ever attributed any
meanness to you,</said> she began.  Then in her ardent way, wanting to plead
with him, she moved from her chair and went in front of him to her old
place in the window, saying, <said who="#D">Do you suppose that I ever disbelieved in
you?</said>
</P>

<P>
When Will saw her there, he gave a start and moved backward out of the
window, without meeting her glance.  Dorothea was hurt by this movement
following up the previous anger of his tone.  She was ready to say that
it was as hard on her as on him, and that she was helpless; but those
strange particulars of their relation which neither of them could
explicitly mention kept her always in dread of saying too much.  At
this moment she had no belief that Will would in any case have wanted
to marry her, and she feared using words which might imply such a
belief.  She only said earnestly, recurring to his last word—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I am sure no safeguard was ever needed against you.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will did not answer.  In the stormy fluctuation of his feelings these
words of hers seemed to him cruelly neutral, and he looked pale and
miserable after his angry outburst.  He went to the table and fastened
up his portfolio, while Dorothea looked at him from the distance. <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> They
were wasting these last moments together in wretched silence.  What
could he say, since what had got obstinately uppermost in his mind was
the passionate love for her which he forbade himself to utter? </said> <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> What
could she say, since she might offer him no help—since she was forced
to keep the money that ought to have been his?—since to-day he seemed
not to respond as he used to do to her thorough trust and liking? </said>
</P>

<P>
But Will at last turned away from his portfolio and approached the
window again.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I must go,</said> he said, with that peculiar look of the eyes which
sometimes accompanies bitter feeling, as if they had been tired and
burned with gazing too close at a light.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">What shall you do in life?</said> said Dorothea, timidly.  <said who="#D">Have your
intentions remained just the same as when we said good-by before?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Yes,</said> said Will, in a tone that seemed to waive the subject as
uninteresting.  <said who="#Lad">I shall work away at the first thing that offers.  I
suppose one gets a habit of doing without happiness or hope.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Oh, what sad words!</said> said Dorothea, with a dangerous tendency to sob.
Then trying to smile, she added, <said who="#D">We used to agree that we were alike
in speaking too strongly.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I have not spoken too strongly now,</said> said Will, leaning back against
the angle of the wall.  <said who="#Lad">There are certain things which a man can only
go through once in his life; and he must know some time or other that
the best is over with him.  This experience 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 is absolutely forbidden to me—I don't mean merely
by being out of my reach, but forbidden me, even if it were within my
reach, by my own pride and honor—by everything I respect myself for.
Of course I shall go on living as a man might do who had seen heaven in
a trance.</said>
</P>

<P>
Will paused, imagining that it would be impossible for Dorothea to
misunderstand this; indeed he felt that he was contradicting himself
and offending against his self-approval in speaking to her so plainly;
<said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> but still—it could not be fairly called wooing a woman to tell her
that he would never woo her.  It must be admitted to be a ghostly kind
of wooing. </said>
</P>

<P>
But Dorothea's mind was rapidly going over the past with quite another
vision than his.  The thought that she herself might be what Will most
cared for did throb through her an instant, but then came doubt: <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> the
memory of the little they had lived through together turned pale and
shrank before the memory which suggested how much fuller might have
been the intercourse between Will and some one else with whom he had
had constant companionship.  Everything he had said might refer to that
other relation, and whatever had passed between him and herself was
thoroughly explained by what she had always regarded as their simple
friendship and the cruel obstruction thrust upon it by her husband's
injurious act. </said> Dorothea stood silent, with her eyes cast down
dreamily, while images crowded upon her which left the sickening
certainty that Will was referring to Mrs. Lydgate. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> But why sickening?
He wanted her to know that here too his conduct should be above
suspicion. </said>
</P>

<P>
Will was not surprised at her silence.  His mind also was tumultuously
busy while he watched her, and he was feeling rather wildly that
something must happen to hinder their parting—<said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> some miracle, clearly
nothing in their own deliberate speech.  Yet, after all, had she any
love for him?—he could not pretend to himself that he would rather
believe her to be without that pain.  He could not deny that a secret
longing for the assurance that she loved him was at the root of all his
words. </said>
</P>

<P>
Neither of them knew how long they stood in that way.  Dorothea was
raising her eyes, and was about to speak, when the door opened and her
footman came to say—
</P>

<P>
<said>The horses are ready, madam, whenever you like to start.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Presently,</said> said Dorothea.  Then turning to Will, she said, <said who="#D">I have
some memoranda to write for the housekeeper.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">I must go,</said> said Will, when the door had closed again—advancing
towards her.  <said who="#Lad">The day after to-morrow I shall leave Middlemarch.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">You have acted in every way rightly,</said> said Dorothea, in a low tone,
feeling a pressure at her heart which made it difficult to speak.
</P>

<P>
She put out her hand, and Will took it for an instant without speaking,
for her words had seemed to him cruelly cold and unlike herself.  Their
eyes met, but there was discontent in his, and in hers there was only
sadness.  He turned away and took his portfolio under his arm.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">I have never done you injustice.  Please remember me,</said> said Dorothea,
repressing a rising sob.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lad">Why should you say that?</said> said Will, with irritation.  <said who="#Lad">As if I were
not in danger of forgetting everything else.</said>
</P>

<P>
He had really a movement of anger against her at that moment, and it
impelled him to go away without pause.  It was all one flash to
Dorothea—his last words—his distant bow to her as he reached the
door—the sense that he was no longer there.  She sank into the chair,
and for a few moments sat like a statue, while images and emotions were
hurrying upon her. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> Joy came first, in spite of the threatening train
behind it—joy in the impression that it was really herself whom Will
loved and was renouncing, that there was really no other love less
permissible, more blameworthy, which honor was hurrying him away from.
They were parted all the same,</said> but—Dorothea drew a deep breath and
felt her strength return—she could think of him unrestrainedly. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> At
that moment the parting was easy to bear: the first sense of loving and
being loved excluded sorrow.  It was as if some hard icy pressure had
melted, and her consciousness had room to expand: her past was come
back to her with larger interpretation.  The joy was not the
less—perhaps it was the more complete just then—because of the
irrevocable parting; for there was no reproach, no contemptuous wonder
to imagine in any eye or from any lips.  He had acted so as to defy
reproach, and make wonder respectful. </said>
</P>

<P>
Any one watching her might have seen that there was a fortifying
thought within her.  Just as when inventive power is working with glad
ease some small claim on the attention is fully met as if it were only
a cranny opened to the sunlight, it was easy now for Dorothea to write
her memoranda.  She spoke her last words to the housekeeper in cheerful
tones, and when she seated herself in the carriage her eyes were bright
and her cheeks blooming under the dismal bonnet.  She threw back the
heavy "weepers", and looked before her, wondering which road Will had
taken.  It was in her nature to be proud that he was blameless, and
through all her feelings there ran this vein—<said who="#D"> I was right to defend
him.</said>
</P>

<P>
The coachman was used to drive his grays at a good pace, Mr. Casaubon
being unenjoying and impatient in everything away from his desk, and
wanting to get to the end of all journeys; and Dorothea was now bowled
along quickly. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> Driving was pleasant, for rain in the night had laid
the dust, and the blue sky looked far off, away from the region of the
great clouds that sailed in masses.  The earth looked like a happy
place under the vast heavens, and Dorothea was wishing that she might
overtake Will and see him once more. </said>
</P>

<P>
After a turn of the road, there he was with the portfolio under his
arm; but the next moment she was passing him while he raised his hat,
and she felt a pang at being seated there in a sort of exaltation,
leaving him behind. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> She could not look back at him. It was as if a
crowd of indifferent objects had thrust them asunder, and forced them
along different paths, taking them farther and farther away from each
other, and making it useless to look back. </said> She could no more make any
sign that would seem to say, <said who="#D">Need we part?</said> than she could stop the
carriage to wait for him.  Nay, what a world of reasons crowded upon
her against any movement of her thought towards a future that might
reverse the decision of this day!
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D"> I only wish I had known before—I wish he knew—then we could be quite
happy in thinking of each other, though we are forever parted.  And if
I could but have given him the money, and made things easier for
him!</said>—were the longings that came back the most persistently. <said who="#D" direct="false" aloud="false"> And
yet, so heavily did the world weigh on her in spite of her independent
energy, that with this idea of Will as in need of such help and at a
disadvantage with the world, there came always the vision of that
unfittingness of any closer relation between them which lay in the
opinion of every one connected with her.  She felt to the full all the
imperativeness of the motives which urged Will's conduct.  How could he
dream of her defying the barrier that her husband had placed between
them?—how could she ever say to herself that she would defy it? </said>
</P>

<P>
Will's certainty as the carriage grew smaller in the distance, had much
more bitterness in it.  Very slight matters were enough to gall him in
his sensitive mood, and <said who="#Lad" direct="false" aloud="false"> the sight of Dorothea driving past him while he
felt himself plodding along as a poor devil seeking a position in a
world which in his present temper offered him little that he coveted,
made his conduct seem a mere matter of necessity, and took away the
sustainment of resolve.  After all, he had no assurance that she loved
him: could any man pretend that he was simply glad in such a case to
have the suffering all on his own side? </said>
</P>

<P>
That evening Will spent with the Lydgates; the next evening he was gone.
</P>

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