Chapter LXVI
'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,
Another thing to fall.
Measure for Measure.
Lydgate certainly had good reason to reflect on the
service his practice did him in counteracting his personal
cares. He had no longer free energy enough for spontaneous
research and speculative thinking, but by the bedside of
patients, the direct external calls on his judgment and
sympathies brought the added impulse needed to draw him out
of himself. It was not simply that beneficent harness of
routine which enables silly men to live respectably and
unhappy men to live calmly — it was a perpetual claim on the
immediate fresh application of thought, and on the
consideration of another's need and trial. Many of us
looking back through life would say that the kindest man we
have ever known has been a medical man, or perhaps that
surgeon whose fine tact, directed by deeply informed
perception, has come to us in our need with a more sublime
beneficence than that of miracle-workers. Some of that
twice-blessed mercy was always with Lydgate in his work
at the Hospital or in private houses, serving better
than any opiate to quiet and sustain him under his anxieties
and his sense of mental degeneracy.
Mr. Farebrother's suspicion as to the opiate was true,
however. Under the first galling pressure of foreseen
difficulties, and the first perception that his marriage, if
it were not to be a yoked loneliness, must be a state of
effort to go on loving without too much care about being
loved, he had once or twice tried a dose of opium. But he
had no hereditary constitutional craving after such
transient escapes from the hauntings of misery. He was
strong, could drink a great deal of wine, but did not care
about it; and when the men round him were drinking spirits,
he took sugar and water, having a contemptuous pity even for
the earliest stages of excitement from drink. It was the
same with gambling. He had looked on at a great deal of
gambling in Paris, watching it as if it had been a disease.
He was no more tempted by such winning than he was by drink.
He had said to himself that the only winning he eared for
must be attained by a conscious process of high, difficult
combination tending towards a beneficent result. The power
he longed for could not be represented by agitated fingers
clutching a heap of coin, or by the half-barbarous, half-idiotic triumph in the eyes of a man who sweeps within his
arms the ventures of twenty chapfallen companions.
But just as he had tried opium, so his thought now began
to turn upon gambling — not with appetite for its excitement,
but with a sort of wistful inward gaze after that easy way
of getting money, which implied no asking and brought no
responsibility. If he had been in London or Paris at that
time, it is probable that such thoughts, seconded by
opportunity, would have taken him into a gambling-house, no
longer to watch the gamblers, but to watch with them in
kindred eagerness. Repugnance would have been surmounted by
the immense need to win, if chance would be kind enough to
let him. An incident which happened not very long after
that airy notion of getting aid from his uncle had been
excluded, was a strong sign of the effect that might have
followed any extant opportunity of gambling.
The billiard-room at the Green Dragon was the constant
resort of a certain set, most of whom, like our acquaintance
Mr. Bambridge, were regarded as men of pleasure. It was
here that poor Fred Vincy had made part of his memorable
debt, having lost money in betting, and been obliged to
borrow of that gay companion. It was generally known in
Middlemarch that a good deal of money was lost and won in
this way; and the consequent repute of the Green Dragon as a
place of dissipation naturally heightened in some quarters
the temptation to go there. Probably its regular visitants,
like the initiates of freemasonry, wished that there were
something a little more tremendous to keep to themselves
concerning it; but they were not a closed community, and
many decent seniors as well as juniors occasionally turned
into the billiard-room to see what was going on. Lydgate,
who had the muscular aptitude for billiards, and was fond of
the game, had once or twice in the early days after his
arrival in Middlemarch taken his turn with the cue at the
Green Dragon; but afterwards he had no leisure for the game,
and no inclination for the socialities there. One evening,
however, he had occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge at that
resort. The horsedealer had engaged to get him a customer
for his remaining good horse, for which Lydgate had
determined to substitute a cheap hack, hoping by this
reduction of style to get perhaps twenty pounds; and he
eared now for every small sum, as a help towards feeding the
patience of his tradesmen. To run up to the billiard-room,
as he was passing, would save time.
Mr. Bambridge was not yet come, bat would be sure to
arrive by-and-by, said his friend Mr. Horrock; and Lydgate
stayed, playing a game for the sake of passing the time.
That evening he had the peculiar light in the eyes and the
unusual vivacity which had been once noticed in him by Mr.
Farebrother. The exceptional fact of his presence was much
noticed in the room, where there was a good deal of
Middlemarch company; and several lookers-on, as well as some
of the players, were betting with animation. Lydgate was
playing well, and felt confident; the bets were dropping
round him, and with a swift glancing thought of the probable
gain
which might double the sum he was saving from his
horse, he began to bet on his own play, and won again and
again. Mr. Bambridge had come in, but Lydgate did not
notice him. He was not only excited with his play, but
visions were gleaming on him of going the next day to
Brassing, where there was gambling on a grander scale to be
had, and where, by one powerful snatch at the devil's bait,
he might carry it off without the hook, and buy his rescue
from his daily solicitings.
He was still winning when two new visitors entered. One
of them was a young Hawley, just come from his law studies
in town, and the other was Fred Vincy, who had spent several
evenings of late at this old haunt of his. Young Hawley, an
accomplished billiard-player, brought a cool fresh hand to
the cue. But Fred Vincy, startled at seeing Lydgate, and
astonished to see him betting with an excited air, stood
aside, and kept out of the circle round the table.
Fred had been rewarding resolution by a little laxity of
late. He had been working heartily for six months at all
outdoor occupations under Mr. Garth, and by dint of severe
practice had nearly mastered the defects of his handwriting,
this practice being, perhaps, a little the less severe that
it was often carried on in the evening at Mr. Garth's under
the eyes of Mary. But the last fortnight Mary had been
staying at Lowick Parsonage with the ladies there, during
Mr. Farebrother's residence in Middlemarch, where he was
carrying out some parochial plans; and Fred, not seeing
anything more agreeable to do, had turned into the Green
Dragon, partly to play at billiards, partly to taste the old
flavor of discourse about horses, sport, and things in
general, considered from a point of view which was not
strenuously correct. He had not been out hunting once this
season, had had no horse of his own to ride, and had gone
from place to place chiefly with Mr. Garth in his gig, or on
the sober cob which Mr. Garth could lend him. It was a
little too bad, Fred began to think, that he should be kept
in the traces with more severity than if he had been a
clergyman. " I will tell you what, Mistress Mary — it will
be rather harder work to learn surveying and drawing plans
than it would have been to write sermons," he
had said,
wishing her to appreciate what he went through for her sake;
" and as to Hercules and Theseus, they were nothing to me.
They had sport, and never learned to write a bookkeeping
hand." And now, Mary being out of the way for a little
while, Fred, like any other strong dog who cannot slip his
collar, had pulled up the staple of his chain and made a
small escape, not of course meaning to go fast or far.
There could be no reason why he should not play at
billiards, but he was determined not to bet. As to money
just now, Fred had in his mind the heroic project of saving
almost all of the eighty pounds that Mr. Garth offered him,
and returning it, which he could easily do by giving up all
futile money-spending, since he had a superfluous stock of
clothes, and no expense in his board. In that way he could,
in one year, go a good way towards repaying the ninety
pounds of which he had deprived Mrs. Garth, unhappily at a
time when she needed that sum more than she did now.
Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that on this evening,
which was the fifth of his recent visits to the billiard-room, Fred had, not in his pocket, but in his mind, the ten
pounds which he meant to reserve for himself from his half-year's salary (having before him the pleasure of carrying
thirty to Mrs. Garth when Mary was likely to be come home
again) — he had those ten pounds in his mind as a fund from
which he might risk something, if there were a chance of a
good bet. Why? Well, when sovereigns were flying about,
why shouldn't he catch a few? He would never go far along
that road again; but a man likes to assure himself, and men
of pleasure generally, what he could do in the way of
mischief if he chose, and that if he abstains from making
himself ill, or beggaring himself, or talking with the
utmost looseness which the narrow limits of human capacity
will allow, it is not because he is a spooney. Fred did not
enter into formal reasons, which are a very artificial,
inexact way of representing the tingling returns of old
habit, and the caprices of young blood: but there was
lurking in him a prophetic sense that evening, that when he
began to play he should also begin to bet — that he should
enjoy some punch-drinking, and in general prepare himself
for feeling
"rather seedy" in the morning. It is in
such indefinable movements that action often begins.
But the last thing likely to have entered Fred's
expectation was that he should see his brother-in-law
Lydgate — of whom he had never quite dropped the old opinion
that he was a prig, and tremendously conscious of his
superiority — looking excited and betting, just as he himself
might have done. Fred felt a shock greater than he could
quite account for by the vague knowledge that Lydgate was in
debt, and that his father had refused to help him; and his
own inclination to enter into the play was suddenly checked.
It was a strange reversal of attitudes: Fred's blond face
and blue eyes, usually bright and careless, ready to give
attention to anything that held out a promise of amusement,
looking involuntarily grave and almost embarrassed as if by
the sight of something unfitting; while Lydgate, who had
habitually an air of self-possessed strength, and a certain
meditativeness that seemed to lie behind his most observant
attention, was acting, watching, speaking with that excited
narrow consciousness which reminds one of an animal with
fierce eyes and retractile claws.
Lydgate, by betting on his own strokes, had won sixteen
pounds; but young Hawley's arrival had changed the poise of
things. He made first-rate strokes himself, and began to
bet against Lydgate's strokes, the strain of whose nerves
was thus changed from simple confidence in his own movements
to defying another person's doubt in them. The defiance was
more exciting than the confidence, but it was less sure. He
continued to bet on his own play, but began often to fail.
Still he went on, for his mind was as utterly narrowed into
that precipitous crevice of play as if he had been the most
ignorant lounger there. Fred observed that Lydgate was
losing fast, and found himself in the new situation of
puzzling his brains to think of some device by which,
without being offensive, he could withdraw Lydgate's
attention, and perhaps suggest to him a reason for quitting
the room. He saw that others were observing Lydgate's
strange unlikeness to himself, and it occurred to him that
merely to touch his elbow and call him
aside for a
moment might rouse him from his absorption. He could think
of nothing cleverer than the daring improbability of saying
that he wanted to see Rosy, and wished to know if she were
at home this evening; and he was going desperately to carry
out this weak device, when a waiter came up to him with a
message, saying that ML Farebrother was below, and begged to
speak with him.
Fred was surprised, not quite comfortably, but sending
word that he would be down immediately, he went with a new
impulse up to Lydgate, said, " Can I speak to you a moment?"
and drew him aside.
"Farebrother has just sent up a message to say that he
wants to speak to me. He is below. I thought you might
like to know he was there, if you had anything to say to
him."
Fred had simply snatched up this pretext for speaking,
because he could not say, " You are losing confoundedly, and
are making everybody stare at you; you had better come
away." But inspiration could hardly have served him better.
Lydgate had not before seen that Fred was present, and his
sudden appearance with an announcement of Mr. Farebrother
had the effect of a sharp concussion.
"No, no," said Lydgate; " I have nothing particular to
say to him. But — the game is up — I must be going — I came in
just to see Bambridge."
"Bambridge is over there, but he is making a row — I
don't think he's ready for business. Come down with me to
Farebrother. I expect he is going to blow me up, and you
will shield me," said Fred, with some adroitness.
Lydgate felt shame, but could not bear to act as if he
felt it, by refusing to see Mr. Farebrother; and he went
down. They merely shook hands, however, and spoke of the
frost; and when all three had turned into the street, the
Vicar seemed quite willing to say good-by to Lydgate. His
present purpose was clearly to talk with Fred alone, and he
said, kindly, "I disturbed you, young gentleman, because I
have some pressing business with you. Walk with me to St.
Botolph's, will you?"
It was a fine night, the sky thick with stars, and Mr.
Farebrother proposed that they should make a circuit to the
old church by the London road. The next thing he said was —
"I thought Lydgate never went to the Green Dragon?"
"So did I," said Fred. "But he said that he went to see
Bambridge."
"He was not playing, then?"
Fred had not meant to tell this, but he was obliged now
to say, " Yes, he was. But I suppose it was an accidental
thing. I have never seen him there before."
"You have been going often yourself, then, lately?"
"Oh, about five or six times."
"I think you had some good reason for giving up the
habit of going there?"
"Yes. You know all about it," said Fred, not liking to
be catechised in this way. " I made a clean breast to you."
"I suppose that gives me a warrant to speak about the
matter now. It is understood between us, is it not? — that
we are on a footing of open friendship: I have listened to
you, and you will be willing to listen to me. I may take my
turn in talking a little about myself?"
"I am under the deepest obligation to you, Mr.
Farebrother," said Fred, in a state of uncomfortable
surmise.
"I will not affect to deny that you are under some
obligation to me. But I am going to confess to you, Fred,
that I have been tempted to reverse all that by keeping
silence with you just now. When somebody said to me, 'Young
Vincy has taken to being at the billiard-table every night
again — he won't bear the curb long; ' I was tempted to do
the opposite of what I am doing — to hold my tongue and wait
while you went down the ladder again, betting first and
then — "
"I have not made any bets," said Fred, hastily.
"Glad to hear it. But I say, my prompting was to look
on and see you take the wrong turning, wear out Garth's
patience, and lose the best opportunity of your life — the
opportunity which you made some rather difficult effort to
secure. You can guess the feeling which raised that
temptation in me
— I am sure you know it. I am sure you
know that the satisfaction of your affections stands in the
way of mine."
There was a pause. Mr. Farebrother seemed to wait for a
recognition of the fact; and the emotion perceptible in the
tones of his fine voice gave solemnity to his words. But no
feeling could quell Fred's alarm.
"I could not be expected to give her up, ' he said,
after a moment's hesitation: it was not a ease for any
pretence of generosity.
"Clearly not, when her affection met yours. But
relations of this sort, even when they are of long standing,
are always liable to change. I can easily conceive that you
might act in a way to loosen the tie she feels towards you —
it must be remembered that she is only conditionally bound
to you — and that in that ease, another man, who may flatter
himself that he has a hold on her regard, might succeed in
winning that firm place in her love as well as respect which
you had let slip. I can easily conceive such a result,"
repeated Mr. Farebrother, emphatically. "There is a
companionship of ready sympathy, which might get the
advantage even over the longest associations."
It seemed to Fred that if Mr. Farebrother had had a-beak and
talons instead of his very capable tongue, his mode of
attack could hardly be more cruel. He had a horrible
conviction that behind all this hypothetic statement there
was a knowledge of some actual change in Mary's feeling.
"Of course I know it might easily be all up with me," he
said, in a troubled voice. " If she is beginning to
compare — " He broke off, not liking to betray all he felt,
and then said, by the help of a little bitterness, " But I
thought you were friendly to me."
"So I am; that is why we are here. But I have had a
strong disposition to be otherwise. I have said to myself,
' If there is a likelihood of that youngster doing himself
harm, why should you interfere? Aren't you worth as much as
he is, and don't your sixteen years over and above his, in
which you have gone rather hungry, give you more right to
satisfaction than he has? If there's a chance of his going
to the
dogs, let him — perhaps you could nohow hinder
it — and do you take the benefit."'
There was a pause, in which Fred was seized by a most
uncomfortable chill. What was coming next? He dreaded to
hear that something had been said to Mary — he felt as if he
were listening to a threat rather than a warning. When the
Vicar began again there was a change in his tone like the
encouraging transition to a major key.
"But I had once meant better than that, and I am come
back to my old intention. I thought that I could hardly
secure myself in it better, Fred, than by telling you
just what had gone on in me. And now, do you understand me?
want you to make the happiness of her life and your own, and
if there is any chance that a word of warning from me may
turn aside any risk to the contrary — well, I have uttered
it."
There was a drop in the Vicar's voice when he spoke the
last words He paused — they were standing on a patch of green
where the road diverged towards St. Botolph's, and he put
out his hand, as if to imply that the conversation was
closed. Fred was moved quite newly. Some one highly
susceptible to the contemplation of a fine act has said,
that it produces a sort of regenerating shudder through the
frame, and makes one feel ready to begin a new life. A good
degree of that effect was just then present in Fred Vincy.
"I will try to be worthy," he said, breaking off before
he could say "of you as well as of her." And meanwhile Mr.
Farebrother had gathered the impulse to say something more.
"You must not imagine that I believe there is at present
any decline in her preference of you, Fred. Set your heart
at rest, that if you keep right, other things will keep
right."
"I shall never forget what you have done," Fred
answered. "I can't say anything that seems worth saying —
only I will try that your goodness shall not be thrown
away."
"That's enough Good-by, and God bless you."
In that way they parted. But both of them walked about
a long while before they went out of the starlight. Much of
Fred's rumination might be summed up in the words, " It
certainly would have been a fine thing for her to marry
Farebrother — but if she loves me best and I am a good
husband?"
Perhaps Mr. Farebrother's might be concentrated into a
single shrug and one little speech. " To think of the part
one little woman can play in the life of a man, so that to
renounce her may be a very good imitation of heroism, and to
win her may be a discipline!"