Chapter XXXI
"How will you know the pitch of that great bell
Too large for you to stir? Let but a flute
Play 'neath the fine-mixed metal listen close
Till the right note flows forth, a silvery rill.
Then shall the huge bell tremble — then the mass
With myriad waves concurrent shall respond
In low soft unison."
Lydgate that evening spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs.
Casaubon, and laid some emphasis on the strong feeling she
appeared to have for that formal studious man thirty years
older than herself.
"Of course she is devoted to her husband," said
Rosamond, implying a notion of necessary sequence which the
scientific man regarded as the prettiest possible for a
woman; but she was thinking at the same time that it was not
so very melancholy to be mistress of Lowick Manor with a
husband likely to die soon. " Do you think her very
handsome?"
"She certainly is handsome, but I have not thought about
it," said Lydgate.
"I suppose it would be unprofessional," said Rosamond,
dimpling. "But how your practice is spreading! You were
called in before to the Chettams, I think; and now, the
Casaubons."
"Yes," said Lydgate, in a tone of compulsory admission.
" But I don't really like attending such people so well as
the poor. The eases are more monotonous, and one has to go
through more fuss and listen more deferentially to
nonsense."
"Not more than in Middlemarch," said Rosamond. " And at
least you go through wide corridors and have the scent of
rose-leaves everywhere."
"That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci," said
Lydgate, just bending his head to the table and lifting with
his fourth finger her delicate handkerchief which lay at the
mouth
of her reticule, as if to enjoy its scent, while
he looked at her with a smile.
But this agreeable holiday freedom with which Lydgate
hovered about the flower of Middlemarch, could not continue
indefinitely. It was not more possible to find social
isolation in that town than elsewhere, and two people
persistently flirting could by no means escape from " the
various entanglements, weights, blows, clashings, motions,
by which things severally go on." Whatever Miss Vincy did
must be remarked, and she was perhaps the more conspicuous
to admirers and critics because just now Mrs. Vincy, after
some struggle, had gone with Fred to stay a little while at
Stone Court, there being no other way of at once gratifying
old Featherstone and keeping watch against Mary Garth, who
appeared a less tolerable daughter-in-law in proportion as
Fred's illness disappeared.
Aunt Bulstrode, for example, came a little oftener into
Lowick Gate to see Rosamond, now she was alone. For Mrs.
Bulstrode had a true sisterly feeling for her brother;
always thinking that he might have married better, but
wishing well to the children. Now Mrs. Bulstrode had a
long-standing intimacy with Mrs. Plymdale. They had nearly
the same preferences in silks, patterns for underclothing,
china-ware, and clergymen; they confided their little
troubles of health and household management to each other,
and various little points of superiority on Mrs. Bulstrode's
side, namely, more decided seriousness, more admiration for
mind, and a house outside the town, sometimes served to give
color to their conversation without dividing them-well-meaning women both, knowing very little of their own
motives.
Mrs. Bulstrode, paying a morning visit to Mrs. Plymdale,
happened to say that she could not stay longer, because she
was going to see poor Rosamond.
"Why do you say `poor Rosamond'?" said Mrs. Plymdale, a
round-eyed sharp little woman, like a tamed falcon.
"She is so pretty, and has been brought up in such
thoughtlessness. The mother, you know, had always that
levity about her, which makes me anxious for the children."
"Well, Harriet, if I am to speak my mind," said Mrs.
Plymdale, with emphasis, " I must say, anybody would suppose
you and Mr. Bulstrode would be delighted with what has
happened, for you have done everything to put Mr. Lydgate
forward."
"Selina, what do you mean?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, in
genuine surprise.
"Not but what I am truly thankful for Ned's sake," said
Mrs. Plymdale. " He could certainly better afford to keep
such a wife than some people can; but I should wish him to
look elsewhere. Still a mother has anxieties, and some
young men would take to a bad life in consequence. Besides,
if I was obliged to speak, I should say I was not fond of
strangers coming into a town."
"I don't know, Selina," said Mrs. Bulstrode, with a
little emphasis in her turn. " Mr. Bulstrode was a stranger
here at one time. Abraham and Moses were strangers in the
land, and we are told to entertain strangers. And
especially," she added, after a slight pause, " when they
are unexceptionable."
"I was not speaking in a religious sense, Harriet. I
spoke as a mother."
"Selina, I am sure you have never heard me say anything
against a niece of mine marrying your son."
"Oh, it is pride in Miss Vincy — I am sure it is nothing
else," said Mrs. Plymdale, who had never before given all
her confidence to " Harriet " on this subject. " No young
man in Middlemarch was good enough for her: I have heard her
mother say as much. That is not a Christian spirit, I
think. But now, from all I hear, she has found a man AS
proud as herself."
"You don't mean that there is anything between Rosamond
and Mr. Lydgate?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, rather mortified at
finding out her own ignorance
"Is it possible you don't know, Harriet?"
"Oh, I go about so little; and I am not fond of gossip;
I really never hear any. You see so many people that I
don't see. Your circle is rather different from ours."
"Well, but your own niece and Mr. Bulstrode's great
favorite — and yours too, I am sure, Harriet! I thought,
at one time, you meant him for Kate, when she is a
little older."
"I don't believe there can be anything serious at
present," said Mrs. Bulstrode. "My brother would certainly
have told me."
"Well, people have different ways, but I understand that
nobody can see Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate together without
taking them to be engaged. However, it is not my business.
Shall I put up the pattern of mittens?"
After this Mrs. Bulstrode drove to her niece with a mind
newly weighted. She was herself handsomely dressed, but she
noticed with a little more regret than usual that Rosamond,
who was just come in and met her in walking-dress, was
almost as expensively equipped. Mrs. Bulstrode was a
feminine smaller edition of her brother, and had none of her
husband's low-toned pallor. She had a good honest glance
and used no circumlocution.
"You are alone, I see, my dear," she said, as they
entered the drawing-room together, looking round gravely.
Rosamond felt sure that her aunt had something particular to
say, and they sat down near each other. Nevertheless, the
quilling inside Rosamond's bonnet was so charming that it
was impossible not to desire the same kind of thing for
Kate, and Mrs. Bulstrode's eyes, which were rather fine,
rolled round that ample quilled circuit, while she spoke.
"I have just heard something about you that has
surprised me very much, Rosamond."
"What is that, aunt?" Rosamond's eyes also were roaming
over her aunt's large embroidered collar.
"I can hardly believe it — that you should be engaged
without my knowing it — without your father's telling me."
Here Mrs. Bulstrode's eyes finally rested on Rosamond's, who
blushed deeply, and said —
"I am not engaged, aunt."
"How is it that every one says so, then — that it is the
town's talk?"
"The town's talk is of very little consequence, I
think," said Rosamond, inwardly gratified.
"Oh, my dear, be more thoughtful; don't despise your
neighbors so. Remember you are turned twenty-two now, and
you will have no fortune: your father, I am sure, will not
be able to spare you anything. Mr. Lydgate is very
intellectual and clever; I know there is an attraction in
that. I like talking to such men myself; and your uncle
finds him very useful. But the profession is a poor one
here. To be sure, this life is not everything; but it is
seldom a medical man has true religious views — there is too
much pride of intellect. And you are not fit to marry a
poor man.
"Mr. Lydgate is not a poor man, aunt. He has very high
connections."
"He told me himself he was poor."
"That is because he is used to people who have a high
style
"My dear Rosamond, you must not think of living in
high style."
Rosamond looked down and played with her reticule. She
was not a fiery young lady and had no sharp answers, but she
meant to live as she pleased. .
"Then it is really true?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, looking
very ernestly at her niece. " You are thinking of Mr.
Lydgate-there is some understanding between you, though
your father doesn't know. Be open, my dear Rosamond: Mr.
Lydgate has really made you an offer?"
Poor Rosamond's feelings were very unpleasant. She had
been quite easy as to Lydgate's feeling and intention, but
now when her aunt put this question she did not like being
unable to say Yes. Her pride was hurt, but her habitual
control of manner helped her.
"Pray excuse me, aunt. I would rather not speak on the
subject."
"You would not give your heart to a man without a
decided prospect, I trust, my dear. And think of the two
excellent offers I know of that you have refused ! — and one
still within your reach, if you will not throw it away. I
knew a very great beauty who married badly at last, by doing
so. Mr. Ned Plymdale is a nice young man — some might think
good-
looking; and an only son; and a large business of
that kind is better than a profession. Not that marrying is
everything I would have you seek first the kingdom of God.
But a girl should keep her heart within her own power."
"I should never give it to Mr. Ned Plymdale, if it were.
I have already refused him. If I loved, I should love at
once and without change," said Rosamond, with a great sense
of being a romantic heroine, and playing the part prettily.
"I see how it is, my dear," said Mrs. Bulstrode, in a
melancholy voice, rising to go. " You have allowed your
affections to be engaged without return."
"No, indeed, aunt," said Rosamond, with emphasis.
"Then you are quite confident that Mr. Lydgate has a
serious attachment to you?"
Rosamond's cheeks by this time were persistently
burning, and she felt much mortification. She chose to be
silent, and her aunt went away all the more convinced.
Mr. Bulstrode in things worldly and indifferent was
disposed to do what his wife bade him, and she now, without
telling her reasons, desired him on the next opportunity to
find out in conversation with Mr. Lydgate whether he had any
intention of marrying soon. The result was a decided
negative. Mr. Bulstrode, on being cross-questioned, showed
that Lydgate had spoken as no man would who had any
attachment that could issue in matrimony. Mrs. Bulstrode
now felt that she had a serious duty before her, and she
soon managed to arrange a
tête-à-tête with Lydgate, in
which she passed from inquiries about Fred Vincy's health,
and expressions of her sincere anxiety for her brother's
large family, to general remarks on the dangers which lay
before young people with regard to their settlement in life.
Young men were often wild and disappointing, making little
return for the money spent on them, and a girl was exposed
to many circumstances which might interfere with her
prospects.
"Especially when she has great attractions, and her
parents see much company," said Mrs. Bulstrode " Gentlemen
pay her attention, and engross her all to themselves, for
the mere pleasure of the moment, and that drives off others.
I think it
is a heavy responsibility, Mr. Lydgate, to
interfere with the prospects of any girl." Here Mrs.
Bulstrode fixed her eyes on him, with an unmistakable
purpose of warning, if not of rebuke.
"Clearly," said Lydgate, looking at her — perhaps even
staring a little in return. " On the other hand, a man must
be a great coxcomb to go about with a notion that he must
not pay attention to a young lady lest she should fall in
love with him, or lest others should think she must."
"Oh, Mr. Lydgate, you know well what your advantages
are. You know that our young men here cannot cope with you.
Where you frequent a house it may militate very much against
a girl's making a desirable settlement in life, and prevent
her from accepting offers even if they are made."
Lydgate was less flattered by his advantage over the
Middlemarch Orlandos than he was annoyed by the perception
.. of Mrs. Bulstrode's meaning. She felt that she had
spoken as impressively as it was necessary to do, and that
in using the superior word "militate" she had thrown a noble
drapery over a mass of particulars which were still evident
enough.
Lydgate was fuming a little, pushed his hair back with
one hand, felt curiously in his waistcoat-pocket with the
other, and then stooped to beckon the tiny black spaniel,
which had the insight to decline his hollow caresses. It
would not have been decent to go away, because he had been
dining with other guests, and had just taken tea. But Mrs.
Bulstrode, having no doubt that she had been understood,
turned the conversation.
Solomon's Proverbs, I think, have omitted to say, that
as the sore palate findeth grit, so an uneasy consciousness
heareth innuendoes. The next day Mr. Farebrother, parting
from Lydgate in the street, supposed that they should meet
at Vincy's in the evening. Lydgate answered curtly, no — he
had work to do — he must give up going out in the evening.
"What! you are going to get lashed to the mast, eh, and
are stopping your ears?" said the Vicar. "Well, if you
don't mean to be won by the sirens, you are right to take
precautions in time."
A few days before, Lydgate would have taken no notice of
these words as anything more than the Vicar's usual way of
putting things. They seemed now to convey an innuendo which
confirmed the impression that he had been making a fool of
himself and behaving so as to be misunderstood: not, he
believed, by Rosamond herself; she, he felt sure, took
everything as lightly as he intended it. She had an
exquisite tact and insight in relation to all points of
manners; but the people she lived among were blunderers and
busybodies. However, the mistake should go no farther. He
resolved — and kept his resolution — that he would not go to
Mr. Vincy's except on business.
Rosamond became very unhappy. The uneasiness first
stirred by her aunt's questions grew and grew till at the
end of ten days that she had not seen Lydgate, it grew into
terror at the blank that might possibly come — into
foreboding of that ready, fatal sponge which so cheaply
wipes out the hopes of mortals. The world would have a new
dreariness for her, as a wilderness that a magician's spells
had turned for a little while into a garden. She felt that
she was beginning to know the pang of disappointed love, and
that no other man could be the occasion of such delightful
aerial building as she had been enjoying for the last six
months. Poor Rosamond lost her appetite and felt as forlorn
as Ariadne — as a charming stage Ariadne left behind with all
her boxes full of costumes and no hope of a coach.
There are many wonderful mixtures in the world which are
all alike called love, and claim the privileges of a sublime
rage which is an apology for everything (in literature and
the drama). Happily Rosamond did not think of committing
any desperate act: she plaited her fair hair as beautifully
as usual, and kept herself proudly calm. Her most cheerful
supposition was that her aunt Bulstrode had interfered in
some way to hinder Lydgate's visits: everything was better
than a spontaneous indifference in him. Any one who
imagines ten days too short a time — not for falling into
leanness, lightness, or other measurable effects of passion,
but — for the whole spiritual circuit of alarmed conjecture
and disappointment, is
ignorant of what can go on in
the elegant leisure of a young lady's mind.
On the eleventh day, however, Lydgate when leaving Stone
Court was requested by Mrs. Vincy to let her husband know
that there was a marked change in Mr. Featherstone's health,
and that she wished him to come to Stone Court on that day.
Now Lydgate might have called at the warehouse, or might
have written a message on a leaf of his pocket-book and left
it at the door. Yet these simple devices apparently did not
occur to him, from which we may conclude that he had no
strong objection to calling at the house at an hour when Mr.
Vincy was not at home, and leaving the message with Miss
Vincy. A man may, from various motives, decline to give his
company, but perhaps not even a sage would be gratified that
nobody missed him. It would be a graceful, easy way of
piecing on the new habits to the old, to have a few playful
words with Rosamond about his resistance to dissipation, and
his firm resolve to take long fasts even from sweet sounds.
It must be confessed, also, that momentary speculations as
to all the possible grounds for Mrs. Bulstrode's hints had
managed to get woven like slight clinging hairs into the
more substantial web of his thoughts.
Miss Vincy was alone, and blushed so deeply when Lydgate
came in that he felt a corresponding embarrassment, and
instead of any playfulness, he began at once to speak of his
reason for calling, and to beg her, almost formally, to
deliver the message to her father. Rosamond, who at the
first moment felt as if her happiness were returning, was
keenly hurt by Lydgate's manner; her blush had departed, and
she assented coldly, without adding an unnecessary word,
some trivial chain-work which she had in her hands enabling
her to avoid looking at Lydgate higher than his chin. In
all failures, the beginning is certainly the half of the
whole. After sitting two long moments while he moved his
whip and could say nothing, Lydgate rose to go, and
Rosamond, made nervous by her struggle between mortification
and the wish not to betray it, dropped her chain as if
startled, and rose too, mechanically. Lydgate
instantaneously stooped to pick up the chain. When
he
rose he was very near to a lovely little face set on a fair
long neck which he had been used to see turning about under
the most perfect management of self-contented grace. But as
he raised his eyes now he saw a certain helpless quivering
which touched him quite newly, and made him look at Rosamond
with a questioning flash. At this moment she was as natural
as she had ever been when she was five years old: she felt
that her tears had risen, and it was no use to try to do
anything else than let them stay like water on a blue flower
or let them fall over her cheeks, even as they would.
That moment of naturalness was the crystallizing
feather-touch: it shook flirtation into love. Remember that
the ambitious man who was looking at those Forget-me-nots
under the water was very warm-hearted and rash. He did not
know where the chain went; an idea had thrilled through the
recesses within him which had a miraculous effect in raising
the power of passionate love lying buried there in no sealed
sepulchre, but under the lightest, easily pierced mould.
His words were quite abrupt and awkward; but the tone made
them sound like an ardent, appealing avowal.
"What is the matter? you are distressed. Tell me,
pray."
Rosamond had never been spoken to in such tones before.
I am not sure that she knew what the words were: but she
looked at Lydgate and the tears fell over her cheeks. There
could have been no more complete answer than that silence,
and Lydgate, forgetting everything else, completely mastered
by the outrush of tenderness at the sudden belief that this
sweet young creature depended on him for her joy, actually
put his arms round her, folding her gently and
protectingly — he was used to being gentle with the weak and
suffering — and kissed each of the two large tears. This was
a strange way of arriving at an understanding, but it was a
short way. Rosamond was not angry, but she moved backward a
little in timid happiness, and Lydgate could now sit near
her and speak less incompletely. Rosamond had to make her
little confession, and he poured out words of gratitude and
tenderness with impulsive lavishment. In half an hour he
left the house an
engaged man, whose soul was not his
own, but the woman's to whom he had bound himself.
He came again in the evening to speak with Mr. Vincy,
who, just returned from Stone Court, was feeling sure that
it would not be long before he heard of Mr. Featherstone's
demise. The felicitous word " demise," which had seasonably
occurred to him, had raised his spirits even above their
usual evening pitch. The right word is always a power, and
communicates its definiteness to our action. Considered as
a demise, old Featherstone's death assumed a merely legal
aspect, so that Mr. Vincy could tap his snuff-box over it
and be jovial, without even an intermittent affectation of
solemnity; and Mr. Vincy hated both solemnity and
affectation. Who was ever awe struck about a testator, or
sang a hymn on the title to real property? Mr. Vincy was
inclined to take a jovial view of all things that evening:
he even observed to Lydgate that Fred had got the family
constitution after all, and would soon be as fine a fellow
as ever again; and when his approbation of Rosamond's
engagement was asked for, he gave it with astonishing
facility, passing at once to general remarks on the
desirableness of matrimony for young men and maidens, and
apparently deducing from the whole the appropriateness of a
little more punch.