Middlemarch

Lydgate could not be long in Middlemarch without having that agreeable vision, or even without making the acquaintance of the Vincy family; for although Mr Peacock, whose practice he had paid something to enter on, had not been their doctor (Mrs Vincy not liking the lowering system adopted by him), he had many patients among their connections and acquaintances. For who of any consequence in Middlemarch was not connected or at least acquainted with the Vincys? They were old manufacturers, and had kept a good house for three generations, in which there had naturally been much intermarrying with neighbours more or less decidedly genteel. Mr Vincy’s sister had made a wealthy match in accepting Mr Bulstrode, who, however, as a man not born in the town, and altogether of dimly-known origin, was considered to have done well in uniting himself with a real Middlemarch family; on the other hand, Mr Vincy had descended a little, having taken an innkeeper’s daughter. But on this side too there was a cheering sense of money; for Mrs Vincy’s sister had been second wife to rich old Mr Featherstone, and had died childless years ago, so that her nephews and nieces might be supposed to touch the affections of the widower. And it happened that Mr Bulstrode and Mr Featherstone, two of Peacock’s most important patients, had, from different causes, given an especially good reception to his successor, who had raised some partisanship as well as discussion. Mr Wrench, medical attendant to the Vincy family, very early had grounds for thinking lightly of Lydgate’s professional discretion, and there was no report about him which was not retailed at the Vincys’, where visitors were frequent. Mr Vincy was more inclined to general good-fellowship than to taking sides, but there was no need for him to be hasty in making any new man’s acquaintance. Rosamond silently wished that her father would invite Mr Lydgate. She was tired of the faces and figures she had always been used to—the various irregular profiles and gaits and turns of phrase distinguishing those Middlemarch young men whom she had known as boys. She had been at school with girls of higher position, whose brothers, she felt sure, it would have been possible for her to be more interested in, than in these inevitable Middlemarch companions. But she would not have chosen to mention her wish to her father; and he, for his part, was in no hurry on the subject. An alderman about to be mayor must by-and-by enlarge his dinner-parties, but at present there were plenty of guests at his well-spread table.

That table often remained covered with the relics of the family breakfast long after Mr Vincy had gone with his second son to the warehouse, and when Miss Morgan was already far on in morning lessons with the younger girls in the schoolroom. It awaited the family laggard, who found any sort of inconvenience (to others) less disagreeable than getting up when he was called. This was the case one morning of the October in which we have lately seen Mr Casaubon visiting the Grange; and though the room was a little overheated with the fire, which had sent the spaniel panting to a remote corner, Rosamond, for some reason, continued to sit at her embroidery longer than usual, now and then giving herself a little shake, and laying her work on her knee to contemplate it with an air of hesitating weariness. Her mamma, who had returned from an excursion to the kitchen, sat on the other side of the small work-table with an air of more entire placidity, until, the clock again giving notice that it was going to strike, she looked up from the lace-mending which was occupying her plump fingers and rang the bell.

‘Knock at Mr Fred’s door again, Pritchard, and tell him it has struck half-past ten.’

This was said without any change in the radiant good-humour of Mrs Vincy’s face, in which forty-five years had delved neither angles nor parallels; and pushing back her pink cap-strings, she let her work rest on her lap, while she looked admiringly at her daughter.

‘Mamma,’ said Rosamond, ‘when Fred comes down I wish you would not let him have red herrings. I cannot bear the smell of them all over the house at this hour of the morning.’

‘Oh, my dear, you are so hard on your brothers! It is the only fault I have to find with you. You are the sweetest temper in the world, but you are so tetchy with your brothers.’

‘Not tetchy, mamma: you never hear me speak in an unladylike way.’

‘Well, but you want to deny them things.’

‘Brothers are so unpleasant.’

‘Oh, my dear, you must allow for young men. Be thankful if they have good hearts. A woman must learn to put up with little things. You will be married some day.’

‘Not to any one who is like Fred.’

‘Don’t decry your own brother, my dear. Few young men have less against them, although he couldn’t take his degree—I’m sure I can’t understand why, for he seems to me most clever. And you know yourself he was thought equal to the best society at college. So particular as you are, my dear, I wonder you are not glad to have such a gentlemanly young man for a brother. You are always finding fault with Bob because he is not Fred.’

‘Oh, no, mamma, only because he is Bob.’

‘Well, my dear, you will not find any Middlemarch young man who has not something against him.’

‘But’—here Rosamond’s face broke into a smile which suddenly revealed two dimples. She herself thought unfavourably of these dimples and smiled little in general society. ‘But I shall not marry any Middlemarch young man.’

‘So it seems, my love, for you have as good as refused the pick of them; and if there’s better to be had, I’m sure there’s no girl better deserves it.’

‘Excuse me, mamma—I wish you would not say, “the pick of them”.’

‘Why, what else are they?’

‘I mean, mamma, it is rather a vulgar expression.’

‘Very likely, my dear; I never was a good speaker. What should I say?’

‘The best of them.’

‘Why, that seems just as plain and common. If I had had time to think, I should have said, “the most superior young men”. But with your education you must know.’

‘What must Rosy know, mother?’ said Mr Fred, who had slid in unobserved through the half-open door while the ladies were bending over their work, and now going up to the fire stood with his back towards it, warming the soles of his slippers.

‘Whether it’s right to say “superior young men”,’ said Mrs Vincy, ringing the bell.

‘Oh, there are so many superior teas and sugars now. Superior is getting to be shopkeepers’ slang.’

‘Are you beginning to dislike slang, then?’ said Rosamond, with mild gravity.

‘Only the wrong sort. All choice of words is slang. It marks a class.’

‘There is correct English: that is not slang.’

‘I beg your pardon: correct English is the slang of prigs who write history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of poets.’

‘You will say anything, Fred, to gain your point.’

‘Well, tell me whether it is slang or poetry to call an ox a leg-plaiter.’

‘Of course you can call it poetry if you like.’

‘Aha, Miss Rosy, you don’t know Homer from slang. I shall invent a new game; I shall write bits of slang and poetry on slips, and give them to you to separate.’

‘Dear me, how amusing it is to hear young people talk!’ said Mrs Vincy, with cheerful admiration.

‘Have you got nothing else for my breakfast, Pritchard?’ said Fred, to the servant who brought in coffee and buttered toast; while he walked round the table surveying the ham, potted beef, and other cold remnants, with an air of silent rejection, and polite forbearance from signs of disgust.

‘Should you like eggs, sir?’

‘Eggs, no! Bring me a grilled bone.’

‘Really, Fred,’ said Rosamond, when the servant had left the room, ‘if you must have hot things for breakfast, I wish you would come down earlier. You can get up at six o’clock to go out hunting; I cannot understand why you find it so difficult to get up on other mornings.’

‘That is your want of understanding, Rosy. I can get up to go hunting because I like it.’

‘What would you think of me if I came down two hours after every one else and ordered grilled bone?’

‘I should think you were an uncommonly fast young lady,’ said Fred, eating his toast with the utmost composure.

‘I cannot see why brothers are to make themselves disagreeable, any more than sisters.’

‘I don’t make myself disagreeable; it is you who find me so. Disagreeable is a word that describes your feelings and not my actions.’

‘I think it describes the smell of grilled bone.’

‘Not at all. It describes a sensation in your little nose associated with certain finicking notions which are the classics of Mrs Lemon’s school. Look at my mother: you don’t see her objecting to everything except what she does herself. She is my notion of a pleasant woman.’

‘Bless you both, my dears, and don’t quarrel,’ said Mrs Vincy, with motherly cordiality. ‘Come, Fred, tell us all about the new doctor. How is your uncle pleased with him?’

‘Pretty well, I think. He asks Lydgate all sorts of questions and then screws up his face while he hears the answers, as if they were pinching his toes. That’s his way. Ah, here comes my grilled bone.’

‘But how came you to stay out so late, my dear? You only said you were going to your uncle’s.’

‘Oh, I dined at Plymdale’s. We had whist. Lydgate was there too.’

‘And what do you think of him? He is very gentlemanly, I suppose. They say he is of excellent family—his relations quite county people.’

‘Yes,’ said Fred, ‘There was a Lydgate at John’s who spent no end of money. I find this man is a second cousin of his. But rich men may have very poor devils for second cousins.’

‘It always makes a difference, though, to be of good family,’ said Rosamond, with a tone of decision which showed that she had thought on this subject. Rosamond felt that she might have been happier if she had not been the daughter of a Middlemarch manufacturer. She disliked anything which reminded her that her mother’s father had been an innkeeper. Certainly any one remembering the fact might think that Mrs Vincy had the air of a very handsome good-humoured landlady, accustomed to the most capricious orders of gentlemen.

‘I thought it was odd his name was Tertius,’ said the bright-faced matron, ‘but of course it’s a name in the family. But now, tell us exactly what sort of man he is.’

‘Oh, tallish, dark, clever-talks well—rather a prig, I think.’

‘I never can make out what you mean by a prig,’ said Rosamond.

‘A fellow who wants to show that he has opinions.’

‘Why, my dear, doctors must have opinions,’ said Mrs Vincy. ‘What are they there for else?’

‘Yes, mother, the opinions they are paid for. But a prig is a fellow who is always making you a present of his opinions.’

‘I suppose Mary Garth admires Mr Lydgate,’ said Rosamond, not without a touch of innuendo.

‘Really, I can’t say,’ said Fred, rather glumly, as he left the table, and taking up a novel which he had brought down with him, threw himself into an armchair. ‘If you are jealous of her, go oftener to Stone Court yourself and eclipse her.’

‘I wish you would not be so vulgar, Fred. If you have finished, pray ring the bell.’

‘It is true, though—what your brother says, Rosamond,’ Mrs Vincy began, when the servant had cleared the table. ‘It is a thousand pities you haven’t patience to go and see your uncle more, so proud of you as he is, and wanted you to live with him. There’s no knowing what he might have done for you as well as for Fred. God knows, I’m fond of having you at home with me, but I can part with my children for their good. And now it stands to reason that your uncle Featherstone will do something for Mary Garth.’

‘Mary Garth can bear being at Stone Court, because she likes that better than being a governess,’ said Rosamond, folding up her work. ‘I would rather not have anything left to me if I must earn it by enduring much of my uncle’s cough and his ugly relations.’

‘He can’t be long for this world, my dear; I wouldn’t hasten his end, but what with asthma and that inward complaint, let us hope there is something better for him in another. And I have no ill-will towards Mary Garth, but there’s justice to be thought of. And Mr Featherstone’s first wife brought him no money, as my sister did. Her nieces and nephews can’t have so much claim as my sister’s. And I must say I think Mary Garth a dreadful plain girl—more fit for a governess.’

‘Every one would not agree with you there, mother,’ said Fred, who seemed to be able to read and listen too.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs Vincy, wheeling skilfully, ‘if she had some fortune left her,—a man marries his wife’s relations, and the Garths are so poor, and live in such a small way. But I shall leave you to your studies, my dear; for I must go and do some shopping.’

‘Fred’s studies are not very deep,’ said Rosamond, rising with her mamma, ‘he is only reading a novel.’

‘Well, well, by-and-by he’ll go to his Latin and things,’ said Mrs Vincy, soothingly, stroking her son’s head. ‘There’s a fire in the smoking-room on purpose. It’s your father’s wish, you know—Fred, my dear—and I always tell him you will be good, and go to college again to take your degree.’

Fred drew his mother’s hand down to his lips, but said nothing.

‘I suppose you are not going out riding to-day?’ said Rosamond, lingering a little after her mamma was gone.

‘Papa says I may have the chestnut to ride now.’

‘You can go with me to-morrow, if you like. Only I am going to Stone Court, remember.’

‘I want the ride so much, it is indifferent to me where we go.’ Rosamond really wished to go to Stone Court, of all other places.

‘Oh, I say, Rosy,’ said Fred, as she was passing out of the room, ‘if you are going to the piano, let me come and play some airs with you.’

‘Pray do not ask me this morning.’

‘Why not this morning?’

‘Really, Fred, I wish you would leave off playing the flute. A man looks very silly playing the flute. And you play so out of tune.’

‘When next any one makes love to you, Miss Rosamond, I will tell how obliging you are’

‘Why should you expect me to oblige you by hearing you play the flute, any more than I should expect you to oblige me by not playing it?’

‘And why should you expect me to take you out riding?’

This question led to an adjustment, for Rosamond had set her mind on that particular ride.

So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour’s practice of ‘Ar hyd y nos,’ ‘Ye banks and braes,’ and other favourite airs from his Instructor on the Flute; a wheezy performance, into which he threw much ambition and an irrepressible hopefulness.

CHAPTER 12

‘He had more tow on his distaffe

Than Gerveis knew.’

—Chaucer.

The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning, lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and to spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave each field a particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them from childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place in mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope of the old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; the huddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of approach; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and valleys with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travel far to see in later life, and see larger but not more beautiful. These are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls—the things they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart standing between their father’s knees while he drove leisurely.

But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we have seen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it was into Lowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple of miles’ riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end of the first half, the house was already visible, looking as if it had been arrested in its growth towards stone mansion by an unexpected budding of farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it from becoming anything more than the substantial dwelling of a gentleman farmer. It was not the less agreeable an object in the distance for the cluster of pinnacled corn-ricks which balanced the fine row of walnuts on the right.

Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig on the circular drive before the front door.

‘Dear me,’ said Rosamond, ‘I hope none of my uncle’s horrible relations are there.’

‘They are, though. That is Mrs Waule’s gig—the last yellow gig left, I should think. When I see Mrs Waule in it, I understand how yellow can have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal than a hearse. But then Mrs Waule always has black crape on. How does she manage it, Rosy? Her friends can’t always be dying.’

‘I don’t know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical,’ said Rosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would have fully accounted for perpetual crape. ‘And not poor,’ she added, after a moment’s pause.

‘No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules and Featherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don’t want to spend anything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, and are afraid of a farthing going away from their side of the family. But I believe he hates them all.’

The Mrs Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes of these distant connections, had happened to say this very morning (not at all with a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral tone, as of a voice heard through cotton wool) that she did not wish ‘to enjoy their good opinion.’ She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother’s hearth, and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she had been Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother’s name had been made free with by those who had no right to it.

‘What are you driving at there?’ said Mr Featherstone, holding his stick between his knees and settling his wig, while he, gave her a momentary sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught of cold air and set him coughing.

Mrs Waule had to defer her answer till he was quiet again, till Mary Garth had supplied him with fresh syrup, and he had begun to rub the gold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. It was a bright fire, but it made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint of Mrs Waule’s face, which was as neutral as her voice; having mere chinks for eyes, and lips that hardly moved in speaking.

‘The doctors can’t master that cough, brother. It’s just like what I have; for I’m your own sister, constitution and everything. But, as I was saying, it’s a pity Mrs Vincy’s family can’t be better conducted.’

‘Tchah! you said nothing o’ the sort. You said somebody had made free with my name.’

‘And no more than can be proved, if what everybody says is true. My brother Solomon tells me it’s the talk up and down in Middlemarch how unsteady young Vincy is, and has been for ever gambling at billiards since home he came.’

‘Nonsense! What’s a game at billiards? It’s a good gentlemanly game; and young Vincy is not a clodhopper. If your son John took to billiards, now, he’d make a fool of himself.’

‘Your nephew John never took to billiards or any other game, brother, and is far from losing hundreds of pounds, which, if what everybody says is true, must be found somewhere else than out of Mr Vincy the father’s pocket. For they say he’s been losing money for years, though nobody would think so, to see him go coursing and keeping open house as they do. And I’ve heard say Mr Bulstrode condemns Mrs Vincy beyond anything for her flightiness, and spoiling her children so.’

‘What’s Bulstrode to me? I don’t bank with him.’

‘Well, Mrs Bulstrode is Mr Vincy’s own sister, and they do say that Mr Vincy mostly trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourself, brother, when a woman past forty has pink strings always flying, and that light way of laughing at everything, it’s very unbecoming. But indulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay their debts is another. And it’s openly said that young Vincy has raised money on his expectations. I don’t say what expectations. Miss Garth hears me, and is welcome to tell again. I know young people hang together.’

‘No, thank you, Mrs Waule,’ said Mary Garth. ‘I dislike hearing scandal too much to wish to repeat it.’

Mr Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a brief convulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuineness as an old whist-player’s chuckle over a bad hand. Still looking at the fire, he said—

‘And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn’t got expectations? Such a fine, spirited fellow is like enough to have ’em.’

There was a slight pause before Mrs Waule replied, and when she did so, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though her face was still dry.

‘Whether or no, brother, it is naturally painful to me and my brother Solomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint being such as may carry you off sudden, and people who are no more Featherstones than the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning on your property coming to them. And me your own sister, and Solomon your own brother! And if that’s to be it, what has it pleased the Almighty to make families for?’ Here Mrs Waule’s tears fell, but with moderation.

‘Come, out with it, Jane!’ said Mr Featherstone, looking at her. ‘You mean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance him money on what he says he knows about my will, eh?’

‘I never said so, brother’ (Mrs Waule’s voice had again become dry and unshaken). ‘It was told me by my brother Solomon last night when he called coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat, me being a widow, and my son John only three-and-twenty, though steady beyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and not one, but many.’

‘Stuff and nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it. It’s all a got-up story. Go to the window, missy; I thought I heard a horse. See if the doctor’s coming.’

‘Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever else he may be—and I don’t deny he has oddities—has made his will and parted his property equal between such kin as he’s friends with; though, for my part, I think there are times when some should be considered more than others. But Solomon makes it no secret what he means to do.’

‘The more fool he!’ said Mr Featherstone, with some difficulty; breaking into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth to stand near him, so that she did not find out whose horses they were which presently paused stamping on the gravel before the door.

Before Mr Featherstone’s cough was quiet, Rosamond entered, bearing up her riding-habit with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs Waule, who said stiffly, ‘How do you do, miss?’ smiled and nodded silently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing should cease, and allow her uncle to notice her.

‘Heyday, miss,’ he said at last, ‘you have a fine colour. Where’s Fred?’

‘Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently.’

‘Sit down, sit down. Mrs Waule, you’d better go.’

Even those neighbours who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox, had never accused him of being insincerely polite, and his sister was quite used to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he marked his sense of blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to think that entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included in the Almighty’s intentions about families. She rose slowly without any sign of resentment, and said in her usual muffled monotone, ‘Brother, I hope the new doctor will be able to do something for you. Solomon says there’s great talk of his cleverness. I’m sure it’s my wish you should be spared. And there’s none more ready to nurse you than your own sister and your own nieces, if you’d only say the word. There’s Rebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you know.’