الفصل الفصل 31 · 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 cases 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 of living.”

“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 earnestly

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.