Chapter Chapter 52 · Chapter LII

“His heart

The lowliest duties on itself did lay.”

—WORDSWORTH.

On that June evening when Mr. Farebrother knew that he was to have the

Lowick living, there was joy in the old fashioned parlor, and even the

portraits of the great lawyers seemed to look on with satisfaction. His

mother left her tea and toast untouched, but sat with her usual pretty

primness, only showing her emotion by that flush in the cheeks and

brightness in the eyes which give an old woman a touching momentary

identity with her far-off youthful self, and saying decisively—

“The greatest comfort, Camden, is that you have deserved it.”

“When a man gets a good berth, mother, half the deserving must come

after,” said the son, brimful of pleasure, and not trying to conceal

it. The gladness in his face was of that active kind which seems to

have energy enough not only to flash outwardly, but to light up busy

vision within: one seemed to see thoughts, as well as delight, in his

glances.

“Now, aunt,” he went on, rubbing his hands and looking at Miss Noble,

who was making tender little beaver-like noises, “There shall be

sugar-candy always on the table for you to steal and give to the

children, and you shall have a great many new stockings to make

presents of, and you shall darn your own more than ever!”

Miss Noble nodded at her nephew with a subdued half-frightened laugh,

conscious of having already dropped an additional lump of sugar into

her basket on the strength of the new preferment.

“As for you, Winny”—the Vicar went on—“I shall make no difficulty about

your marrying any Lowick bachelor—Mr. Solomon Featherstone, for

example, as soon as I find you are in love with him.”

Miss Winifred, who had been looking at her brother all the while and

crying heartily, which was her way of rejoicing, smiled through her

tears and said, “You must set me the example, Cam: _you_ must marry

now.”

“With all my heart. But who is in love with me? I am a seedy old

fellow,” said the Vicar, rising, pushing his chair away and looking

down at himself. “What do you say, mother?”

“You are a handsome man, Camden: though not so fine a figure of a man

as your father,” said the old lady.

“I wish you would marry Miss Garth, brother,” said Miss Winifred. “She

would make us so lively at Lowick.”

“Very fine! You talk as if young women were tied up to be chosen, like

poultry at market; as if I had only to ask and everybody would have

me,” said the Vicar, not caring to specify.

“We don’t want everybody,” said Miss Winifred. “But _you_ would like

Miss Garth, mother, shouldn’t you?”

“My son’s choice shall be mine,” said Mrs. Farebrother, with majestic

discretion, “and a wife would be most welcome, Camden. You will want

your whist at home when we go to Lowick, and Henrietta Noble never was

a whist-player.” (Mrs. Farebrother always called her tiny old sister by

that magnificent name.)

“I shall do without whist now, mother.”

“Why so, Camden? In my time whist was thought an undeniable amusement

for a good churchman,” said Mrs. Farebrother, innocent of the meaning

that whist had for her son, and speaking rather sharply, as at some

dangerous countenancing of new doctrine.

“I shall be too busy for whist; I shall have two parishes,” said the

Vicar, preferring not to discuss the virtues of that game.

He had already said to Dorothea, “I don’t feel bound to give up St.

Botolph’s. It is protest enough against the pluralism they want to

reform if I give somebody else most of the money. The stronger thing is

not to give up power, but to use it well.”

“I have thought of that,” said Dorothea. “So far as self is concerned,

I think it would be easier to give up power and money than to keep

them. It seems very unfitting that I should have this patronage, yet I

felt that I ought not to let it be used by some one else instead of

me.”

“It is I who am bound to act so that you will not regret your power,”

said Mr. Farebrother.

His was one of the natures in which conscience gets the more active

when the yoke of life ceases to gall them. He made no display of

humility on the subject, but in his heart he felt rather ashamed that

his conduct had shown laches which others who did not get benefices

were free from.

“I used often to wish I had been something else than a clergyman,” he

said to Lydgate, “but perhaps it will be better to try and make as good

a clergyman out of myself as I can. That is the well-beneficed point of

view, you perceive, from which difficulties are much simplified,” he

ended, smiling.

The Vicar did feel then as if his share of duties would be easy. But

Duty has a trick of behaving unexpectedly—something like a heavy friend

whom we have amiably asked to visit us, and who breaks his leg within

our gates.

Hardly a week later, Duty presented itself in his study under the

disguise of Fred Vincy, now returned from Omnibus College with his

bachelor’s degree.

“I am ashamed to trouble you, Mr. Farebrother,” said Fred, whose fair

open face was propitiating, “but you are the only friend I can consult.

I told you everything once before, and you were so good that I can’t

help coming to you again.”

“Sit down, Fred, I’m ready to hear and do anything I can,” said the

Vicar, who was busy packing some small objects for removal, and went on

with his work.

“I wanted to tell you—” Fred hesitated an instant and then went on

plungingly, “I might go into the Church now; and really, look where I

may, I can’t see anything else to do. I don’t like it, but I know it’s

uncommonly hard on my father to say so, after he has spent a good deal

of money in educating me for it.” Fred paused again an instant, and

then repeated, “and I can’t see anything else to do.”

“I did talk to your father about it, Fred, but I made little way with

him. He said it was too late. But you have got over one bridge now:

what are your other difficulties?”

“Merely that I don’t like it. I don’t like divinity, and preaching, and

feeling obliged to look serious. I like riding across country, and

doing as other men do. I don’t mean that I want to be a bad fellow in

any way; but I’ve no taste for the sort of thing people expect of a

clergyman. And yet what else am I to do? My father can’t spare me any

capital, else I might go into farming. And he has no room for me in his

trade. And of course I can’t begin to study for law or physic now, when

my father wants me to earn something. It’s all very well to say I’m

wrong to go into the Church; but those who say so might as well tell me

to go into the backwoods.”

Fred’s voice had taken a tone of grumbling remonstrance, and Mr.

Farebrother might have been inclined to smile if his mind had not been

too busy in imagining more than Fred told him.

“Have you any difficulties about doctrines—about the Articles?” he

said, trying hard to think of the question simply for Fred’s sake.

“No; I suppose the Articles are right. I am not prepared with any

arguments to disprove them, and much better, cleverer fellows than I am

go in for them entirely. I think it would be rather ridiculous in me to

urge scruples of that sort, as if I were a judge,” said Fred, quite

simply.

“I suppose, then, it has occurred to you that you might be a fair

parish priest without being much of a divine?”

“Of course, if I am obliged to be a clergyman, I shall try and do my

duty, though I mayn’t like it. Do you think any body ought to blame

me?”

“For going into the Church under the circumstances? That depends on

your conscience, Fred—how far you have counted the cost, and seen what

your position will require of you. I can only tell you about myself,

that I have always been too lax, and have been uneasy in consequence.”

“But there is another hindrance,” said Fred, coloring. “I did not tell

you before, though perhaps I may have said things that made you guess

it. There is somebody I am very fond of: I have loved her ever since we

were children.”

“Miss Garth, I suppose?” said the Vicar, examining some labels very

closely.

“Yes. I shouldn’t mind anything if she would have me. And I know I

could be a good fellow then.”

“And you think she returns the feeling?”

“She never will say so; and a good while ago she made me promise not to

speak to her about it again. And she has set her mind especially

against my being a clergyman; I know that. But I can’t give her up. I

do think she cares about me. I saw Mrs. Garth last night, and she said

that Mary was staying at Lowick Rectory with Miss Farebrother.”

“Yes, she is very kindly helping my sister. Do you wish to go there?”

“No, I want to ask a great favor of you. I am ashamed to bother you in

this way; but Mary might listen to what you said, if you mentioned the

subject to her—I mean about my going into the Church.”

“That is rather a delicate task, my dear Fred. I shall have to

presuppose your attachment to her; and to enter on the subject as you

wish me to do, will be asking her to tell me whether she returns it.”

“That is what I want her to tell you,” said Fred, bluntly. “I don’t

know what to do, unless I can get at her feeling.”

“You mean that you would be guided by that as to your going into the

Church?”

“If Mary said she would never have me I might as well go wrong in one

way as another.”

“That is nonsense, Fred. Men outlive their love, but they don’t outlive

the consequences of their recklessness.”

“Not my sort of love: I have never been without loving Mary. If I had

to give her up, it would be like beginning to live on wooden legs.”

“Will she not be hurt at my intrusion?”

“No, I feel sure she will not. She respects you more than any one, and

she would not put you off with fun as she does me. Of course I could

not have told any one else, or asked any one else to speak to her, but

you. There is no one else who could be such a friend to both of us.”

Fred paused a moment, and then said, rather complainingly, “And she

ought to acknowledge that I have worked in order to pass. She ought to

believe that I would exert myself for her sake.”

There was a moment’s silence before Mr. Farebrother laid down his work,

and putting out his hand to Fred said—

“Very well, my boy. I will do what you wish.”

That very day Mr. Farebrother went to Lowick parsonage on the nag which

he had just set up. “Decidedly I am an old stalk,” he thought, “the

young growths are pushing me aside.”

He found Mary in the garden gathering roses and sprinkling the petals

on a sheet. The sun was low, and tall trees sent their shadows across

the grassy walks where Mary was moving without bonnet or parasol. She

did not observe Mr. Farebrother’s approach along the grass, and had

just stooped down to lecture a small black-and-tan terrier, which would

persist in walking on the sheet and smelling at the rose-leaves as Mary

sprinkled them. She took his fore-paws in one hand, and lifted up the

forefinger of the other, while the dog wrinkled his brows and looked

embarrassed. “Fly, Fly, I am ashamed of you,” Mary was saying in a

grave contralto. “This is not becoming in a sensible dog; anybody would

think you were a silly young gentleman.”

“You are unmerciful to young gentlemen, Miss Garth,” said the Vicar,

within two yards of her.

Mary started up and blushed. “It always answers to reason with Fly,”

she said, laughingly.

“But not with young gentlemen?”

“Oh, with some, I suppose; since some of them turn into excellent men.”

“I am glad of that admission, because I want at this very moment to

interest you in a young gentleman.”

“Not a silly one, I hope,” said Mary, beginning to pluck the roses

again, and feeling her heart beat uncomfortably.

“No; though perhaps wisdom is not his strong point, but rather

affection and sincerity. However, wisdom lies more in those two

qualities than people are apt to imagine. I hope you know by those

marks what young gentleman I mean.”

“Yes, I think I do,” said Mary, bravely, her face getting more serious,

and her hands cold; “it must be Fred Vincy.”

“He has asked me to consult you about his going into the Church. I hope

you will not think that I consented to take a liberty in promising to

do so.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Farebrother,” said Mary, giving up the roses, and

folding her arms, but unable to look up, “whenever you have anything to

say to me I feel honored.”

“But before I enter on that question, let me just touch a point on

which your father took me into confidence; by the way, it was that very

evening on which I once before fulfilled a mission from Fred, just

after he had gone to college. Mr. Garth told me what happened on the

night of Featherstone’s death—how you refused to burn the will; and he

said that you had some heart-prickings on that subject, because you had

been the innocent means of hindering Fred from getting his ten thousand

pounds. I have kept that in mind, and I have heard something that may

relieve you on that score—may show you that no sin-offering is demanded

from you there.”

Mr. Farebrother paused a moment and looked at Mary. He meant to give

Fred his full advantage, but it would be well, he thought, to clear her

mind of any superstitions, such as women sometimes follow when they do

a man the wrong of marrying him as an act of atonement. Mary’s cheeks

had begun to burn a little, and she was mute.

“I mean, that your action made no real difference to Fred’s lot. I find

that the first will would not have been legally good after the burning

of the last; it would not have stood if it had been disputed, and you

may be sure it would have been disputed. So, on that score, you may

feel your mind free.”

“Thank you, Mr. Farebrother,” said Mary, earnestly. “I am grateful to

you for remembering my feelings.”

“Well, now I may go on. Fred, you know, has taken his degree. He has

worked his way so far, and now the question is, what is he to do? That

question is so difficult that he is inclined to follow his father’s

wishes and enter the Church, though you know better than I do that he

was quite set against that formerly. I have questioned him on the

subject, and I confess I see no insuperable objection to his being a

clergyman, as things go. He says that he could turn his mind to doing

his best in that vocation, on one condition. If that condition were

fulfilled I would do my utmost in helping Fred on. After a time—not, of

course, at first—he might be with me as my curate, and he would have so

much to do that his stipend would be nearly what I used to get as

vicar. But I repeat that there is a condition without which all this

good cannot come to pass. He has opened his heart to me, Miss Garth,

and asked me to plead for him. The condition lies entirely in your

feeling.”

Mary looked so much moved, that he said after a moment, “Let us walk a

little;” and when they were walking he added, “To speak quite plainly,

Fred will not take any course which would lessen the chance that you

would consent to be his wife; but with that prospect, he will try his

best at anything you approve.”

“I cannot possibly say that I will ever be his wife, Mr. Farebrother:

but I certainly never will be his wife if he becomes a clergyman. What

you say is most generous and kind; I don’t mean for a moment to correct

your judgment. It is only that I have my girlish, mocking way of

looking at things,” said Mary, with a returning sparkle of playfulness

in her answer which only made its modesty more charming.

“He wishes me to report exactly what you think,” said Mr. Farebrother.

“I could not love a man who is ridiculous,” said Mary, not choosing to

go deeper. “Fred has sense and knowledge enough to make him

respectable, if he likes, in some good worldly business, but I can

never imagine him preaching and exhorting, and pronouncing blessings,

and praying by the sick, without feeling as if I were looking at a

caricature. His being a clergyman would be only for gentility’s sake,

and I think there is nothing more contemptible than such imbecile

gentility. I used to think that of Mr. Crowse, with his empty face and

neat umbrella, and mincing little speeches. What right have such men to

represent Christianity—as if it were an institution for getting up

idiots genteelly—as if—” Mary checked herself. She had been carried

along as if she had been speaking to Fred instead of Mr. Farebrother.

“Young women are severe: they don’t feel the stress of action as men

do, though perhaps I ought to make you an exception there. But you

don’t put Fred Vincy on so low a level as that?”

“No, indeed, he has plenty of sense, but I think he would not show it

as a clergyman. He would be a piece of professional affectation.”

“Then the answer is quite decided. As a clergyman he could have no

hope?”

Mary shook her head.

“But if he braved all the difficulties of getting his bread in some

other way—will you give him the support of hope? May he count on

winning you?”

“I think Fred ought not to need telling again what I have already said

to him,” Mary answered, with a slight resentment in her manner. “I mean

that he ought not to put such questions until he has done something

worthy, instead of saying that he could do it.”

Mr. Farebrother was silent for a minute or more, and then, as they

turned and paused under the shadow of a maple at the end of a grassy

walk, said, “I understand that you resist any attempt to fetter you,

but either your feeling for Fred Vincy excludes your entertaining

another attachment, or it does not: either he may count on your

remaining single until he shall have earned your hand, or he may in any

case be disappointed. Pardon me, Mary—you know I used to catechise you

under that name—but when the state of a woman’s affections touches the

happiness of another life—of more lives than one—I think it would be

the nobler course for her to be perfectly direct and open.”

Mary in her turn was silent, wondering not at Mr. Farebrother’s manner

but at his tone, which had a grave restrained emotion in it. When the

strange idea flashed across her that his words had reference to

himself, she was incredulous, and ashamed of entertaining it. She had

never thought that any man could love her except Fred, who had espoused

her with the umbrella ring, when she wore socks and little strapped

shoes; still less that she could be of any importance to Mr.

Farebrother, the cleverest man in her narrow circle. She had only time

to feel that all this was hazy and perhaps illusory; but one thing was

clear and determined—her answer.

“Since you think it my duty, Mr. Farebrother, I will tell you that I

have too strong a feeling for Fred to give him up for any one else. I

should never be quite happy if I thought he was unhappy for the loss of

me. It has taken such deep root in me—my gratitude to him for always

loving me best, and minding so much if I hurt myself, from the time

when we were very little. I cannot imagine any new feeling coming to

make that weaker. I should like better than anything to see him worthy

of every one’s respect. But please tell him I will not promise to marry

him till then: I should shame and grieve my father and mother. He is

free to choose some one else.”

“Then I have fulfilled my commission thoroughly,” said Mr. Farebrother,

putting out his hand to Mary, “and I shall ride back to Middlemarch

forthwith. With this prospect before him, we shall get Fred into the

right niche somehow, and I hope I shall live to join your hands. God

bless you!”

“Oh, please stay, and let me give you some tea,” said Mary. Her eyes

filled with tears, for something indefinable, something like the

resolute suppression of a pain in Mr. Farebrother’s manner, made her

feel suddenly miserable, as she had once felt when she saw her father’s

hands trembling in a moment of trouble.

“No, my dear, no. I must get back.”

In three minutes the Vicar was on horseback again, having gone

magnanimously through a duty much harder than the renunciation of

whist, or even than the writing of penitential meditations.