Middlemarch
independent man. As to the Whigs, a man who goes with the thinkers is
not likely to be hooked on by any party. He may go with them up to a
certain point—up to a certain point, you know. But that is what you
ladies never understand.”
“Where your certain point is? No. I should like to be told how a man
can have any certain point when he belongs to no party—leading a roving
life, and never letting his friends know his address. ‘Nobody knows
where Brooke will be—there’s no counting on Brooke’—that is what people
say of you, to be quite frank. Now, do turn respectable. How will you
like going to Sessions with everybody looking shy on you, and you with
a bad conscience and an empty pocket?”
“I don’t pretend to argue with a lady on politics,” said Mr. Brooke,
with an air of smiling indifference, but feeling rather unpleasantly
conscious that this attack of Mrs. Cadwallader’s had opened the
defensive campaign to which certain rash steps had exposed him. “Your
sex are not thinkers, you know—_varium et mutabile semper_—that kind of
thing. You don’t know Virgil. I knew”—Mr. Brooke reflected in time that
he had not had the personal acquaintance of the Augustan poet—“I was
going to say, poor Stoddart, you know. That was what _he_ said. You
ladies are always against an independent attitude—a man’s caring for
nothing but truth, and that sort of thing. And there is no part of the
county where opinion is narrower than it is here—I don’t mean to throw
stones, you know, but somebody is wanted to take the independent line;
and if I don’t take it, who will?”
“Who? Why, any upstart who has got neither blood nor position. People
of standing should consume their independent nonsense at home, not hawk
it about. And you! who are going to marry your niece, as good as your
daughter, to one of our best men. Sir James would be cruelly annoyed:
it will be too hard on him if you turn round now and make yourself a
Whig sign-board.”
Mr. Brooke again winced inwardly, for Dorothea’s engagement had no
sooner been decided, than he had thought of Mrs. Cadwallader’s
prospective taunts. It might have been easy for ignorant observers to
say, “Quarrel with Mrs. Cadwallader;” but where is a country gentleman
to go who quarrels with his oldest neighbors? Who could taste the fine
flavor in the name of Brooke if it were delivered casually, like wine
without a seal? Certainly a man can only be cosmopolitan up to a
certain point.
“I hope Chettam and I shall always be good friends; but I am sorry to
say there is no prospect of his marrying my niece,” said Mr. Brooke,
much relieved to see through the window that Celia was coming in.
“Why not?” said Mrs. Cadwallader, with a sharp note of surprise. “It is
hardly a fortnight since you and I were talking about it.”
“My niece has chosen another suitor—has chosen him, you know. I have
had nothing to do with it. I should have preferred Chettam; and I
should have said Chettam was the man any girl would have chosen. But
there is no accounting for these things. Your sex is capricious, you
know.”
“Why, whom do you mean to say that you are going to let her marry?”
Mrs. Cadwallader’s mind was rapidly surveying the possibilities of
choice for Dorothea.
But here Celia entered, blooming from a walk in the garden, and the
greeting with her delivered Mr. Brooke from the necessity of answering
immediately. He got up hastily, and saying, “By the way, I must speak
to Wright about the horses,” shuffled quickly out of the room.
“My dear child, what is this?—this about your sister’s engagement?”
said Mrs. Cadwallader.
“She is engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon,” said Celia, resorting, as
usual, to the simplest statement of fact, and enjoying this opportunity
of speaking to the Rector’s wife alone.
“This is frightful. How long has it been going on?”
“I only knew of it yesterday. They are to be married in six weeks.”
“Well, my dear, I wish you joy of your brother-in-law.”
“I am so sorry for Dorothea.”
“Sorry! It is her doing, I suppose.”
“Yes; she says Mr. Casaubon has a great soul.”
“With all my heart.”
“Oh, Mrs. Cadwallader, I don’t think it can be nice to marry a man with
a great soul.”
“Well, my dear, take warning. You know the look of one now; when the
next comes and wants to marry you, don’t you accept him.”
“I’m sure I never should.”
“No; one such in a family is enough. So your sister never cared about
Sir James Chettam? What would you have said to _him_ for a
brother-in-law?”
“I should have liked that very much. I am sure he would have been a
good husband. Only,” Celia added, with a slight blush (she sometimes
seemed to blush as she breathed), “I don’t think he would have suited
Dorothea.”
“Not high-flown enough?”
“Dodo is very strict. She thinks so much about everything, and is so
particular about what one says. Sir James never seemed to please her.”
“She must have encouraged him, I am sure. That is not very creditable.”
“Please don’t be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. She thought
so much about the cottages, and she was rude to Sir James sometimes;
but he is so kind, he never noticed it.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, putting on her shawl, and rising, as if
in haste, “I must go straight to Sir James and break this to him. He
will have brought his mother back by this time, and I must call. Your
uncle will never tell him. We are all disappointed, my dear. Young
people should think of their families in marrying. I set a bad
example—married a poor clergyman, and made myself a pitiable object
among the De Bracys—obliged to get my coals by stratagem, and pray to
heaven for my salad oil. However, Casaubon has money enough; I must do
him that justice. As to his blood, I suppose the family quarterings are
three cuttle-fish sable, and a commentator rampant. By the bye, before
I go, my dear, I must speak to your Mrs. Carter about pastry. I want to
send my young cook to learn of her. Poor people with four children,
like us, you know, can’t afford to keep a good cook. I have no doubt
Mrs. Carter will oblige me. Sir James’s cook is a perfect dragon.”
In less than an hour, Mrs. Cadwallader had circumvented Mrs. Carter and
driven to Freshitt Hall, which was not far from her own parsonage, her
husband being resident in Freshitt and keeping a curate in Tipton.
Sir James Chettam had returned from the short journey which had kept
him absent for a couple of days, and had changed his dress, intending
to ride over to Tipton Grange. His horse was standing at the door when
Mrs. Cadwallader drove up, and he immediately appeared there himself,
whip in hand. Lady Chettam had not yet returned, but Mrs. Cadwallader’s
errand could not be despatched in the presence of grooms, so she asked
to be taken into the conservatory close by, to look at the new plants;
and on coming to a contemplative stand, she said—
“I have a great shock for you; I hope you are not so far gone in love
as you pretended to be.”
It was of no use protesting against Mrs. Cadwallader’s way of putting
things. But Sir James’s countenance changed a little. He felt a vague
alarm.
“I do believe Brooke is going to expose himself after all. I accused
him of meaning to stand for Middlemarch on the Liberal side, and he
looked silly and never denied it—talked about the independent line, and
the usual nonsense.”
“Is that all?” said Sir James, much relieved.
“Why,” rejoined Mrs. Cadwallader, with a sharper note, “you don’t mean
to say that you would like him to turn public man in that way—making a
sort of political Cheap Jack of himself?”
“He might be dissuaded, I should think. He would not like the expense.”
“That is what I told him. He is vulnerable to reason there—always a few
grains of common-sense in an ounce of miserliness. Miserliness is a
capital quality to run in families; it’s the safe side for madness to
dip on. And there must be a little crack in the Brooke family, else we
should not see what we are to see.”
“What? Brooke standing for Middlemarch?”
“Worse than that. I really feel a little responsible. I always told you
Miss Brooke would be such a fine match. I knew there was a great deal
of nonsense in her—a flighty sort of Methodistical stuff. But these
things wear out of girls. However, I am taken by surprise for once.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Cadwallader?” said Sir James. His fear lest
Miss Brooke should have run away to join the Moravian Brethren, or some
preposterous sect unknown to good society, was a little allayed by the
knowledge that Mrs. Cadwallader always made the worst of things. “What
has happened to Miss Brooke? Pray speak out.”
“Very well. She is engaged to be married.” Mrs. Cadwallader paused a
few moments, observing the deeply hurt expression in her friend’s face,
which he was trying to conceal by a nervous smile, while he whipped his
boot; but she soon added, “Engaged to Casaubon.”
Sir James let his whip fall and stooped to pick it up. Perhaps his face
had never before gathered so much concentrated disgust as when he
turned to Mrs. Cadwallader and repeated, “Casaubon?”
“Even so. You know my errand now.”
“Good God! It is horrible! He is no better than a mummy!” (The point of
view has to be allowed for, as that of a blooming and disappointed
rival.)
“She says, he is a great soul.—A great bladder for dried peas to rattle
in!” said Mrs. Cadwallader.
“What business has an old bachelor like that to marry?” said Sir James.
“He has one foot in the grave.”
“He means to draw it out again, I suppose.”
“Brooke ought not to allow it: he should insist on its being put off
till she is of age. She would think better of it then. What is a
guardian for?”
“As if you could ever squeeze a resolution out of Brooke!”
“Cadwallader might talk to him.”
“Not he! Humphrey finds everybody charming. I never can get him to
abuse Casaubon. He will even speak well of the bishop, though I tell
him it is unnatural in a beneficed clergyman; what can one do with a
husband who attends so little to the decencies? I hide it as well as I
can by abusing everybody myself. Come, come, cheer up! you are well rid
of Miss Brooke, a girl who would have been requiring you to see the
stars by daylight. Between ourselves, little Celia is worth two of her,
and likely after all to be the better match. For this marriage to
Casaubon is as good as going to a nunnery.”
“Oh, on my own account—it is for Miss Brooke’s sake I think her friends
should try to use their influence.”
“Well, Humphrey doesn’t know yet. But when I tell him, you may depend
on it he will say, ‘Why not? Casaubon is a good fellow—and young—young
enough.’ These charitable people never know vinegar from wine till they
have swallowed it and got the colic. However, if I were a man I should
prefer Celia, especially when Dorothea was gone. The truth is, you have
been courting one and have won the other. I can see that she admires
you almost as much as a man expects to be admired. If it were any one
but me who said so, you might think it exaggeration. Good-by!”
Sir James handed Mrs. Cadwallader to the phaeton, and then jumped on
his horse. He was not going to renounce his ride because of his
friend’s unpleasant news—only to ride the faster in some other
direction than that of Tipton Grange.
Now, why on earth should Mrs. Cadwallader have been at all busy about
Miss Brooke’s marriage; and why, when one match that she liked to think
she had a hand in was frustrated, should she have straightway contrived
the preliminaries of another? Was there any ingenious plot, any
hide-and-seek course of action, which might be detected by a careful
telescopic watch? Not at all: a telescope might have swept the parishes
of Tipton and Freshitt, the whole area visited by Mrs. Cadwallader in