Middlemarch
humiliation of these money affairs. But, my dear Rosamond, as a
question of pride, which I feel just as much as you can, it is surely
better to manage the thing ourselves, and let the servants see as
little of it as possible; and since you are my wife, there is no
hindering your share in my disgraces—if there were disgraces.”
Rosamond did not answer immediately, but at last she said, “Very well,
I will stay at home.”
“I shall not touch these jewels, Rosy. Take them away again. But I will
write out a list of plate that we may return, and that can be packed up
and sent at once.”
“The servants will know _that_,” said Rosamond, with the slightest
touch of sarcasm.
“Well, we must meet some disagreeables as necessities. Where is the
ink, I wonder?” said Lydgate, rising, and throwing the account on the
larger table where he meant to write.
Rosamond went to reach the inkstand, and after setting it on the table
was going to turn away, when Lydgate, who was standing close by, put
his arm round her and drew her towards him, saying—
“Come, darling, let us make the best of things. It will only be for a
time, I hope, that we shall have to be stingy and particular. Kiss me.”
His native warm-heartedness took a great deal of quenching, and it is a
part of manliness for a husband to feel keenly the fact that an
inexperienced girl has got into trouble by marrying him. She received
his kiss and returned it faintly, and in this way an appearance of
accord was recovered for the time. But Lydgate could not help looking
forward with dread to the inevitable future discussions about
expenditure and the necessity for a complete change in their way of
living.
CHAPTER LIX.
“They said of old the Soul had human shape,
But smaller, subtler than the fleshly self,
So wandered forth for airing when it pleased.
And see! beside her cherub-face there floats
A pale-lipped form aerial whispering
Its promptings in that little shell her ear.”
News is often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen
which the bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when
they are buzzing in search of their particular nectar. This fine
comparison has reference to Fred Vincy, who on that evening at Lowick
Parsonage heard a lively discussion among the ladies on the news which
their old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr. Casaubon’s
strange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his will made not long
before his death. Miss Winifred was astounded to find that her brother
had known the fact before, and observed that Camden was the most
wonderful man for knowing things and not telling them; whereupon Mary
Garth said that the codicil had perhaps got mixed up with the habits of
spiders, which Miss Winifred never would listen to. Mrs. Farebrother
considered that the news had something to do with their having only
once seen Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick, and Miss Noble made many small
compassionate mewings.
Fred knew little and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubons, and
his mind never recurred to that discussion till one day calling on
Rosamond at his mother’s request to deliver a message as he passed, he
happened to see Ladislaw going away. Fred and Rosamond had little to
say to each other now that marriage had removed her from collision with
the unpleasantness of brothers, and especially now that he had taken
what she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving up the
Church to take to such a business as Mr. Garth’s. Hence Fred talked by
preference of what he considered indifferent news, and “a propos of
that young Ladislaw” mentioned what he had heard at Lowick Parsonage.
Now Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, knew a great deal more than he told,
and when he had once been set thinking about the relation between Will
and Dorothea his conjectures had gone beyond the fact. He imagined that
there was a passionate attachment on both sides, and this struck him as
much too serious to gossip about. He remembered Will’s irritability
when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubon, and was the more circumspect. On
the whole his surmises, in addition to what he knew of the fact,
increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw, and made him
understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch after he had
said that he should go away. It was significant of the separateness
between Lydgate’s mind and Rosamond’s that he had no impulse to speak
to her on the subject; indeed, he did not quite trust her reticence
towards Will. And he was right there; though he had no vision of the
way in which her mind would act in urging her to speak.
When she repeated Fred’s news to Lydgate, he said, “Take care you don’t
drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy. He is likely to fly out as if
you insulted him. Of course it is a painful affair.”
Rosamond turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of
placid indifference. But the next time Will came when Lydgate was away,
she spoke archly about his not going to London as he had threatened.
“I know all about it. I have a confidential little bird,” said she,
showing very pretty airs of her head over the bit of work held high
between her active fingers. “There is a powerful magnet in this
neighborhood.”
“To be sure there is. Nobody knows that better than you,” said Will,
with light gallantry, but inwardly prepared to be angry.
“It is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and
foreseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much
like to marry, and no one who would so much like to marry her as a
certain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by making her
forfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman—and then—and
then—and then—oh, I have no doubt the end will be thoroughly romantic.”
“Great God! what do you mean?” said Will, flushing over face and ears,
his features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake. “Don’t
joke; tell me what you mean.”
“You don’t really know?” said Rosamond, no longer playful, and desiring
nothing better than to tell in order that she might evoke effects.
“No!” he returned, impatiently.
“Don’t know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs.
Casaubon marries you she is to forfeit all her property?”
“How do you know that it is true?” said Will, eagerly.
“My brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers.” Will started up from
his chair and reached his hat.
“I dare say she likes you better than the property,” said Rosamond,
looking at him from a distance.
“Pray don’t say any more about it,” said Will, in a hoarse undertone
extremely unlike his usual light voice. “It is a foul insult to her and
to me.” Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing
nothing.
“Now you are angry with _me_,” said Rosamond. “It is too bad to bear
_me_ malice. You ought to be obliged to me for telling you.”
“So I am,” said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul
which belongs to dreamers who answer questions.
“I expect to hear of the marriage,” said Rosamond, playfully.
“Never! You will never hear of the marriage!”
With those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, put out his hand to
Rosamond, still with the air of a somnambulist, and went away.
When he was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end
of the room, leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and
looking out of the window wearily. She was oppressed by ennui, and by
that dissatisfaction which in women’s minds is continually turning into
a trivial jealousy, referring to no real claims, springing from no
deeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoism, and yet capable
of impelling action as well as speech. “There really is nothing to care
for much,” said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking of the family at
Quallingham, who did not write to her; and that perhaps Tertius when he
came home would tease her about expenses. She had already secretly
disobeyed him by asking her father to help them, and he had ended
decisively by saying, “I am more likely to want help myself.”
CHAPTER LX.
Good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable.
—_Justice Shallow_.
A few days afterwards—it was already the end of August—there was an
occasion which caused some excitement in Middlemarch: the public, if it
chose, was to have the advantage of buying, under the distinguished
auspices of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, the furniture, books, and pictures
which anybody might see by the handbills to be the best in every kind,
belonging to Edwin Larcher, Esq. This was not one of the sales
indicating the depression of trade; on the contrary, it was due to Mr.
Larcher’s great success in the carrying business, which warranted his
purchase of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high style by
an illustrious Spa physician—furnished indeed with such large framefuls
of expensive flesh-painting in the dining-room, that Mrs. Larcher was
nervous until reassured by finding the subjects to be Scriptural. Hence
the fine opportunity to purchasers which was well pointed out in the
handbills of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, whose acquaintance with the history
of art enabled him to state that the hall furniture, to be sold without
reserve, comprised a piece of carving by a contemporary of Gibbons.
At Middlemarch in those times a large sale was regarded as a kind of
festival. There was a table spread with the best cold eatables, as at a
superior funeral; and facilities were offered for that
generous-drinking of cheerful glasses which might lead to generous and
cheerful bidding for undesirable articles. Mr. Larcher’s sale was the
more attractive in the fine weather because the house stood just at the
end of the town, with a garden and stables attached, in that pleasant
issue from Middlemarch called the London Road, which was also the road
to the New Hospital and to Mr. Bulstrode’s retired residence, known as
the Shrubs. In short, the auction was as good as a fair, and drew all
classes with leisure at command: to some, who risked making bids in
order simply to raise prices, it was almost equal to betting at the
races. The second day, when the best furniture was to be sold,
“everybody” was there; even Mr. Thesiger, the rector of St. Peter’s,
had looked in for a short time, wishing to buy the carved table, and
had rubbed elbows with Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Horrock. There was a
wreath of Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the large
table in the dining-room, where Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with
desk and hammer; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were
often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the door and the
large bow-window opening on to the lawn.
“Everybody” that day did not include Mr. Bulstrode, whose health could
not well endure crowds and draughts. But Mrs. Bulstrode had
particularly wished to have a certain picture—a “Supper at Emmaus,”
attributed in the catalogue to Guido; and at the last moment before the
day of the sale Mr. Bulstrode had called at the office of the
“Pioneer,” of which he was now one of the proprietors, to beg of Mr.
Ladislaw as a great favor that he would obligingly use his remarkable
knowledge of pictures on behalf of Mrs. Bulstrode, and judge of the
value of this particular painting—“if,” added the scrupulously polite
banker, “attendance at the sale would not interfere with the
arrangements for your departure, which I know is imminent.”
This proviso might have sounded rather satirically in Will’s ear if he
had been in a mood to care about such satire. It referred to an
understanding entered into many weeks before with the proprietors of
the paper, that he should be at liberty any day he pleased to hand over
the management to the subeditor whom he had been training; since he