Middlemarch
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 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-humor of Mrs.
Vincy’s face, in which forty-five years had delved neither angles nor
parallels; and pushing back her pink capstrings, 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 unfavorably 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-humored 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 arm-chair. “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