Middlemarch
to your studies, my dear; for I must go and do some shopping.”
“Fred’s studies are not very deep,” said Rosamond, rising with her
mamma, “he is only reading a novel.”
“Well, well, by-and-by he’ll go to his Latin and things,” said Mrs.
Vincy, soothingly, stroking her son’s head. “There’s a fire in the
smoking-room on purpose. It’s your father’s wish, you know—Fred, my
dear—and I always tell him you will be good, and go to college again to
take your degree.”
Fred drew his mother’s hand down to his lips, but said nothing.
“I suppose you are not going out riding to-day?” said Rosamond,
lingering a little after her mamma was gone.
“No; why?”
“Papa says I may have the chestnut to ride now.”
“You can go with me to-morrow, if you like. Only I am going to Stone
Court, remember.”
“I want to ride so much, it is indifferent to me where we go.” Rosamond
really wished to go to Stone Court, of all other places.
“Oh, I say, Rosy,” said Fred, as she was passing out of the room, “if
you are going to the piano, let me come and play some airs with you.”
“Pray do not ask me this morning.”
“Why not this morning?”
“Really, Fred, I wish you would leave off playing the flute. A man
looks very silly playing the flute. And you play so out of tune.”
“When next any one makes love to you, Miss Rosamond, I will tell him
how obliging you are.”
“Why should you expect me to oblige you by hearing you play the flute,
any more than I should expect you to oblige me by not playing it?”
“And why should you expect me to take you out riding?”
This question led to an adjustment, for Rosamond had set her mind on
that particular ride.
So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour’s practice of “Ar hyd y nos,”
“Ye banks and braes,” and other favorite airs from his “Instructor on
the Flute;” a wheezy performance, into which he threw much ambition and
an irrepressible hopefulness.
CHAPTER XII.
He had more tow on his distaffe
Than Gerveis knew.
—CHAUCER.
The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning,
lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows and
pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and to
spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave each field a
particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them from
childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and trees
leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place in
mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope
of the old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; the
huddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of
approach; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering
wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and
valleys with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travel
far to see in later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful. These
are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred
souls—the things they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart
standing between their father’s knees while he drove leisurely.
But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we have
seen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it was into
Lowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple of miles’
riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end of
the first half, the house was already visible, looking as if it had
been arrested in its growth toward a stone mansion by an unexpected
budding of farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it from
becoming anything more than the substantial dwelling of a gentleman
farmer. It was not the less agreeable an object in the distance for the
cluster of pinnacled corn-ricks which balanced the fine row of walnuts
on the right.
Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig on
the circular drive before the front door.
“Dear me,” said Rosamond, “I hope none of my uncle’s horrible relations
are there.”
“They are, though. That is Mrs. Waule’s gig—the last yellow gig left, I
should think. When I see Mrs. Waule in it, I understand how yellow can
have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal than a
hearse. But then Mrs. Waule always has black crape on. How does she
manage it, Rosy? Her friends can’t always be dying.”
“I don’t know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical,” said
Rosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would have
fully accounted for perpetual crape. “And, not poor,” she added, after
a moment’s pause.
“No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules and
Featherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don’t want to spend
anything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, and are
afraid of a farthing going away from their side of the family. But I
believe he hates them all.”
The Mrs. Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes of these
distant connections, had happened to say this very morning (not at all
with a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral tone, as of a voice
heard through cotton wool) that she did not wish “to enjoy their good
opinion.” She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother’s hearth,
and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she had
been Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother’s
name had been made free with by those who had no right to it.
“What are you driving at there?” said Mr. Featherstone, holding his
stick between his knees and settling his wig, while he gave her a
momentary sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught of
cold air and set him coughing.
Mrs. Waule had to defer her answer till he was quiet again, till Mary
Garth had supplied him with fresh syrup, and he had begun to rub the
gold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. It was a bright
fire, but it made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint of
Mrs. Waule’s face, which was as neutral as her voice; having mere
chinks for eyes, and lips that hardly moved in speaking.
“The doctors can’t master that cough, brother. It’s just like what I
have; for I’m your own sister, constitution and everything. But, as I
was saying, it’s a pity Mrs. Vincy’s family can’t be better conducted.”
“Tchah! you said nothing o’ the sort. You said somebody had made free
with my name.”
“And no more than can be proved, if what everybody says is true. My
brother Solomon tells me it’s the talk up and down in Middlemarch how
unsteady young Vincy is, and has been forever gambling at billiards
since home he came.”
“Nonsense! What’s a game at billiards? It’s a good gentlemanly game;
and young Vincy is not a clodhopper. If your son John took to
billiards, now, he’d make a fool of himself.”
“Your nephew John never took to billiards or any other game, brother,
and is far from losing hundreds of pounds, which, if what everybody
says is true, must be found somewhere else than out of Mr. Vincy the
father’s pocket. For they say he’s been losing money for years, though
nobody would think so, to see him go coursing and keeping open house as
they do. And I’ve heard say Mr. Bulstrode condemns Mrs. Vincy beyond
anything for her flightiness, and spoiling her children so.”
“What’s Bulstrode to me? I don’t bank with him.”
“Well, Mrs. Bulstrode is Mr. Vincy’s own sister, and they do say that
Mr. Vincy mostly trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourself,
brother, when a woman past forty has pink strings always flying, and
that light way of laughing at everything, it’s very unbecoming. But
indulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay their
debts is another. And it’s openly said that young Vincy has raised
money on his expectations. I don’t say what expectations. Miss Garth
hears me, and is welcome to tell again. I know young people hang
together.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Waule,” said Mary Garth. “I dislike hearing
scandal too much to wish to repeat it.”
Mr. Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a brief
convulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuineness as an
old whist-player’s chuckle over a bad hand. Still looking at the fire,
he said—
“And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn’t got expectations? Such a
fine, spirited fellow is like enough to have ’em.”
There was a slight pause before Mrs. Waule replied, and when she did
so, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though her
face was still dry.
“Whether or no, brother, it is naturally painful to me and my brother
Solomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint being such
as may carry you off sudden, and people who are no more Featherstones
than the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning on your property
coming to _them_. And me your own sister, and Solomon your own brother!
And if that’s to be it, what has it pleased the Almighty to make
families for?” Here Mrs. Waule’s tears fell, but with moderation.
“Come, out with it, Jane!” said Mr. Featherstone, looking at her. “You
mean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance him money
on what he says he knows about my will, eh?”
“I never said so, brother” (Mrs. Waule’s voice had again become dry and
unshaken). “It was told me by my brother Solomon last night when he
called coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat, me
being a widow, and my son John only three-and-twenty, though steady
beyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and not
one, but many.”
“Stuff and nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it. It’s all a got-up
story. Go to the window, missy; I thought I heard a horse. See if the
doctor’s coming.”
“Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever else he
may be—and I don’t deny he has oddities—has made his will and parted
his property equal between such kin as he’s friends with; though, for
my part, I think there are times when some should be considered more
than others. But Solomon makes it no secret what he means to do.”
“The more fool he!” said Mr. Featherstone, with some difficulty;
breaking into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth to
stand near him, so that she did not find out whose horses they were
which presently paused stamping on the gravel before the door.
Before Mr. Featherstone’s cough was quiet, Rosamond entered, bearing up
her riding-habit with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs.
Waule, who said stiffly, “How do you do, miss?” smiled and nodded
silently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing should cease,
and allow her uncle to notice her.
“Heyday, miss!” he said at last, “you have a fine color. Where’s Fred?”
“Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently.”
“Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Waule, you’d better go.”
Even those neighbors who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox, had
never accused him of being insincerely polite, and his sister was quite
used to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he marked his sense
of blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to think that
entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included in
the Almighty’s intentions about families. She rose slowly without any
sign of resentment, and said in her usual muffled monotone, “Brother, I
hope the new doctor will be able to do something for you. Solomon says
there’s great talk of his cleverness. I’m sure it’s my wish you should
be spared. And there’s none more ready to nurse you than your own
sister and your own nieces, if you’d only say the word. There’s
Rebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you know.”
“Ay, ay, I remember—you’ll see I’ve remembered ’em all—all dark and
ugly. They’d need have some money, eh? There never was any beauty in