Middlemarch
This was not the first time that Mr. Bulstrode had begun by admonishing
Mr. Vincy, and had ended by seeing a very unsatisfactory reflection of
himself in the coarse unflattering mirror which that manufacturer’s
mind presented to the subtler lights and shadows of his fellow-men; and
perhaps his experience ought to have warned him how the scene would
end. But a full-fed fountain will be generous with its waters even in
the rain, when they are worse than useless; and a fine fount of
admonition is apt to be equally irrepressible.
It was not in Mr. Bulstrode’s nature to comply directly in consequence
of uncomfortable suggestions. Before changing his course, he always
needed to shape his motives and bring them into accordance with his
habitual standard. He said, at last—
“I will reflect a little, Vincy. I will mention the subject to Harriet.
I shall probably send you a letter.”
“Very well. As soon as you can, please. I hope it will all be settled
before I see you to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XIV.
“Follows here the strict receipt
For that sauce to dainty meat,
Named Idleness, which many eat
By preference, and call it sweet:
_First watch for morsels, like a hound
Mix well with buffets, stir them round
With good thick oil of flatteries, And froth with mean self-lauding
lies.
Serve warm: the vessels you must choose
To keep it in are dead men’s shoes._”
Mr. Bulstrode’s consultation of Harriet seemed to have had the effect
desired by Mr. Vincy, for early the next morning a letter came which
Fred could carry to Mr. Featherstone as the required testimony.
The old gentleman was staying in bed on account of the cold weather,
and as Mary Garth was not to be seen in the sitting-room, Fred went
up-stairs immediately and presented the letter to his uncle, who,
propped up comfortably on a bed-rest, was not less able than usual to
enjoy his consciousness of wisdom in distrusting and frustrating
mankind. He put on his spectacles to read the letter, pursing up his
lips and drawing down their corners.
“_Under the circumstances I will not decline to state my
conviction_—tchah! what fine words the fellow puts! He’s as fine as an
auctioneer—_that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of
money on bequests promised by Mr. Featherstone_—promised? who said I
had ever promised? I promise nothing—I shall make codicils as long as I
like—_and that considering the nature of such a proceeding, it is
unreasonable to presume that a young man of sense and character would
attempt it_—ah, but the gentleman doesn’t say you are a young man of
sense and character, mark you that, sir!—_As to my own concern with any
report of such a nature, I distinctly affirm that I never made any
statement to the effect that your son had borrowed money on any
property that might accrue to him on Mr. Featherstone’s demise_—bless
my heart! ‘property’—accrue—demise! Lawyer Standish is nothing to him.
He couldn’t speak finer if he wanted to borrow. Well,” Mr. Featherstone
here looked over his spectacles at Fred, while he handed back the
letter to him with a contemptuous gesture, “you don’t suppose I believe
a thing because Bulstrode writes it out fine, eh?”
Fred colored. “You wished to have the letter, sir. I should think it
very likely that Mr. Bulstrode’s denial is as good as the authority
which told you what he denies.”
“Every bit. I never said I believed either one or the other. And now
what d’ you expect?” said Mr. Featherstone, curtly, keeping on his
spectacles, but withdrawing his hands under his wraps.
“I expect nothing, sir.” Fred with difficulty restrained himself from
venting his irritation. “I came to bring you the letter. If you like I
will bid you good morning.”
“Not yet, not yet. Ring the bell; I want missy to come.”
It was a servant who came in answer to the bell.
“Tell missy to come!” said Mr. Featherstone, impatiently. “What
business had she to go away?” He spoke in the same tone when Mary came.
“Why couldn’t you sit still here till I told you to go? I want my
waistcoat now. I told you always to put it on the bed.”
Mary’s eyes looked rather red, as if she had been crying. It was clear
that Mr. Featherstone was in one of his most snappish humors this
morning, and though Fred had now the prospect of receiving the
much-needed present of money, he would have preferred being free to
turn round on the old tyrant and tell him that Mary Garth was too good
to be at his beck. Though Fred had risen as she entered the room, she
had barely noticed him, and looked as if her nerves were quivering with
the expectation that something would be thrown at her. But she never
had anything worse than words to dread. When she went to reach the
waistcoat from a peg, Fred went up to her and said, “Allow me.”
“Let it alone! You bring it, missy, and lay it down here,” said Mr.
Featherstone. “Now you go away again till I call you,” he added, when
the waistcoat was laid down by him. It was usual with him to season his
pleasure in showing favor to one person by being especially
disagreeable to another, and Mary was always at hand to furnish the
condiment. When his own relatives came she was treated better. Slowly
he took out a bunch of keys from the waistcoat pocket, and slowly he
drew forth a tin box which was under the bed-clothes.
“You expect I am going to give you a little fortune, eh?” he said,
looking above his spectacles and pausing in the act of opening the lid.
“Not at all, sir. You were good enough to speak of making me a present
the other day, else, of course, I should not have thought of the
matter.” But Fred was of a hopeful disposition, and a vision had
presented itself of a sum just large enough to deliver him from a
certain anxiety. When Fred got into debt, it always seemed to him
highly probable that something or other—he did not necessarily conceive
what—would come to pass enabling him to pay in due time. And now that
the providential occurrence was apparently close at hand, it would have
been sheer absurdity to think that the supply would be short of the
need: as absurd as a faith that believed in half a miracle for want of
strength to believe in a whole one.
The deep-veined hands fingered many bank-notes one after the other,
laying them down flat again, while Fred leaned back in his chair,
scorning to look eager. He held himself to be a gentleman at heart, and
did not like courting an old fellow for his money. At last, Mr.
Featherstone eyed him again over his spectacles and presented him with
a little sheaf of notes: Fred could see distinctly that there were but
five, as the less significant edges gaped towards him. But then, each
might mean fifty pounds. He took them, saying—
“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” and was going to roll them up
without seeming to think of their value. But this did not suit Mr.
Featherstone, who was eying him intently.
“Come, don’t you think it worth your while to count ’em? You take money
like a lord; I suppose you lose it like one.”
“I thought I was not to look a gift-horse in the mouth, sir. But I
shall be very happy to count them.”
Fred was not so happy, however, after he had counted them. For they
actually presented the absurdity of being less than his hopefulness had
decided that they must be. What can the fitness of things mean, if not
their fitness to a man’s expectations? Failing this, absurdity and
atheism gape behind him. The collapse for Fred was severe when he found
that he held no more than five twenties, and his share in the higher
education of this country did not seem to help him. Nevertheless he
said, with rapid changes in his fair complexion—
“It is very handsome of you, sir.”
“I should think it is,” said Mr. Featherstone, locking his box and
replacing it, then taking off his spectacles deliberately, and at
length, as if his inward meditation had more deeply convinced him,
repeating, “I should think it handsome.”
“I assure you, sir, I am very grateful,” said Fred, who had had time to
recover his cheerful air.
“So you ought to be. You want to cut a figure in the world, and I
reckon Peter Featherstone is the only one you’ve got to trust to.” Here
the old man’s eyes gleamed with a curiously mingled satisfaction in the
consciousness that this smart young fellow relied upon him, and that
the smart young fellow was rather a fool for doing so.
“Yes, indeed: I was not born to very splendid chances. Few men have
been more cramped than I have been,” said Fred, with some sense of
surprise at his own virtue, considering how hardly he was dealt with.
“It really seems a little too bad to have to ride a broken-winded
hunter, and see men, who, are not half such good judges as yourself,
able to throw away any amount of money on buying bad bargains.”
“Well, you can buy yourself a fine hunter now. Eighty pound is enough
for that, I reckon—and you’ll have twenty pound over to get yourself
out of any little scrape,” said Mr. Featherstone, chuckling slightly.
“You are very good, sir,” said Fred, with a fine sense of contrast
between the words and his feeling.
“Ay, rather a better uncle than your fine uncle Bulstrode. You won’t
get much out of his spekilations, I think. He’s got a pretty strong
string round your father’s leg, by what I hear, eh?”
“My father never tells me anything about his affairs, sir.”
“Well, he shows some sense there. But other people find ’em out without
his telling. _He’ll_ never have much to leave you: he’ll most-like die
without a will—he’s the sort of man to do it—let ’em make him mayor of
Middlemarch as much as they like. But you won’t get much by his dying
without a will, though you _are_ the eldest son.”
Fred thought that Mr. Featherstone had never been so disagreeable
before. True, he had never before given him quite so much money at
once.
“Shall I destroy this letter of Mr. Bulstrode’s, sir?” said Fred,
rising with the letter as if he would put it in the fire.
“Ay, ay, I don’t want it. It’s worth no money to me.”
Fred carried the letter to the fire, and thrust the poker through it
with much zest. He longed to get out of the room, but he was a little
ashamed before his inner self, as well as before his uncle, to run away
immediately after pocketing the money. Presently, the farm-bailiff came
up to give his master a report, and Fred, to his unspeakable relief,
was dismissed with the injunction to come again soon.
He had longed not only to be set free from his uncle, but also to find
Mary Garth. She was now in her usual place by the fire, with sewing in
her hands and a book open on the little table by her side. Her eyelids
had lost some of their redness now, and she had her usual air of
self-command.
“Am I wanted up-stairs?” she said, half rising as Fred entered.
“No; I am only dismissed, because Simmons is gone up.”
Mary sat down again, and resumed her work. She was certainly treating
him with more indifference than usual: she did not know how
affectionately indignant he had felt on her behalf up-stairs.
“May I stay here a little, Mary, or shall I bore you?”
“Pray sit down,” said Mary; “you will not be so heavy a bore as Mr.
John Waule, who was here yesterday, and he sat down without asking my
leave.”
“Poor fellow! I think he is in love with you.”
“I am not aware of it. And to me it is one of the most odious things in
a girl’s life, that there must always be some supposition of falling in
love coming between her and any man who is kind to her, and to whom she
is grateful. I should have thought that I, at least, might have been
safe from all that. I have no ground for the nonsensical vanity of
fancying everybody who comes near me is in love with me.”
Mary did not mean to betray any feeling, but in spite of herself she
ended in a tremulous tone of vexation.