Middlemarch
old Featherstone and keeping watch against Mary Garth, who appeared a
less tolerable daughter-in-law in proportion as Fred’s illness
disappeared.
Aunt Bulstrode, for example, came a little oftener into Lowick Gate to
see Rosamond, now she was alone. For Mrs. Bulstrode had a true sisterly
feeling for her brother; always thinking that he might have married
better, but wishing well to the children. Now Mrs. Bulstrode had a
long-standing intimacy with Mrs. Plymdale. They had nearly the same
preferences in silks, patterns for underclothing, china-ware, and
clergymen; they confided their little troubles of health and household
management to each other, and various little points of superiority on
Mrs. Bulstrode’s side, namely, more decided seriousness, more
admiration for mind, and a house outside the town, sometimes served to
give color to their conversation without dividing them—well-meaning
women both, knowing very little of their own motives.
Mrs. Bulstrode, paying a morning visit to Mrs. Plymdale, happened to
say that she could not stay longer, because she was going to see poor
Rosamond.
“Why do you say ‘poor Rosamond’?” said Mrs. Plymdale, a round-eyed
sharp little woman, like a tamed falcon.
“She is so pretty, and has been brought up in such thoughtlessness. The
mother, you know, had always that levity about her, which makes me
anxious for the children.”
“Well, Harriet, if I am to speak my mind,” said Mrs. Plymdale, with
emphasis, “I must say, anybody would suppose you and Mr. Bulstrode
would be delighted with what has happened, for you have done everything
to put Mr. Lydgate forward.”
“Selina, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, in genuine surprise.
“Not but what I am truly thankful for Ned’s sake,” said Mrs. Plymdale.
“He could certainly better afford to keep such a wife than some people
can; but I should wish him to look elsewhere. Still a mother has
anxieties, and some young men would take to a bad life in consequence.
Besides, if I was obliged to speak, I should say I was not fond of
strangers coming into a town.”
“I don’t know, Selina,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, with a little emphasis in
her turn. “Mr. Bulstrode was a stranger here at one time. Abraham and
Moses were strangers in the land, and we are told to entertain
strangers. And especially,” she added, after a slight pause, “when they
are unexceptionable.”
“I was not speaking in a religious sense, Harriet. I spoke as a
mother.”
“Selina, I am sure you have never heard me say anything against a niece
of mine marrying your son.”
“Oh, it is pride in Miss Vincy—I am sure it is nothing else,” said Mrs.
Plymdale, who had never before given all her confidence to “Harriet” on
this subject. “No young man in Middlemarch was good enough for her: I
have heard her mother say as much. That is not a Christian spirit, I
think. But now, from all I hear, she has found a man as proud as
herself.”
“You don’t mean that there is anything between Rosamond and Mr.
Lydgate?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, rather mortified at finding out her own
ignorance.
“Is it possible you don’t know, Harriet?”
“Oh, I go about so little; and I am not fond of gossip; I really never
hear any. You see so many people that I don’t see. Your circle is
rather different from ours.”
“Well, but your own niece and Mr. Bulstrode’s great favorite—and yours
too, I am sure, Harriet! I thought, at one time, you meant him for
Kate, when she is a little older.”
“I don’t believe there can be anything serious at present,” said Mrs.
Bulstrode. “My brother would certainly have told me.”
“Well, people have different ways, but I understand that nobody can see
Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate together without taking them to be engaged.
However, it is not my business. Shall I put up the pattern of mittens?”
After this Mrs. Bulstrode drove to her niece with a mind newly
weighted. She was herself handsomely dressed, but she noticed with a
little more regret than usual that Rosamond, who was just come in and
met her in walking-dress, was almost as expensively equipped. Mrs.
Bulstrode was a feminine smaller edition of her brother, and had none
of her husband’s low-toned pallor. She had a good honest glance and
used no circumlocution.
“You are alone, I see, my dear,” she said, as they entered the
drawing-room together, looking round gravely. Rosamond felt sure that
her aunt had something particular to say, and they sat down near each
other. Nevertheless, the quilling inside Rosamond’s bonnet was so
charming that it was impossible not to desire the same kind of thing
for Kate, and Mrs. Bulstrode’s eyes, which were rather fine, rolled
round that ample quilled circuit, while she spoke.
“I have just heard something about you that has surprised me very much,
Rosamond.”
“What is that, aunt?” Rosamond’s eyes also were roaming over her aunt’s
large embroidered collar.
“I can hardly believe it—that you should be engaged without my knowing
it—without your father’s telling me.” Here Mrs. Bulstrode’s eyes
finally rested on Rosamond’s, who blushed deeply, and said—
“I am not engaged, aunt.”
“How is it that every one says so, then—that it is the town’s talk?”
“The town’s talk is of very little consequence, I think,” said
Rosamond, inwardly gratified.
“Oh, my dear, be more thoughtful; don’t despise your neighbors so.
Remember you are turned twenty-two now, and you will have no fortune:
your father, I am sure, will not be able to spare you anything. Mr.
Lydgate is very intellectual and clever; I know there is an attraction
in that. I like talking to such men myself; and your uncle finds him
very useful. But the profession is a poor one here. To be sure, this
life is not everything; but it is seldom a medical man has true
religious views—there is too much pride of intellect. And you are not
fit to marry a poor man.
“Mr. Lydgate is not a poor man, aunt. He has very high connections.”
“He told me himself he was poor.”
“That is because he is used to people who have a high style of living.”
“My dear Rosamond, _you_ must not think of living in high style.”
Rosamond looked down and played with her reticule. She was not a fiery
young lady and had no sharp answers, but she meant to live as she
pleased.
“Then it is really true?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, looking very earnestly
at her niece. “You are thinking of Mr. Lydgate—there is some
understanding between you, though your father doesn’t know. Be open, my
dear Rosamond: Mr. Lydgate has really made you an offer?”
Poor Rosamond’s feelings were very unpleasant. She had been quite easy
as to Lydgate’s feeling and intention, but now when her aunt put this
question she did not like being unable to say Yes. Her pride was hurt,
but her habitual control of manner helped her.
“Pray excuse me, aunt. I would rather not speak on the subject.”
“You would not give your heart to a man without a decided prospect, I
trust, my dear. And think of the two excellent offers I know of that
you have refused!—and one still within your reach, if you will not
throw it away. I knew a very great beauty who married badly at last, by
doing so. Mr. Ned Plymdale is a nice young man—some might think
good-looking; and an only son; and a large business of that kind is
better than a profession. Not that marrying is everything. I would have
you seek first the kingdom of God. But a girl should keep her heart
within her own power.”
“I should never give it to Mr. Ned Plymdale, if it were. I have already
refused him. If I loved, I should love at once and without change,”
said Rosamond, with a great sense of being a romantic heroine, and
playing the part prettily.
“I see how it is, my dear,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, in a melancholy voice,
rising to go. “You have allowed your affections to be engaged without
return.”
“No, indeed, aunt,” said Rosamond, with emphasis.
“Then you are quite confident that Mr. Lydgate has a serious attachment
to you?”
Rosamond’s cheeks by this time were persistently burning, and she felt
much mortification. She chose to be silent, and her aunt went away all
the more convinced.
Mr. Bulstrode in things worldly and indifferent was disposed to do what
his wife bade him, and she now, without telling her reasons, desired
him on the next opportunity to find out in conversation with Mr.
Lydgate whether he had any intention of marrying soon. The result was a
decided negative. Mr. Bulstrode, on being cross-questioned, showed that
Lydgate had spoken as no man would who had any attachment that could
issue in matrimony. Mrs. Bulstrode now felt that she had a serious duty
before her, and she soon managed to arrange a _tête-à-tête_ with
Lydgate, in which she passed from inquiries about Fred Vincy’s health,
and expressions of her sincere anxiety for her brother’s large family,
to general remarks on the dangers which lay before young people with
regard to their settlement in life. Young men were often wild and
disappointing, making little return for the money spent on them, and a
girl was exposed to many circumstances which might interfere with her
prospects.
“Especially when she has great attractions, and her parents see much
company,” said Mrs. Bulstrode. “Gentlemen pay her attention, and
engross her all to themselves, for the mere pleasure of the moment, and
that drives off others. I think it is a heavy responsibility, Mr.
Lydgate, to interfere with the prospects of any girl.” Here Mrs.
Bulstrode fixed her eyes on him, with an unmistakable purpose of
warning, if not of rebuke.
“Clearly,” said Lydgate, looking at her—perhaps even staring a little
in return. “On the other hand, a man must be a great coxcomb to go
about with a notion that he must not pay attention to a young lady lest
she should fall in love with him, or lest others should think she
must.”
“Oh, Mr. Lydgate, you know well what your advantages are. You know that
our young men here cannot cope with you. Where you frequent a house it
may militate very much against a girl’s making a desirable settlement
in life, and prevent her from accepting offers even if they are made.”
Lydgate was less flattered by his advantage over the Middlemarch
Orlandos than he was annoyed by the perception of Mrs. Bulstrode’s
meaning. She felt that she had spoken as impressively as it was
necessary to do, and that in using the superior word “militate” she had
thrown a noble drapery over a mass of particulars which were still
evident enough.
Lydgate was fuming a little, pushed his hair back with one hand, felt
curiously in his waistcoat-pocket with the other, and then stooped to
beckon the tiny black spaniel, which had the insight to decline his
hollow caresses. It would not have been decent to go away, because he
had been dining with other guests, and had just taken tea. But Mrs.
Bulstrode, having no doubt that she had been understood, turned the
conversation.
Solomon’s Proverbs, I think, have omitted to say, that as the sore
palate findeth grit, so an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendoes. The
next day Mr. Farebrother, parting from Lydgate in the street, supposed
that they should meet at Vincy’s in the evening. Lydgate answered
curtly, no—he had work to do—he must give up going out in the evening.
“What! you are going to get lashed to the mast, eh, and are stopping
your ears?” said the Vicar. “Well, if you don’t mean to be won by the
sirens, you are right to take precautions in time.”
A few days before, Lydgate would have taken no notice of these words as
anything more than the Vicar’s usual way of putting things. They seemed
now to convey an innuendo which confirmed the impression that he had
been making a fool of himself and behaving so as to be misunderstood:
not, he believed, by Rosamond herself; she, he felt sure, took