Dorothea, dear, if you don’t mind—if you are not very busy—suppose we looked at mamma’s jewels to-day, and divided them? It is exactly six months to-day since uncle gave them to you, and you have not looked at them yet.


What a wonderful little almanac you are, Celia! Is it six calendar or six lunar months?


It is the last day of September now, and it was the first of April when uncle gave them to you. You know, he said that he had forgotten them till then. I believe you have never thought of them since you locked them up in the cabinet here.


Well, dear, we should never wear them, you know.


I think, dear, we are wanting in respect to mamma’s memory, to put them by and take no notice of them. And, necklaces are quite usual now; and Madame Poincon, who was stricter in some things even than you are, used to wear ornaments. And Christians generally—surely there are women in heaven now who wore jewels.


You would like to wear them? Of course, then, let us have them out. Why did you not tell me before? But the keys, the keys!


They are here,


Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and get out the jewel-box.


There, Celia! you can wear that with your Indian muslin. But this cross you must wear with your dark dresses.


O Dodo, you must keep the cross yourself.


No, no, dear, no,


Yes, indeed you must; it would suit you—in your black dress, now. You might wear that.


Not for the world, not for the world. A cross is the last thing I would wear as a trinket.


Then you will think it wicked in me to wear it,


No, dear, no. Souls have complexions too: what will suit one will not suit another.


But you might like to keep it for mamma’s sake.


No, I have other things of mamma’s—her sandal-wood box which I am so fond of—plenty of things. In fact, they are all yours, dear. We need discuss them no longer. There—take away your property.


But how can I wear ornaments if you, who are the elder sister, will never wear them?


Nay, Celia, that is too much to ask, that I should wear trinkets to keep you in countenance. If I were to put on such a necklace as that, I should feel as if I had been pirouetting. The world would go round with me, and I should not know how to walk.


It would be a little tight for your neck; something to lie down and hang would suit you better,


How very beautiful these gems are! It is strange how deeply colors seem to penetrate one, like scent. I suppose that is the reason why gems are used as spiritual emblems in the Revelation of St. John. They look like fragments of heaven. I think that emerald is more beautiful than any of them.


And there is a bracelet to match it. We did not notice this at first.


They are lovely,


You would like those, Dorothea. You must keep that ring and bracelet—if nothing else. But see, these agates are very pretty and quiet.


Yes! I will keep these—this ring and bracelet. Yet what miserable men find such things, and work at them, and sell them! Yes, dear, I will keep these. But take all the rest away, and the casket.


Shall you wear them in company?


Perhaps. I cannot tell to what level I may sink.


Here, Kitty, come and look at my plan; I shall think I am a great architect, if I have not got incompatible stairs and fireplaces.


Dime; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre un caballo rucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza un yelmo de oro?


Lo que veo y columbro, no es sino un hombre sobre un as no pardo como el mio, que trae sobre la cabeza una cosa que relumbra.


Pues ese es el yelmo de Mambrino. Seest thou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a dapple-gray steed, and weareth a golden helmet?


What I see, is nothing but a man on a gray ass like my own, who carries something shiny on his head.


Just so, and that resplendent object is the helmet of Mambrino.


Sir Humphry Davy? Well, now, Sir Humphry Davy; I dined with him years ago at Cartwright’s, and Wordsworth was there too—the poet Wordsworth, you know. Now there was something singular. I was at Cambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him—and I dined with him twenty years afterwards at Cartwright’s. There’s an oddity in things, now. But Davy was there: he was a poet too. Or, as I may say, Wordsworth was poet one, and Davy was poet two. That was true in every sense, you know.


I am reading the Agricultural Chemistry, because I am going to take one of the farms into my own hands, and see if something cannot be done in setting a good pattern of farming among my tenants. Do you approve of that, Miss Brooke?


A great mistake, Chettam, going into electrifying your land and that kind of thing, and making a parlor of your cow-house. It won’t do. I went into science a great deal myself at one time; but I saw it would not do. It leads to everything; you can let nothing alone. No, no—see that your tenants don’t sell their straw, and that kind of thing; and give them draining-tiles, you know. But your fancy farming will not do—the most expensive sort of whistle you can buy: you may as well keep a pack of hounds.


Surely, it is better to spend money in finding out how men can make the most of the land which supports them all, than in keeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it. It is not a sin to make yourself poor in performing experiments for the good of all.


Young ladies don’t understand political economy, you know. I remember when we were all reading Adam Smith. There is a book, now. I took in all the new ideas at one time—human perfectibility, now. But some say, history moves in circles; and that may be very well argued; I have argued it myself. The fact is, human reason may carry you a little too far—over the hedge, in fact. It carried me a good way at one time; but I saw it would not do. I pulled up; I pulled up in time. But not too hard. I have always been in favor of a little theory: we must have Thought; else we shall be landed back in the dark ages. But talking of books, there is Southey’s ‘Peninsular War.’ I am reading that of a morning. You know Southey?


No. I have little leisure for such literature just now. I have been using up my eyesight on old characters lately; the fact is, I want a reader for my evenings; but I am fastidious in voices, and I cannot endure listening to an imperfect reader. It is a misfortune, in some senses: I feed too much on the inward sources; I live too much with the dead. My mind is something like the ghost of an ancient, wandering about the world and trying mentally to construct it as it used to be, in spite of ruin and confusing changes. But I find it necessary to use the utmost caution about my eyesight.


But you are fond of riding, Miss Brooke. I should have thought you would enter a little into the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would let me send over a chestnut horse for you to try. It has been trained for a lady. I saw you on Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag not worthy of you. My groom shall bring Corydon for you every day, if you will only mention the time.


Thank you, you are very good. I mean to give up riding. I shall not ride any more,


No, that is too hard. Your sister is given to self-mortification, is she not?


I think she is. She likes giving up.


If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would be self-indulgence, not self-mortification. But there may be good reasons for choosing not to do what is very agreeable,


Exactly. You give up from some high, generous motive.


No, indeed, not exactly. I did not say that of myself,


I made a great study of theology at one time. I know something of all schools. I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you know Wilberforce?


No.


Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I went into Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on the independent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at philanthropy. Yes, but I have documents. I began a long while ago to collect documents. They want arranging, but when a question has struck me, I have written to somebody and got an answer. I have documents at my back. But now, how do you arrange your documents?


In pigeon-holes partly,


Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, but everything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper is in A or Z.


I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle. I would letter them all, and then make a list of subjects under each letter.


You have an excellent secretary at hand, you perceive.


No, no. I cannot let young ladies meddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty.


How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is!


Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever saw. He is remarkably like the portrait of Locke. He has the same deep eye-sockets.


Had Locke those two white moles with hairs on them?


Oh, I dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him,


Mr. Casaubon is so sallow.


All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of a cochon de lait.


Dodo!


Why should I make it before the occasion came? It is a good comparison: the match is perfect. It is so painful in you, Celia, that you will look at human beings as if they were merely animals with a toilet, and never see the great soul in a man’s face.


Has Mr. Casaubon a great soul?


Yes, I believe he has,


He talks very little,


There is no one for him to talk to.


What shall we do?


Let me hope that you will rescind that resolution about the horse, Miss Brooke,


I am aware of it. I think it would do Celia good—if she would take to it.


But you are such a perfect horsewoman.


Excuse me; I have had very little practice, and I should be easily thrown.


Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be a perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband.


You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind that I ought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should never correspond to your pattern of a lady.


I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It is not possible that you should think horsemanship wrong.


It is quite possible that I should think it wrong for me.


Oh, why?


We must not inquire too curiously into motives. Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble in the utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keep the germinating grain away from the light.


Certainly. Miss Brooke shall not be urged to tell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I am sure her reasons would do her honor.


He thinks with me, or rather, he thinks a whole world of which my thought is but a poor twopenny mirror. And his feelings too, his whole experience—what a lake compared with my little pool!


Look here—here is all about Greece. Rhamnus, the ruins of Rhamnus—you are a great Grecian, now. I don’t know whether you have given much study to the topography. I spent no end of time in making out these things—Helicon, now. Here, now!—‘We started the next morning for Parnassus, the double-peaked Parnassus.’ All this volume is about Greece, you know,


I should learn everything then. It would be my duty to study that I might help him the better in his great works. There would be nothing trivial about our lives. Every-day things with us would mean the greatest things. It would be like marrying Pascal. I should learn to see the truth by the same light as great men have seen it by. And then I should know what to do, when I got older: I should see how it was possible to lead a grand life here—now—in England. I don’t feel sure about doing good in any way now: everything seems like going on a mission to a people whose language I don’t know;—unless it were building good cottages—there can be no doubt about that. Oh, I hope I should be able to get the people well housed in Lowick! I will draw plenty of plans while I have time.


How delightful to meet you, Miss Brooke. It has hastened the pleasure I was looking forward to.


I have brought a little petitioner, or rather, I have brought him to see if he will be approved before his petition is offered.


It is painful to me to see these creatures that are bred merely as pets,


I believe all the petting that is given them does not make them happy. They are too helpless: their lives are too frail. A weasel or a mouse that gets its own living is more interesting. I like to think that the animals about us have souls something like our own, and either carry on their own little affairs or can be companions to us, like Monk here. Those creatures are parasitic.


I am so glad I know that you do not like them. I should never keep them for myself, but ladies usually are fond of these Maltese dogs. Here, John, take this dog, will you?


You must not judge of Celia’s feeling from mine. I think she likes these small pets. She had a tiny terrier once, which she was very fond of. It made me unhappy, because I was afraid of treading on it. I am rather short-sighted.


You have your own opinion about everything, Miss Brooke, and it is always a good opinion. Do you know, I envy you that,


I don’t quite understand what you mean.


Your power of forming an opinion. I can form an opinion of persons. I know when I like people. But about other matters, do you know, I have often a difficulty in deciding. One hears very sensible things said on opposite sides.


Or that seem sensible. Perhaps we don’t always discriminate between sense and nonsense.


Exactly. But you seem to have the power of discrimination.


On the contrary, I am often unable to decide. But that is from ignorance. The right conclusion is there all the same, though I am unable to see it.


I think there are few who would see it more readily. Do you know, Lovegood was telling me yesterday that you had the best notion in the world of a plan for cottages—quite wonderful for a young lady, he thought. You had a real genus, to use his expression. He said you wanted Mr. Brooke to build a new set of cottages, but he seemed to think it hardly probable that your uncle would consent. Do you know, that is one of the things I wish to do—I mean, on my own estate. I should be so glad to carry out that plan of yours, if you would let me see it. Of course, it is sinking money; that is why people object to it. Laborers can never pay rent to make it answer. But, after all, it is worth doing.


Worth doing! yes, indeed. I think we deserve to be beaten out of our beautiful houses with a scourge of small cords—all of us who let tenants live in such sties as we see round us. Life in cottages might be happier than ours, if they were real houses fit for human beings from whom we expect duties and affections.


Will you show me your plan?


Yes, certainly. I dare say it is very faulty. But I have been examining all the plans for cottages in Loudon’s book, and picked out what seem the best things. Oh what a happiness it would be to set the pattern about here! I think instead of Lazarus at the gate, we should put the pigsty cottages outside the park-gate.


He thinks that Dodo cares about him, and she only cares about her plans. Yet I am not certain that she would refuse him if she thought he would let her manage everything and carry out all her notions. And how very uncomfortable Sir James would be! I cannot bear notions.


Exactly,


Sir James seems determined to do everything you wish,


He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one would imagine,


You mean that he appears silly.


No, no,


I should think none but disagreeable people do,


O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature! Of course people need not be always talking well. Only one tells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well.


You mean that Sir James tries and fails.


I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise me about Sir James? It is not the object of his life to please me.


Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?


Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister—that is all.


Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James’s man knew from Mrs. Cadwallader’s maid that Sir James was to marry the eldest Miss Brooke.


How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?


I see no harm at all in Tantripp’s talking to me. It is better to hear what people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking up notions. I am quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer; and he believes that you will accept him, especially since you have been so pleased with him about the plans. And uncle too—I know he expects it. Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love with you.


How could he expect it? I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I was barely polite to him before. Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?


Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a man whom you accepted for a husband.


It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond of him. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have towards the man I would accept as a husband.


Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain. That’s your way, Dodo.


It is very painful. I can have no more to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell him I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful.


Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day or two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood. Poor Dodo. It is very hard: it is your favorite fad to draw plans.


Fad to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my fellow-creatures’ houses in that childish way? I may well make mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among people with such petty thoughts?


Well, my dears,


No, uncle, we have been to Freshitt to look at the cottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch.


I came by Lowick to lunch—you didn’t know I came by Lowick. And I have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea—in the library, you know; they lie on the table in the library.


I came back by Lowick, you know. I lunched there and saw Casaubon’s library, and that kind of thing. There’s a sharp air, driving. Won’t you sit down, my dear? You look cold.


What news have you brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?


What, poor Bunch?—well, it seems we can’t get him off—he is to be hanged. Hanged, you know. Poor Romilly! he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn’t know Romilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is.


When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must of course give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about making acquaintances?


That’s true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been a bachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I never moped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants a companion—a companion, you know.


It would be a great honor to any one to be his companion,


You like him, eh? Well, now, I’ve known Casaubon ten years, ever since he came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of him—any ideas, you know. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop—that kind of thing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of you, my dear. The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaks uncommonly well—does Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him I thought there was not much chance. I was bound to tell him that. I said, my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn’t think it necessary to go into everything. However, the long and the short of it is, that he has asked my permission to make you an offer of marriage—of marriage, you know. I thought it better to tell you, my dear. I thought it better to tell you, my dear.


Thank you, uncle. I am very grateful to Mr. Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accept him. I admire and honor him more than any man I ever saw.


Ah? … Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam is a good match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage, and that sort of thing—up to a certain point, you know. I have always said that, up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well; and I have good reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it, you know.


It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam. If he thinks of marrying me, he has made a great mistake.


That is it, you see. One never knows. I should have thought Chettam was just the sort of man a woman would like, now.


Pray do not mention him in that light again, uncle,


Well, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry—I mean for you. It’s true, every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, you know. I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure,—if you like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, we can’t have everything. And his income is good—he has a handsome property independent of the Church—his income is good. Still he is not young, and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think his health is not over-strong. I know nothing else against him.


I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age. I should wish to have a husband who was above me in judgment and in all knowledge.


Ah?—I thought you had more of your own opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your own opinion—liked it, you know.


I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, but I should wish to have good reasons for them, and a wise man could help me to see which opinions had the best foundation, and would help me to live according to them.


Very true. You couldn’t put the thing better—couldn’t put it better, beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things. Life isn’t cast in a mould—not cut out by rule and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, and it will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It is a noose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be master.


I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state of higher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease,


Well, you are not fond of show, a great establishment, balls, dinners, that kind of thing. I can see that Casaubon’s ways might suit you better than Chettam’s. And you shall do as you like, my dear. I would not hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no knowing how anything may turn out. You have not the same tastes as every young lady; and a clergyman and scholar—who may be a bishop—that kind of thing—may suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, a good sound-hearted fellow, you know; but he doesn’t go much into ideas. I did, when I was his age. But Casaubon’s eyes, now. I think he has hurt them a little with too much reading.


I should be all the happier, uncle, the more room there was for me to help him,


You have quite made up your mind, I see. Well, my dear, the fact is, I have a letter for you in my pocket. There is not too much hurry, my dear. Think about it, you know.


Have you thought enough about this, my dear?


There was no need to think long, uncle. I know of nothing to make me vacillate. If I changed my mind, it must be because of something important and entirely new to me.


Ah!—then you have accepted him? Then Chettam has no chance? Has Chettam offended you—offended you, you know? What is it you don’t like in Chettam?


There is nothing that I like in him. I mean in the light of a husband. He is very kind, I think—really very good about the cottages. A well-meaning man.


But you must have a scholar, and that sort of thing? Well, it lies a little in our family. I had it myself—that love of knowledge, and going into everything—a little too much—it took me too far; though that sort of thing doesn’t often run in the female-line; or it runs underground like the rivers in Greece, you know—it comes out in the sons. Clever sons, clever mothers. I went a good deal into that, at one time. However, my dear, I have always said that people should do as they like in these things, up to a certain point. I couldn’t, as your guardian, have consented to a bad match. But Casaubon stands well: his position is good. I am afraid Chettam will be hurt, though, and Mrs. Cadwallader will blame me.


Celia, dear, come and kiss me,


Don’t sit up, Dodo, you are so pale to-night: go to bed soon,


No, dear, I am very, very happy,


Jonas is come back, sir, and has brought this letter.


Casaubon, my dear: he will be here to dinner; he didn’t wait to write more—didn’t wait, you know.


Is any one else coming to dine besides Mr. Casaubon?


Not that I know of.


I hope there is some one else. Then I shall not hear him eat his soup so.


What is there remarkable about his soup-eating?


Really, Dodo, can’t you hear how he scrapes his spoon? And he always blinks before he speaks. I don’t know whether Locke blinked, but I’m sure I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he did.


Celia, pray don’t make any more observations of that kind.


Why not? They are quite true,


Many things are true which only the commonest minds observe.


Then I think the commonest minds must be rather useful. I think it is a pity Mr. Casaubon’s mother had not a commoner mind: she might have taught him better.


It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon.


Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy. It is quite decided, then? And uncle knows?


I have accepted Mr. Casaubon’s offer. My uncle brought me the letter that contained it; he knew about it beforehand.


I beg your pardon, if I have said anything to hurt you, Dodo,


Never mind, Kitty, do not grieve. We should never admire the same people. I often offend in something of the same way; I am apt to speak too strongly of those who don’t please me.


My dear young lady—Miss Brooke—Dorothea! this is a happiness greater than I had ever imagined to be in reserve for me. That I should ever meet with a mind and person so rich in the mingled graces which could render marriage desirable, was far indeed from my conception. You have all—nay, more than all—those qualities which I have ever regarded as the characteristic excellences of womanhood. The great charm of your sex is its capability of an ardent self-sacrificing affection, and herein we see its fitness to round and complete the existence of our own. Hitherto I have known few pleasures save of the severer kind: my satisfactions have been those of the solitary student. I have been little disposed to gather flowers that would wither in my hand, but now I shall pluck them with eagerness, to place them in your bosom.


I am very ignorant—you will quite wonder at my ignorance. I have so many thoughts that may be quite mistaken; and now I shall be able to tell them all to you, and ask you about them. But. I will not trouble you too much; only when you are inclined to listen to me. You must often be weary with the pursuit of subjects in your own track. I shall gain enough if you will take me with you there.


How should I be able now to persevere in any path without your companionship?


How do you do? Well, Mrs. Fitchett, how are your fowls laying now?


Pretty well for laying, madam, but they’ve ta’en to eating their eggs: I’ve no peace o’ mind with ’em at all.


Oh, the cannibals! Better sell them cheap at once. What will you sell them a couple? One can’t eat fowls of a bad character at a high price.


Well, madam, half-a-crown: I couldn’t let ’em go, not under.


Half-a-crown, these times! Come now—for the Rector’s chicken-broth on a Sunday. He has consumed all ours that I can spare. You are half paid with the sermon, Mrs. Fitchett, remember that. Take a pair of tumbler-pigeons for them—little beauties. You must come and see them. You have no tumblers among your pigeons.


Well, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and see ’em after work. He’s very hot on new sorts; to oblige you.


Oblige me! It will be the best bargain he ever made. A pair of church pigeons for a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat their own eggs! Don’t you and Fitchett boast too much, that is all!


Surely, surely!


I see you have had our Lowick Cicero here. I suspect you and he are brewing some bad polities, else you would not be seeing so much of the lively man. I shall inform against you: remember you are both suspicious characters since you took Peel’s side about the Catholic Bill. I shall tell everybody that you are going to put up for Middlemarch on the Whig side when old Pinkerton resigns, and that Casaubon is going to help you in an underhand manner: going to bribe the voters with pamphlets, and throw open the public-houses to distribute them. Come, confess!


Nothing of the sort. Casaubon and I don’t talk politics much. He doesn’t care much about the philanthropic side of things; punishments, and that kind of thing. He only cares about Church questions. That is not my line of action, you know.


Ra-a-ther too much, my friend. I have heard of your doings. Who was it that sold his bit of land to the Papists at Middlemarch? I believe you bought it on purpose. You are a perfect Guy Faux. See if you are not burnt in effigy this 5th of November coming. Humphrey would not come to quarrel with you about it, so I am come.


Very good. I was prepared to be persecuted for not persecuting—not persecuting, you know.


There you go! That is a piece of clap-trap you have got ready for the hustings. Now, do not let them lure you to the hustings, my dear Mr. Brooke. A man always makes a fool of himself, speechifying: there’s no excuse but being on the right side, so that you can ask a blessing on your humming and hawing. You will lose yourself, I forewarn you. You will make a Saturday pie of all parties’ opinions, and be pelted by everybody.


That is what I expect, you know, what I expect as an independent man. As to the Whigs, a man who goes with the thinkers is not likely to be hooked on by any party. He may go with them up to a certain point—up to a certain point, you know. But that is what you ladies never understand.


Where your certain point is? No. I should like to be told how a man can have any certain point when he belongs to no party—leading a roving life, and never letting his friends know his address. ‘Nobody knows where Brooke will be—there’s no counting on Brooke’—that is what people say of you, to be quite frank. Now, do turn respectable. How will you like going to Sessions with everybody looking shy on you, and you with a bad conscience and an empty pocket?


I don’t pretend to argue with a lady on politics. Your sex are not thinkers, you know—varium et mutabile semper—that kind of thing. You don’t know Virgil. I knew I was going to say, poor Stoddart, you know. That was what he said. You ladies are always against an independent attitude—a man’s caring for nothing but truth, and that sort of thing. And there is no part of the county where opinion is narrower than it is here—I don’t mean to throw stones, you know, but somebody is wanted to take the independent line; and if I don’t take it, who will?


Who? Why, any upstart who has got neither blood nor position. People of standing should consume their independent nonsense at home, not hawk it about. And you! who are going to marry your niece, as good as your daughter, to one of our best men. Sir James would be cruelly annoyed: it will be too hard on him if you turn round now and make yourself a Whig sign-board.


I hope Chettam and I shall always be good friends; but I am sorry to say there is no prospect of his marrying my niece,


Why not? It is hardly a fortnight since you and I were talking about it.


My niece has chosen another suitor—has chosen him, you know. I have had nothing to do with it. I should have preferred Chettam; and I should have said Chettam was the man any girl would have chosen. But there is no accounting for these things. Your sex is capricious, you know.


Why, whom do you mean to say that you are going to let her marry?


By the way, I must speak to Wright about the horses,


My dear child, what is this?—this about your sister’s engagement?


She is engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon,


This is frightful. How long has it been going on?


I only knew of it yesterday. They are to be married in six weeks.


Well, my dear, I wish you joy of your brother-in-law.


I am so sorry for Dorothea.


Sorry! It is her doing, I suppose.


Yes; she says Mr. Casaubon has a great soul.


With all my heart.


Oh, Mrs. Cadwallader, I don’t think it can be nice to marry a man with a great soul.


Well, my dear, take warning. You know the look of one now; when the next comes and wants to marry you, don’t you accept him.


I’m sure I never should.


No; one such in a family is enough. So your sister never cared about Sir James Chettam? What would you have said to him for a brother-in-law?


I should have liked that very much. I am sure he would have been a good husband. Only. I don’t think he would have suited Dorothea.


Not high-flown enough?


Dodo is very strict. She thinks so much about everything, and is so particular about what one says. Sir James never seemed to please her.


She must have encouraged him, I am sure. That is not very creditable.


Please don’t be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. She thought so much about the cottages, and she was rude to Sir James sometimes; but he is so kind, he never noticed it.


Well. I must go straight to Sir James and break this to him. He will have brought his mother back by this time, and I must call. Your uncle will never tell him. We are all disappointed, my dear. Young people should think of their families in marrying. I set a bad example—married a poor clergyman, and made myself a pitiable object among the De Bracys—obliged to get my coals by stratagem, and pray to heaven for my salad oil. However, Casaubon has money enough; I must do him that justice. As to his blood, I suppose the family quarterings are three cuttle-fish sable, and a commentator rampant. By the bye, before I go, my dear, I must speak to your Mrs. Carter about pastry. I want to send my young cook to learn of her. Poor people with four children, like us, you know, can’t afford to keep a good cook. I have no doubt Mrs. Carter will oblige me. Sir James’s cook is a perfect dragon. However,


I have a great shock for you; I hope you are not so far gone in love as you pretended to be. I do believe Brooke is going to expose himself after all. I accused him of meaning to stand for Middlemarch on the Liberal side, and he looked silly and never denied it—talked about the independent line, and the usual nonsense.


Is that all?


Why, you don’t mean to say that you would like him to turn public man in that way—making a sort of political Cheap Jack of himself?


He might be dissuaded, I should think. He would not like the expense.


That is what I told him. He is vulnerable to reason there—always a few grains of common-sense in an ounce of miserliness. Miserliness is a capital quality to run in families; it’s the safe side for madness to dip on. And there must be a little crack in the Brooke family, else we should not see what we are to see.


What? Brooke standing for Middlemarch?


Worse than that. I really feel a little responsible. I always told you Miss Brooke would be such a fine match. I knew there was a great deal of nonsense in her—a flighty sort of Methodistical stuff. But these things wear out of girls. However, I am taken by surprise for once.


What do you mean, Mrs. Cadwallader? What has happened to Miss Brooke? Pray speak out.


Very well. She is engaged to be married. Engaged to Casaubon.


Casaubon?


Even so. You know my errand now.


Good God! It is horrible! He is no better than a mummy!


She says, he is a great soul.—A great bladder for dried peas to rattle in!


What business has an old bachelor like that to marry? He has one foot in the grave.


He means to draw it out again, I suppose.


Brooke ought not to allow it: he should insist on its being put off till she is of age. She would think better of it then. What is a guardian for?


As if you could ever squeeze a resolution out of Brooke!


Cadwallader might talk to him.


Not he! Humphrey finds everybody charming. I never can get him to abuse Casaubon. He will even speak well of the bishop, though I tell him it is unnatural in a beneficed clergyman; what can one do with a husband who attends so little to the decencies? I hide it as well as I can by abusing everybody myself. Come, come, cheer up! you are well rid of Miss Brooke, a girl who would have been requiring you to see the stars by daylight. Between ourselves, little Celia is worth two of her, and likely after all to be the better match. For this marriage to Casaubon is as good as going to a nunnery.


Oh, on my own account—it is for Miss Brooke’s sake I think her friends should try to use their influence.


Well, Humphrey doesn’t know yet. But when I tell him, you may depend on it he will say, ‘Why not? Casaubon is a good fellow—and young—young enough.’ These charitable people never know vinegar from wine till they have swallowed it and got the colic. However, if I were a man I should prefer Celia, especially when Dorothea was gone. The truth is, you have been courting one and have won the other. I can see that she admires you almost as much as a man expects to be admired. If it were any one but me who said so, you might think it exaggeration. Good-by!


I throw her over: there was a chance, if she had married Sir James, of her becoming a sane, sensible woman. He would never have contradicted her, and when a woman is not contradicted, she has no motive for obstinacy in her absurdities. But now I wish her joy of her hair shirt.


Oh, nothing!


Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful? could I not learn to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton’s daughters did to their father, without understanding what they read?


I fear that would be wearisome to you, and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion against the poet.


Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they would have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting. I hope you don’t expect me to be naughty and stupid?


I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every possible relation of life. Certainly it might be a great advantage if you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well to begin with a little reading.


Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics, that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman—too taxing, you know.


Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply. She had the very considerate thought of saving my eyes.


Ah, well, without understanding, you know—that may not be so bad. But there is a lightness about the feminine mind—a touch and go—music, the fine arts, that kind of thing—they should study those up to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A woman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tune. That is what I like; though I have heard most things—been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that sort. But I’m a conservative in music—it’s not like ideas, you know. I stick to the good old tunes.


Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not. He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick, and it is covered with books.


Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not like it, you are all right. But it’s a pity you should not have little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung—that kind of thing, you know—will not do.


I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears teased with measured noises. A tune much iterated has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort of minuet to keep time—an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not immediately concerned.


No; but music of that sort I should enjoy. When we were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ at Freiberg, and it made me sob.


That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear. Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea? It is wonderful, though, it is wonderful that she should have liked him. However, the match is good. I should have been travelling out of my brief to have hindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will. He is pretty certain to be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very seasonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:—a deanery at least. They owe him a deanery.


Well, how are you? Sorry I missed you before. Is there anything particular? You look vexed.


It is only this conduct of Brooke’s. I really think somebody should speak to him.


What? meaning to stand? I hardly think he means it. But where’s the harm, if he likes it? Any one who objects to Whiggery should be glad when the Whigs don’t put up the strongest fellow. They won’t overturn the Constitution with our friend Brooke’s head for a battering ram.


Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean this marriage. I mean his letting that blooming young girl marry Casaubon.


What is the matter with Casaubon? I see no harm in him—if the girl likes him.


She is too young to know what she likes. Her guardian ought to interfere. He ought not to allow the thing to be done in this headlong manner. I wonder a man like you, Cadwallader—a man with daughters, can look at the affair with indifference: and with such a heart as yours! Do think seriously about it.


I am not joking; I am as serious as possible. You are as bad as Elinor. She has been wanting me to go and lecture Brooke; and I have reminded her that her friends had a very poor opinion of the match she made when she married me.


But look at Casaubon. He must be fifty, and I don’t believe he could ever have been much more than the shadow of a man. Look at his legs!


Confound you handsome young fellows! you think of having it all your own way in the world. You don’t understand women. They don’t admire you half so much as you admire yourselves. Elinor used to tell her sisters that she married me for my ugliness—it was so various and amusing that it had quite conquered her prudence.


You! it was easy enough for a woman to love you. But this is no question of beauty. I don’t like Casaubon.


Why? what do you know against him?


Now, Cadwallader, has he got any heart?


Well, yes. I don’t mean of the melting sort, but a sound kernel, that you may be sure of. He is very good to his poor relations: pensions several of the women, and is educating a young fellow at a good deal of expense. Casaubon acts up to his sense of justice. His mother’s sister made a bad match—a Pole, I think—lost herself—at any rate was disowned by her family. If it had not been for that, Casaubon would not have had so much money by half. I believe he went himself to find out his cousins, and see what he could do for them. Every man would not ring so well as that, if you tried his metal. You would, Chettam; but not every man.


I don’t know. I am not so sure of myself. That was a right thing for Casaubon to do. But a man may wish to do what is right, and yet be a sort of parchment code. A woman may not be happy with him. And I think when a girl is so young as Miss Brooke is, her friends ought to interfere a little to hinder her from doing anything foolish. You laugh, because you fancy I have some feeling on my own account. But upon my honor, it is not that. I should feel just the same if I were Miss Brooke’s brother or uncle.


Well, but what should you do?


I should say that the marriage must not be decided on until she was of age. And depend upon it, in that case, it would never come off. I wish you saw it as I do—I wish you would talk to Brooke about it.


I hear what you are talking about. But you will make no impression on Humphrey. As long as the fish rise to his bait, everybody is what he ought to be. Bless you, Casaubon has got a trout-stream, and does not care about fishing in it himself: could there be a better fellow?


Well, there is something in that. It is a very good quality in a man to have a trout-stream.


But seriously, don’t you think the Rector might do some good by speaking?


Oh, I told you beforehand what he would say. I have done what I could: I wash my hands of the marriage.


In the first place, it would be nonsensical to expect that I could convince Brooke, and make him act accordingly. Brooke is a very good fellow, but pulpy; he will run into any mould, but he won’t keep shape.


He might keep shape long enough to defer the marriage.


But, my dear Chettam, why should I use my influence to Casaubon’s disadvantage, unless I were much surer than I am that I should be acting for the advantage of Miss Brooke? I know no harm of Casaubon. I don’t care about his Xisuthrus and Fee-fo-fum and the rest; but then he doesn’t care about my fishing-tackle. As to the line he took on the Catholic Question, that was unexpected; but he has always been civil to me, and I don’t see why I should spoil his sport. For anything I can tell, Miss Brooke may be happier with him than she would be with any other man.


Humphrey! I have no patience with you. You know you would rather dine under the hedge than with Casaubon alone. You have nothing to say to each other.


What has that to do with Miss Brooke’s marrying him? She does not do it for my amusement.


He has got no good red blood in his body.


No. Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was all semicolons and parentheses.


Why does he not bring out his book, instead of marrying,


Oh, he dreams footnotes, and they run away with all his brains. They say, when he was a little boy, he made an abstract of ‘Hop o’ my Thumb,’ and he has been making abstracts ever since. Ugh! And that is the man Humphrey goes on saying that a woman may be happy with.


Well, he is what Miss Brooke likes. I don’t profess to understand every young lady’s taste.


But if she were your own daughter?


That would be a different affair. She is not my daughter, and I don’t feel called upon to interfere. Casaubon is as good as most of us. He is a scholarly clergyman, and creditable to the cloth. Some Radical fellow speechifying at Middlemarch said Casaubon was the learned straw-chopping incumbent, and Freke was the brick-and-mortar incumbent, and I was the angling incumbent. And upon my word, I don’t see that one is worse or better than the other.


An ancient land in ancient oracles Is called “law-thirsty”: all the struggle there Was after order and a perfect rule. Pray, where lie such lands now? . . .


Why, where they lay of old—in human souls.


Oh dear! I am sure Freshitt Hall would have been pleasanter than this.


Now, my dear Dorothea, I wish you to favor me by pointing out which room you would like to have as your boudoir,


It is very kind of you to think of that, but I assure you I would rather have all those matters decided for me. I shall be much happier to take everything as it is—just as you have been used to have it, or as you will yourself choose it to be. I have no motive for wishing anything else.


Oh, Dodo, will you not have the bow-windowed room up-stairs?


Yes, this would be a pretty room with some new hangings, sofas, and that sort of thing. A little bare now.


No, uncle. Pray do not speak of altering anything. There are so many other things in the world that want altering—I like to take these things as they are. And you like them as they are, don’t you? Perhaps this was your mother’s room when she was young.


It was,


This is your mother. It is like the tiny one you brought me; only, I should think, a better portrait. And this one opposite, who is this?


Her elder sister. They were, like you and your sister, the only two children of their parents, who hang above them, you see.


The sister is pretty,


It is a peculiar face. Those deep gray eyes rather near together—and the delicate irregular nose with a sort of ripple in it—and all the powdered curls hanging backward. Altogether it seems to me peculiar rather than pretty. There is not even a family likeness between her and your mother.


No. And they were not alike in their lot.


You did not mention her to me,


My aunt made an unfortunate marriage. I never saw her.


Shall we not walk in the garden now?


And you would like to see the church, you know. It is a droll little church. And the village. It all lies in a nut-shell. By the way, it will suit you, Dorothea; for the cottages are like a row of alms-houses—little gardens, gilly-flowers, that sort of thing.


Yes, please. I should like to see all that.


Do you know, Dorothea, I saw some one quite young coming up one of the walks.


Is that astonishing, Celia?


There may be a young gardener, you know—why not? I told Casaubon he should change his gardener.


No, not a gardener, a gentleman with a sketch-book. He had light-brown curls. I only saw his back. But he was quite young.


The curate’s son, perhaps. Ah, there is Casaubon again, and Tucker with him. He is going to introduce Tucker. You don’t know Tucker yet.


Your farmers leave some barley for the women to glean, I see. The poor folks here might have a fowl in their pot, as the good French king used to wish for all his people. The French eat a good many fowls—skinny fowls, you know.


I think it was a very cheap wish of his. Are kings such monsters that a wish like that must be reckoned a royal virtue?


And if he wished them a skinny fowl, that would not be nice. But perhaps he wished them to have fat fowls.


Yes, but the word has dropped out of the text, or perhaps was subauditum; that is, present in the king’s mind, but not uttered,


You seem a little sad, Dorothea. I trust you are pleased with what you have seen.


I am feeling something which is perhaps foolish and wrong, almost wishing that the people wanted more to be done for them here. I have known so few ways of making my life good for anything. Of course, my notions of usefulness must be narrow. I must learn new ways of helping people.


Doubtless. Each position has its corresponding duties. Yours, I trust, as the mistress of Lowick, will not leave any yearning unfulfilled.


Indeed, I believe that. Do not suppose that I am sad.


That is well. But, if you are not tired, we will take another way to the house than that by which we came.


Who is that youngster, Casaubon?


That is a young relative of mine, a second cousin: the grandson, in fact, of the lady whose portrait you have been noticing, my aunt Julia. Dorothea, let me introduce to you my cousin, Mr. Ladislaw. Will, this is Miss Brooke.


You are an artist, I see,


No, I only sketch a little. There is nothing fit to be seen there,


Oh, come, this is a nice bit, now. I did a little in this way myself at one time, you know. Look here, now; this is what I call a nice thing, done with what we used to call brio.


I am no judge of these things. You know, uncle, I never see the beauty of those pictures which you say are so much praised. They are a language I do not understand. I suppose there is some relation between pictures and nature which I am too ignorant to feel—just as you see what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to me.


Bless me, now, how different people are! But you had a bad style of teaching, you know—else this is just the thing for girls—sketching, fine art and so on. But you took to drawing plans; you don’t understand morbidezza, and that kind of thing. You will come to my house, I hope, and I will show you what I did in this way,


We will turn over my Italian engravings together. I have no end of those things, that I have laid by for years. One gets rusty in this part of the country, you know. Not you, Casaubon; you stick to your studies; but my best ideas get undermost—out of use, you know. You clever young men must guard against indolence. I was too indolent, you know: else I might have been anywhere at one time.


That is a seasonable admonition, but now we will pass on to the house, lest the young ladies should be tired of standing.


What is your nephew going to do with himself, Casaubon?


My cousin, you mean—not my nephew.


Yes, yes, cousin. But in the way of a career, you know.


The answer to that question is painfully doubtful. On leaving Rugby he declined to go to an English university, where I would gladly have placed him, and chose what I must consider the anomalous course of studying at Heidelberg. And now he wants to go abroad again, without any special object, save the vague purpose of what he calls culture, preparation for he knows not what. He declines to choose a profession.


He has no means but what you furnish, I suppose.


I have always given him and his friends reason to understand that I would furnish in moderation what was necessary for providing him with a scholarly education, and launching him respectably. I am therefore bound to fulfil the expectation so raised,


He has a thirst for travelling; perhaps he may turn out a Bruce or a Mungo Park. I had a notion of that myself at one time.


No, he has no bent towards exploration, or the enlargement of our geognosis: that would be a special purpose which I could recognize with some approbation, though without felicitating him on a career which so often ends in premature and violent death. But so far is he from having any desire for a more accurate knowledge of the earth’s surface, that he said he should prefer not to know the sources of the Nile, and that there should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for the poetic imagination.


Well, there is something in that, you know,


It is, I fear, nothing more than a part of his general inaccuracy and indisposition to thoroughness of all kinds, which would be a bad augury for him in any profession, civil or sacred, even were he so far submissive to ordinary rule as to choose one.


Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded on his own unfitness. Because the law and medicine should be very serious professions to undertake, should they not? People’s lives and fortunes depend on them.


Doubtless; but I fear that my young relative Will Ladislaw is chiefly determined in his aversion to these callings by a dislike to steady application, and to that kind of acquirement which is needful instrumentally, but is not charming or immediately inviting to self-indulgent taste. I have insisted to him on what Aristotle has stated with admirable brevity, that for the achievement of any work regarded as an end there must be a prior exercise of many energies or acquired facilities of a secondary order, demanding patience. I have pointed to my own manuscript volumes, which represent the toil of years preparatory to a work not yet accomplished. But in vain. To careful reasoning of this kind he replies by calling himself Pegasus, and every form of prescribed work ‘harness.’


Well, you know, he may turn out a Byron, a Chatterton, a Churchill—that sort of thing—there’s no telling. Shall you let him go to Italy, or wherever else he wants to go?


Yes; I have agreed to furnish him with moderate supplies for a year or so; he asks no more. I shall let him be tried by the test of freedom.


That is very kind of you. It is noble. After all, people may really have in them some vocation which is not quite plain to themselves, may they not? They may seem idle and weak because they are growing. We should be very patient with each other, I think.


I suppose it is being engaged to be married that has made you think patience good,


You mean that I am very impatient, Celia.


Yes; when people don’t do and say just what you like.


I still regret that your sister is not to accompany us. You will have many lonely hours, Dorothea, for I shall be constrained to make the utmost use of my time during our stay in Rome, and I should feel more at liberty if you had a companion.


You must have misunderstood me very much, if you think I should not enter into the value of your time—if you think that I should not willingly give up whatever interfered with your using it to the best purpose.


That is very amiable in you, my dear Dorothea, but if you had a lady as your companion, I could put you both under the care of a cicerone, and we could thus achieve two purposes in the same space of time.


I beg you will not refer to this again. Pray do not be anxious about me. I shall have so much to think of when I am alone. And Tantripp will be a sufficient companion, just to take care of me. I could not bear to have Celia: she would be miserable.


Surely I am in a strangely selfish weak state of mind. How can I have a husband who is so much above me without knowing that he needs me less than I need him?


A fine woman, Miss Brooke! an uncommonly fine woman, by God!


Yes, but not my style of woman: I like a woman who lays herself out a little more to please us. There should be a little filigree about a woman—something of the coquette. A man likes a sort of challenge. The more of a dead set she makes at you the better.


There’s some truth in that. And, by God, it’s usually the way with them. I suppose it answers some wise ends: Providence made them so, eh, Bulstrode?


I should be disposed to refer coquetry to another source. I should rather refer it to the devil.


Ay, to be sure, there should be a little devil in a woman. And I like them blond, with a certain gait, and a swan neck. Between ourselves, the mayor’s daughter is more to my taste than Miss Brooke or Miss Celia either. If I were a marrying man I should choose Miss Vincy before either of them.


Well, make up, make up, you see the middle-aged fellows carry the day.


Where can all the strength of those medicines go, my dear?


It strengthens the disease. Everything depends on the constitution: some people make fat, some blood, and some bile—that’s my view of the matter; and whatever they take is a sort of grist to the mill.


Then she ought to take medicines that would reduce—reduce the disease, you know, if you are right, my dear. And I think what you say is reasonable.


Certainly it is reasonable. You have two sorts of potatoes, fed on the same soil. One of them grows more and more watery—


Ah! like this poor Mrs. Renfrew—that is what I think. Dropsy! There is no swelling yet—it is inward. I should say she ought to take drying medicines, shouldn’t you?—or a dry hot-air bath. Many things might be tried, of a drying nature.


Let her try a certain person’s pamphlets. He does not want drying.


Who, my dear?


The bridegroom—Casaubon. He has certainly been drying up faster since the engagement: the flame of passion, I suppose.


I should think he is far from having a good constitution. And then his studies—so very dry, as you say.


Really, by the side of Sir James, he looks like a death’s head skinned over for the occasion. Mark my words: in a year from this time that girl will hate him. She looks up to him as an oracle now, and by-and-by she will be at the other extreme. All flightiness!


How very shocking! I fear she is headstrong. But tell me—you know all about him—is there anything very bad? What is the truth?


The truth? he is as bad as the wrong physic—nasty to take, and sure to disagree.


There could not be anything worse than that. However, James will hear nothing against Miss Brooke. He says she is the mirror of women still.


That is a generous make-believe of his. Depend upon it, he likes little Celia better, and she appreciates him. I hope you like my little Celia?


Certainly; she is fonder of geraniums, and seems more docile, though not so fine a figure. But we were talking of physic. Tell me about this new young surgeon, Mr. Lydgate. I am told he is wonderfully clever: he certainly looks it—a fine brow indeed.


He is a gentleman. I heard him talking to Humphrey. He talks well.


Yes. Mr. Brooke says he is one of the Lydgates of Northumberland, really well connected. One does not expect it in a practitioner of that kind. For my own part, I like a medical man more on a footing with the servants; they are often all the cleverer. I assure you I found poor Hicks’s judgment unfailing; I never knew him wrong. He was coarse and butcher-like, but he knew my constitution. It was a loss to me his going off so suddenly. Dear me, what a very animated conversation Miss Brooke seems to be having with this Mr. Lydgate!


She is talking cottages and hospitals with him. I believe he is a sort of philanthropist, so Brooke is sure to take him up.


James, bring Mr. Lydgate and introduce him to me. I want to test him.


I think so


I am quite pleased with your protege,


My protege?—dear me!—who is that?


This young Lydgate, the new doctor. He seems to me to understand his profession admirably.


Oh, Lydgate! he is not my protege, you know; only I knew an uncle of his who sent me a letter about him. However, I think he is likely to be first-rate—has studied in Paris, knew Broussais; has ideas, you know—wants to raise the profession. Lydgate has lots of ideas, quite new, about ventilation and diet, that sort of thing,


Hang it, do you think that is quite sound?—upsetting the old treatment, which has made Englishmen what they are?


Medical knowledge is at a low ebb among us. I, for my part, hail the advent of Mr. Lydgate. I hope to find good reason for confiding the new hospital to his management.


That is all very fine, if you like him to try experiments on your hospital patients, and kill a few people for charity I have no objection. But I am not going to hand money out of my purse to have experiments tried on me. I like treatment that has been tested a little.


Well, you know, Standish, every dose you take is an experiment-an experiment, you know,


Oh, if you talk in that sense!


I should be glad of any treatment that would cure me without reducing me to a skeleton, like poor Grainger. It’s an uncommonly dangerous thing to be left without any padding against the shafts of disease, as somebody said,—and I think it a very good expression myself.


Knock at Mr. Fred’s door again, Pritchard, and tell him it has struck half-past ten.


Mamma, 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


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?


Whether it’s right to say ‘superior young men,’


Oh, there are so many superior teas and sugars now. Superior is getting to be shopkeepers’ slang.


Are you beginning to dislike slang, then?


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!


Have you got nothing else for my breakfast, Pritchard? Eggs, no! Bring me a grilled bone.


Really, Fred, 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,


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. 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. 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,


I thought it was odd his name was Tertius, 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.


A fellow who wants to show that he has opinions.


Why, my dear, doctors must have opinions. 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,


Really, I can’t say. 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. 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. 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,


Well, my dear, 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 to your studies, my dear; for I must go and do some shopping.


Fred’s studies are not very deep, he is only reading a novel.


Well, well, by-and-by he’ll go to his Latin and things. 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.


I suppose you are not going out riding to-day?


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.


Oh, I say, Rosy, 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?


What are you driving at there?


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. I dislike hearing scandal too much to wish to repeat it.


And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn’t got expectations? Such a fine, spirited fellow is like enough to have ’em.


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?


Come, out with it, Jane! 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 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!


How do you do, miss?


Heyday, miss! 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.


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 the women of our family; but the Featherstones have always had some money, and the Waules too. Waule had money too. A warm man was Waule. Ay, ay; money’s a good egg; and if you’ve got money to leave behind you, lay it in a warm nest. Good-by, Mrs. Waule.


You two misses go away. I want to speak to Fred.


Come into my room, Rosamond, you will not mind the cold for a little while,


So, sir, you’ve been paying ten per cent for money which you’ve promised to pay off by mortgaging my land when I’m dead and gone, eh? You put my life at a twelvemonth, say. But I can alter my will yet.


I don’t know what you refer to, sir. I have certainly never borrowed any money on such an insecurity. Please do explain.


No, sir, it’s you must explain. I can alter my will yet, let me tell you. I’m of sound mind—can reckon compound interest in my head, and remember every fool’s name as well as I could twenty years ago. What the deuce? I’m under eighty. I say, you must contradict this story.


I have contradicted it, sir. But I contradict it again. The story is a silly lie.


Nonsense! you must bring dockiments. It comes from authority.


Name the authority, and make him name the man of whom I borrowed the money, and then I can disprove the story.


It’s pretty good authority, I think—a man who knows most of what goes on in Middlemarch. It’s that fine, religious, charitable uncle o’ yours. Come now!


Mr. Bulstrode?


Who else, eh?


Then the story has grown into this lie out of some sermonizing words he may have let fall about me. Do they pretend that he named the man who lent me the money?


If there is such a man, depend upon it Bulstrode knows him. But, supposing you only tried to get the money lent, and didn’t get it—Bulstrode ’ud know that too. You bring me a writing from Bulstrode to say he doesn’t believe you’ve ever promised to pay your debts out o’ my land. Come now!


You must be joking, sir. Mr. Bulstrode, like other men, believes scores of things that are not true, and he has a prejudice against me. I could easily get him to write that he knew no facts in proof of the report you speak of, though it might lead to unpleasantness. But I could hardly ask him to write down what he believes or does not believe about me. That is hardly a thing for a gentleman to ask.


Ay, I know what you mean. You’d sooner offend me than Bulstrode. And what’s he?—he’s got no land hereabout that ever I heard tell of. A speckilating fellow! He may come down any day, when the devil leaves off backing him. And that’s what his religion means: he wants God A’mighty to come in. That’s nonsense! There’s one thing I made out pretty clear when I used to go to church—and it’s this: God A’mighty sticks to the land. He promises land, and He gives land, and He makes chaps rich with corn and cattle. But you take the other side. You like Bulstrode and speckilation better than Featherstone and land.


I beg your pardon, sir. I like neither Bulstrode nor speculation.


Well, well, you can do without me, that’s pretty clear. You neither want a bit of land to make a squire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundred pound by the way. It’s all one to me. I can make five codicils if I like, and I shall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg. It’s all one to me.


I am not ungrateful, sir. I never meant to show disregard for any kind intentions you might have towards me. On the contrary.


Very good. Then prove it. You bring me a letter from Bulstrode saying he doesn’t believe you’ve been cracking and promising to pay your debts out o’ my land, and then, if there’s any scrape you’ve got into, we’ll see if I can’t back you a bit. Come now! That’s a bargain. Here, give me your arm. I’ll try and walk round the room.


Read me the names o’ the books. Come now! you’re a college man. What did missy want with more books? What must you be bringing her more books for?


They amuse her, sir. She is very fond of reading.


A little too fond. She was for reading when she sat with me. But I put a stop to that. She’s got the newspaper to read out loud. That’s enough for one day, I should think. I can’t abide to see her reading to herself. You mind and not bring her any more books, do you hear?


Yes, sir, I hear.


Ring the bell. I want missy to come down.


What a brown patch I am by the side of you, Rosy! You are the most unbecoming companion.


Oh no! No one thinks of your appearance, you are so sensible and useful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality,


You mean my beauty,


What have you been doing lately?


I? Oh, minding the house—pouring out syrup—pretending to be amiable and contented—learning to have a bad opinion of everybody.


It is a wretched life for you.


No. I think my life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan’s.


Yes; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, and not young.


She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all sure that everything gets easier as one gets older.


No, one wonders what such people do, without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support. But, it is very different with you, Mary. You may have an offer.


Has any one told you he means to make me one?


Of course not. I mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love with you, seeing you almost every day.


Does that always make people fall in love? it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other.


Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr. Lydgate is both.


Oh, Mr. Lydgate! You want to know something about him,


Merely, how you like him.


There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wants some little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to like people who speak to me without seeming to see me.


Is he so haughty? You know that he is of good family?


No; he did not give that as a reason.


Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he? Describe him to me.


How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavy eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid white hands—and—let me see—oh, an exquisite cambric pocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about the time of his visits.


I rather like a haughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young man.


I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pour tous les goûts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can choose the particular sort of conceit she would like, I should think it is you, Rosy.


Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred conceited.


I wish no one said any worse of him. He should be more careful. Mrs. Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady.


Oh, Fred is horrid!


What do you mean by horrid?


He is so idle, and makes papa so angry, and says he will not take orders.


I think Fred is quite right.


How can you say he is quite right, Mary? I thought you had more sense of religion.


He is not fit to be a clergyman.


But he ought to be fit.


Well, then, he is not what he ought to be. I know some other people who are in the same case.


But no one approves of them. I should not like to marry a clergyman; but there must be clergymen.


It does not follow that Fred must be one.


But when papa has been at the expense of educating him for it! And only suppose, if he should have no fortune left him?


I can suppose that very well,


Then I wonder you can defend Fred,


I don’t defend him. I would defend any parish from having him for a clergyman.


But of course if he were a clergyman, he must be different.


Yes, he would be a great hypocrite; and he is not that yet.


It is of no use saying anything to you, Mary. You always take Fred’s part.


Why should I not take his part? He would take mine. He is the only person who takes the least trouble to oblige me.


You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary. I would not tell mamma for the world.


What would you not tell her?


Pray do not go into a rage, Mary,


If your mamma is afraid that Fred will make me an offer, tell her that I would not marry him if he asked me. But he is not going to do so, that I am aware. He certainly never has asked me.


Mary, you are always so violent.


And you are always so exasperating.


I? What can you blame me for?


Oh, blameless people are always the most exasperating. There is the bell—I think we must go down.


I did not mean to quarrel,


Quarrel? Nonsense; we have not quarrelled. If one is not to get into a rage sometimes, what is the good of being friends?


Am I to repeat what you have said?


Just as you please. I never say what I am afraid of having repeated. But let us go down.


Miss Rosy has been singing me a song—you’ve nothing to say against that, eh, doctor? I like it better than your physic.


That has made me forget how the time was going. Fred, we must really go.


Very good,


Miss Vincy is a musician?


The best in Middlemarch, I’ll be bound, let the next be who she will. Eh, Fred? Speak up for your sister.


I’m afraid I’m out of court, sir. My evidence would be good for nothing.


Middlemarch has not a very high standard, uncle,


Rosy, did Mary tell you that Mrs. Waule had said anything about me?


Yes, indeed, she did.


What?


That you were very unsteady.


Was that all?


I should think that was enough, Fred.


You are sure she said no more?


Mary mentioned nothing else. But really, Fred, I think you ought to be ashamed.


Oh, fudge! Don’t lecture me. What did Mary say about it?


I am not obliged to tell you. You care so very much what Mary says, and you are too rude to allow me to speak.


Of course I care what Mary says. She is the best girl I know.


I should never have thought she was a girl to fall in love with.


How do you know what men would fall in love with? Girls never know.


At least, Fred, let me advise you not to fall in love with her, for she says she would not marry you if you asked her.


She might have waited till I did ask her.


I knew it would nettle you, Fred.


Not at all. She would not have said so if you had not provoked her.


How class your man?—as better than the most, Or, seeming better, worse beneath that cloak? As saint or knave, pilgrim or hypocrite?


Nay, tell me how you class your wealth of books The drifted relics of all time. As well sort them at once by size and livery: Vellum, tall copies, and the common calf Will hardly cover more diversity Than all your labels cunningly devised To class your unread authors.


I shall be exceedingly obliged if you will look in on me here occasionally, Mr. Lydgate. If, as I dare to hope, I have the privilege of finding you a valuable coadjutor in the interesting matter of hospital management, there will be many questions which we shall need to discuss in private. As to the new hospital, which is nearly finished, I shall consider what you have said about the advantages of the special destination for fevers. The decision will rest with me, for though Lord Medlicote has given the land and timber for the building, he is not disposed to give his personal attention to the object.


There are few things better worth the pains in a provincial town like this,


I shall rejoice to furnish your zeal with fuller opportunities. I mean, by confiding to you the superintendence of my new hospital, should a maturer knowledge favor that issue, for I am determined that so great an object shall not be shackled by our two physicians. Indeed, I am encouraged to consider your advent to this town as a gracious indication that a more manifest blessing is now to be awarded to my efforts, which have hitherto been much withstood. With regard to the old infirmary, we have gained the initial point—I mean your election. And now I hope you will not shrink from incurring a certain amount of jealousy and dislike from your professional brethren by presenting yourself as a reformer.


I will not profess bravery, but I acknowledge a good deal of pleasure in fighting, and I should not care for my profession, if I did not believe that better methods were to be found and enforced there as well as everywhere else.


The standard of that profession is low in Middlemarch, my dear sir. I mean in knowledge and skill; not in social status, for our medical men are most of them connected with respectable townspeople here. My own imperfect health has induced me to give some attention to those palliative resources which the divine mercy has placed within our reach. I have consulted eminent men in the metropolis, and I am painfully aware of the backwardness under which medical treatment labors in our provincial districts.


Yes;—with our present medical rules and education, one must be satisfied now and then to meet with a fair practitioner. As to all the higher questions which determine the starting-point of a diagnosis—as to the philosophy of medical evidence—any glimmering of these can only come from a scientific culture of which country practitioners have usually no more notion than the man in the moon.


I am aware, that the peculiar bias of medical ability is towards material means. Nevertheless, Mr. Lydgate, I hope we shall not vary in sentiment as to a measure in which you are not likely to be actively concerned, but in which your sympathetic concurrence may be an aid to me. You recognize, I hope; the existence of spiritual interests in your patients?


Certainly I do. But those words are apt to cover different meanings to different minds.


Precisely. And on such subjects wrong teaching is as fatal as no teaching. Now a point which I have much at heart to secure is a new regulation as to clerical attendance at the old infirmary. The building stands in Mr. Farebrother’s parish. You know Mr. Farebrother?


I have seen him. He gave me his vote. I must call to thank him. He seems a very bright pleasant little fellow. And I understand he is a naturalist.


Mr. Farebrother, my dear sir, is a man deeply painful to contemplate. I suppose there is not a clergyman in this country who has greater talents.


I have not yet been pained by finding any excessive talent in Middlemarch,


What I desire, is that Mr. Farebrother’s attendance at the hospital should be superseded by the appointment of a chaplain—of Mr. Tyke, in fact—and that no other spiritual aid should be called in.


As a medical man I could have no opinion on such a point unless I knew Mr. Tyke, and even then I should require to know the cases in which he was applied.


Of course you cannot enter fully into the merits of this measure at present. But the subject is likely to be referred to the medical board of the infirmary, and what I trust I may ask of you is, that in virtue of the cooperation between us which I now look forward to, you will not, so far as you are concerned, be influenced by my opponents in this matter.


I hope I shall have nothing to do with clerical disputes. The path I have chosen is to work well in my own profession.


My responsibility, Mr. Lydgate, is of a broader kind. With me, indeed, this question is one of sacred accountableness; whereas with my opponents, I have good reason to say that it is an occasion for gratifying a spirit of worldly opposition. But I shall not therefore drop one iota of my convictions, or cease to identify myself with that truth which an evil generation hates. I have devoted myself to this object of hospital-improvement, but I will boldly confess to you, Mr. Lydgate, that I should have no interest in hospitals if I believed that nothing more was concerned therein than the cure of mortal diseases. I have another ground of action, and in the face of persecution I will not conceal it.


There we certainly differ,


I cannot persuade you to adopt my regimen, Vincy? No, no; I’ve no opinion of that system. Life wants padding. However, what I came here to talk about was a little affair of my young scapegrace, Fred’s.


That is a subject on which you and I are likely to take quite as different views as on diet, Vincy.


I hope not this time. The fact is, it’s about a whim of old Featherstone’s. Somebody has been cooking up a story out of spite, and telling it to the old man, to try to set him against Fred. He’s very fond of Fred, and is likely to do something handsome for him; indeed he has as good as told Fred that he means to leave him his land, and that makes other people jealous.


Vincy, I must repeat, that you will not get any concurrence from me as to the course you have pursued with your eldest son. It was entirely from worldly vanity that you destined him for the Church: with a family of three sons and four daughters, you were not warranted in devoting money to an expensive education which has succeeded in nothing but in giving him extravagant idle habits. You are now reaping the consequences.


As to that, Bulstrode, it’s no use going back. I’m not one of your pattern men, and I don’t pretend to be. I couldn’t foresee everything in the trade; there wasn’t a finer business in Middlemarch than ours, and the lad was clever. My poor brother was in the Church, and would have done well—had got preferment already, but that stomach fever took him off: else he might have been a dean by this time. I think I was justified in what I tried to do for Fred. If you come to religion, it seems to me a man shouldn’t want to carve out his meat to an ounce beforehand:—one must trust a little to Providence and be generous. It’s a good British feeling to try and raise your family a little: in my opinion, it’s a father’s duty to give his sons a fine chance.


I don’t wish to act otherwise than as your best friend, Vincy, when I say that what you have been uttering just now is one mass of worldliness and inconsistent folly.


Very well. I never professed to be anything but worldly; and, what’s more, I don’t see anybody else who is not worldly. I suppose you don’t conduct business on what you call unworldly principles. The only difference I see is that one worldliness is a little bit honester than another.


This kind of discussion is unfruitful, Vincy. You had some more particular business.


Yes, yes. The long and short of it is, somebody has told old Featherstone, giving you as the authority, that Fred has been borrowing or trying to borrow money on the prospect of his land. Of course you never said any such nonsense. But the old fellow will insist on it that Fred should bring him a denial in your handwriting; that is, just a bit of a note saying you don’t believe a word of such stuff, either of his having borrowed or tried to borrow in such a fool’s way. I suppose you can have no objection to do that.


Pardon me. I have an objection. I am by no means sure that your son, in his recklessness and ignorance—I will use no severer word—has not tried to raise money by holding out his future prospects, or even that some one may not have been foolish enough to supply him on so vague a presumption: there is plenty of such lax money-lending as of other folly in the world.


But Fred gives me his honor that he has never borrowed money on the pretence of any understanding about his uncle’s land. He is not a liar. I don’t want to make him better than he is. I have blown him up well—nobody can say I wink at what he does. But he is not a liar. And I should have thought—but I may be wrong—that there was no religion to hinder a man from believing the best of a young fellow, when you don’t know worse. It seems to me it would be a poor sort of religion to put a spoke in his wheel by refusing to say you don’t believe such harm of him as you’ve got no good reason to believe.


I am not at all sure that I should be befriending your son by smoothing his way to the future possession of Featherstone’s property. I cannot regard wealth as a blessing to those who use it simply as a harvest for this world. You do not like to hear these things, Vincy, but on this occasion I feel called upon to tell you that I have no motive for furthering such a disposition of property as that which you refer to. I do not shrink from saying that it will not tend to your son’s eternal welfare or to the glory of God. Why then should you expect me to pen this kind of affidavit, which has no object but to keep up a foolish partiality and secure a foolish bequest?


If you mean to hinder everybody from having money but saints and evangelists, you must give up some profitable partnerships, that’s all I can say. It may be for the glory of God, but it is not for the glory of the Middlemarch trade, that Plymdale’s house uses those blue and green dyes it gets from the Brassing manufactory; they rot the silk, that’s all I know about it. Perhaps if other people knew so much of the profit went to the glory of God, they might like it better. But I don’t mind so much about that—I could get up a pretty row, if I chose.


You pain me very much by speaking in this way, Vincy. I do not expect you to understand my grounds of action—it is not an easy thing even to thread a path for principles in the intricacies of the world—still less to make the thread clear for the careless and the scoffing. You must remember, if you please, that I stretch my tolerance towards you as my wife’s brother, and that it little becomes you to complain of me as withholding material help towards the worldly position of your family. I must remind you that it is not your own prudence or judgment that has enabled you to keep your place in the trade.


Very likely not; but you have been no loser by my trade yet. And when you married Harriet, I don’t see how you could expect that our families should not hang by the same nail. If you’ve changed your mind, and want my family to come down in the world, you’d better say so. I’ve never changed; I’m a plain Churchman now, just as I used to be before doctrines came up. I take the world as I find it, in trade and everything else. I’m contented to be no worse than my neighbors. But if you want us to come down in the world, say so. I shall know better what to do then.


You talk unreasonably. Shall you come down in the world for want of this letter about your son?


Well, whether or not, I consider it very unhandsome of you to refuse it. Such doings may be lined with religion, but outside they have a nasty, dog-in-the-manger look. You might as well slander Fred: it comes pretty near to it when you refuse to say you didn’t set a slander going. It’s this sort of thing—this tyrannical spirit, wanting to play bishop and banker everywhere—it’s this sort of thing makes a man’s name stink.


Vincy, if you insist on quarrelling with me, it will be exceedingly painful to Harriet as well as myself,


I don’t want to quarrel. It’s for my interest—and perhaps for yours too—that we should be friends. I bear you no grudge; I think no worse of you than I do of other people. A man who half starves himself, and goes the length in family prayers, and so on, that you do, believes in his religion whatever it may be: you could turn over your capital just as fast with cursing and swearing:—plenty of fellows do. You like to be master, there’s no denying that; you must be first chop in heaven, else you won’t like it much. But you’re my sister’s husband, and we ought to stick together; and if I know Harriet, she’ll consider it your fault if we quarrel because you strain at a gnat in this way, and refuse to do Fred a good turn. And I don’t mean to say I shall bear it well. I consider it unhandsome.


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.


Under the circumstances I will not decline to state my conviction that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of money on bequests promised by Mr. Featherstone 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 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 you don’t suppose I believe a thing because Bulstrode writes it out fine, eh?


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?


I expect nothing, sir. 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. Tell missy to come! What business had she to go away? 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.


Allow me.