"He had more tow on his distaffe Than Gerveis knew." --CHAUCER.
The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning, lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and to spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave each field a particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them from childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place in mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope of the old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; the huddled2 roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of approach; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch3 full of mossy hills and valleys with wondrous4 modulations of light and shadow such as we travel far to see in later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful. These are the things that make the gamut5 of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls--the things they toddled6 among, or perhaps learned by heart standing7 between their father's knees while he drove leisurely8.
But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we have seen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants9; and it was into Lowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple of miles' riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end of the first half, the house was already visible, looking as if it had been arrested in its growth toward a stone mansion10 by an unexpected budding of farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it from becoming anything more than the substantial dwelling11 of a gentleman farmer. It was not the less agreeable an object in the distance for the cluster of pinnacled12 corn-ricks which balanced the fine row of walnuts13 on the right.
Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig on the circular drive before the front door.
"Dear me," said Rosamond, "I hope none of my uncle's horrible relations are there."
"They are, though. That is Mrs. Waule's gig--the last yellow gig left, I should think. When I see Mrs. Waule in it, I understand how yellow can have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal14 than a hearse. But then Mrs. Waule always has black crape on. How does she manage it, Rosy15? Her friends can't always be dying."
"I don't know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical," said Rosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would have fully16 accounted for perpetual crape. "And, not poor," she added, after a moment's pause.
"No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules and Featherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don't want to spend anything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, and are afraid of a farthing going away from their side of the family. But I believe he hates them all."
The Mrs. Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes of these distant connections, had happened to say this very morning (not at all with a defiant17 air, but in a low, muffled18, neutral tone, as of a voice heard through cotton wool) that she did not wish "to enjoy their good opinion." She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother's hearth19, and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she had been Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother's name had been made free with by those who had no right to it.
"What are you driving at there?" said Mr. Featherstone, holding his stick between his knees and settling his wig20, while he gave her a momentary21 sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught22 of cold air and set him coughing.
Mrs. Waule had to defer23 her answer till he was quiet again, till Mary Garth had supplied him with fresh syrup24, and he had begun to rub the gold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. It was a bright fire, but it made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint25 of Mrs. Waule's face, which was as neutral as her voice; having mere26 chinks for eyes, and lips that hardly moved in speaking.
"The doctors can't master that cough, brother. It's just like what I have; for I'm your own sister, constitution and everything. But, as I was saying, it's a pity Mrs. Vincy's family can't be better conducted."
"Tchah! you said nothing o' the sort. You said somebody had made free with my name."
"And no more than can be proved, if what everybody says is true. My brother Solomon tells me it's the talk up and down in Middlemarch how unsteady young Vincy is, and has been forever gambling27 at billiards28 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 condemns29 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 strings30 always flying, and that light way of laughing at everything, it's very unbecoming. But indulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay their debts is another. And it's openly said that young Vincy has raised money on his expectations. I don't say what expectations. Miss Garth hears me, and is welcome to tell again. I know young people hang together."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Waule," said Mary Garth. "I dislike hearing scandal too much to wish to repeat it."
Mr. Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a brief convulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuineness as an old whist-player's chuckle31 over a bad hand. Still looking at the fire, he said--
"And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn't got expectations? Such a fine, spirited fellow is like enough to have 'em."
There was a slight pause before Mrs. Waule replied, and when she did so, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though her face was still dry.
"Whether or no, brother, it is naturally painful to me and my brother Solomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint being such as may carry you off sudden, and people who are no more Featherstones than the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning on your property coming to _them_. And me your own sister, and Solomon your own brother! And if that's to be it, what has it pleased the Almighty32 to make families for?" Here Mrs. Waule's tears fell, but with moderation.
"Come, out with it, Jane!" said Mr. Featherstone, looking at her. "You mean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance him money on what he says he knows about my will, eh?"
"I never said so, brother" (Mrs. Waule's voice had again become dry and unshaken). "It was told me by my brother Solomon last night when he called coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat, me being a widow, and my son John only three-and-twenty, though steady beyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and not one, but many."
"Stuff and nonsense! I don't believe a word of it. It's all a got-up story. Go to the window, missy; I thought I heard a horse. See if the doctor's coming."
"Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever else he may be--and I don't deny he has oddities--has made his will and parted his property equal between such kin1 as he's friends with; though, for my part, I think there are times when some should be considered more than others. But Solomon makes it no secret what he means to do."
"The more fool he!" said Mr. Featherstone, with some difficulty; breaking into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth to stand near him, so that she did not find out whose horses they were which presently paused stamping on the gravel33 before the door.
Before Mr. Featherstone's cough was quiet, Rosamond entered, bearing up her riding-habit with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs. Waule, who said stiffly, "How do you do, miss?" smiled and nodded silently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing should cease, and allow her uncle to notice her.
"Heyday34, miss!" he said at last, "you have a fine color. Where's Fred?"
"Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently."
"Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Waule, you'd better go."
Even those neighbors who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox, had never accused him of being insincerely polite, and his sister was quite used to the peculiar35 absence of ceremony with which he marked his sense of blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to think that entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included in the Almighty's intentions about families. She rose slowly without any sign of resentment36, and said in her usual muffled monotone, "Brother, I hope the new doctor will be able to do something for you. Solomon says there's great talk of his cleverness. I'm sure it's my wish you should be spared. And there's none more ready to nurse you than your own sister and your own nieces, if you'd only say the word. There's Rebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you know."
"Ay, ay, I remember--you'll see I've remembered 'em all--all dark and ugly. They'd need have some money, eh? There never was any beauty in 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." Here Mr. Featherstone pulled at both sides of his wig as if he wanted to deafen37 himself, and his sister went away ruminating38 on this oracular speech of his. Notwithstanding her jealousy39 of the Vincys and of Mary Garth, there remained as the nethermost40 sediment41 in her mental shallows a persuasion42 that her brother Peter Featherstone could never leave his chief property away from his blood-relations:--else, why had the Almighty carried off his two wives both childless, after he had gained so much by manganese and things, turning up when nobody expected it?--and why was there a Lowick parish church, and the Waules and Powderells all sit ting in the same pew for generations, and the Featherstone pew next to them, if, the Sunday after her brother Peter's death, everybody was to know that the property was gone out of the family? The human mind has at no period accepted a moral chaos43; and so preposterous44 a result was not strictly45 conceivable. But we are frightened at much that is not strictly conceivable.
When Fred came in the old man eyed him with a peculiar twinkle, which the younger had often had reason to interpret as pride in the satisfactory details of his appearance.
"You two misses go away," said Mr. Featherstone. "I want to speak to Fred."
"Come into my room, Rosamond, you will not mind the cold for a little while," said Mary. The two girls had not only known each other in childhood, but had been at the same provincial46 school together (Mary as an articled pupil), so that they had many memories in common, and liked very well to talk in private. Indeed, this tete-a-tete was one of Rosamond's objects in coming to Stone Court.
Old Featherstone would not begin the dialogue till the door had been closed. He continued to look at Fred with the same twinkle and with one of his habitual47 grimaces48, alternately screwing and widening his mouth; and when he spoke49, it was in a low tone, which might be taken for that of an informer ready to be bought off, rather than for the tone of an offended senior. He was not a man to feel any strong moral indignation even on account of trespasses50 against himself. It was natural that others should want to get an advantage over him, but then, he was a little too cunning for them.
"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."
Fred blushed. He had not borrowed money in that way, for excellent reasons. But he was conscious of having spoken with some confidence (perhaps with more than he exactly remembered) about his prospect51 of getting Featherstone's land as a future means of paying present debts.
"I don't know what you refer to, sir. I have certainly never borrowed any money on such an insecurity. Please to 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," Fred answered, with a touch of impatience52, not remembering that his uncle did not verbally discriminate53 contradicting from disproving, though no one was further from confounding the two ideas than old Featherstone, who often wondered that so many fools took his own assertions for proofs. "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!" Here Mr. Featherstone had his peculiar inward shake which signified merriment.
"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!"
Mr. Featherstone's face required its whole scale of grimaces as a muscular outlet54 to his silent triumph in the soundness of his faculties55.
Fred felt himself to be in a disgusting dilemma56.
"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." Fred paused an instant, and then added, in politic57 appeal to his uncle's vanity, "That is hardly a thing for a gentleman to ask." But he was disappointed in the result.
"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," said Fred, rising, standing with his back to the fire and beating his boot with his whip. "I like neither Bulstrode nor speculation58." He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated.
"Well, well, you can do without me, that's pretty clear," said old Featherstone, secretly disliking the possibility that Fred would show himself at all independent. "You neither want a bit of land to make a squire60 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 codicils61 if I like, and I shall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg. It's all one to me."
Fred colored again. Featherstone had rarely given him presents of money, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with the immediate62 prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospect of the land.
"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 promising63 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."
Fred, in spite of his irritation64, had kindness enough in him to be a little sorry for the unloved, unvenerated old man, who with his dropsical legs looked more than usually pitiable in walking. While giving his arm, he thought that he should not himself like to be an old fellow with his constitution breaking up; and he waited good-temperedly, first before the window to hear the wonted remarks about the guinea-fowls and the weather-cock, and then before the scanty65 book-shelves, of which the chief glories in dark calf66 were Josephus, Culpepper, Klopstock's "Messiah," and several volumes of the "Gentleman's Magazine."
"Read me the names o' the books. Come now! you're a college man."
Fred gave him the titles.
"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," said Mr. Featherstone, captiously67. "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 abide68 to see her reading to herself. You mind and not bring her any more books, do you hear?"
"Yes, sir, I hear." Fred had received this order before, and had secretly disobeyed it. He intended to disobey it again.
"Ring the bell," said Mr. Featherstone; "I want missy to come down."
Rosamond and Mary had been talking faster than their male friends. They did not think of sitting down, but stood at the toilet-table near the window while Rosamond took off her hat, adjusted her veil, and applied69 little touches of her finger-tips to her hair--hair of infantine fairness, neither flaxen nor yellow. Mary Garth seemed all the plainer standing at an angle between the two nymphs--the one in the glass, and the one out of it, who looked at each other with eyes of heavenly blue, deep enough to hold the most exquisite70 meanings an ingenious beholder71 could put into them, and deep enough to hide the meanings of the owner if these should happen to be less exquisite. Only a few children in Middlemarch looked blond by the side of Rosamond, and the slim figure displayed by her riding-habit had delicate undulations. In fact, most men in Middlemarch, except her brothers, held that Miss Vincy was the best girl in the world, and some called her an angel. Mary Garth, on the contrary, had the aspect of an ordinary sinner: she was brown; her curly dark hair was rough and stubborn; her stature72 was low; and it would not be true to declare, in satisfactory antithesis73, that she had all the virtues75. Plainness has its peculiar temptations and vices76 quite as much as beauty; it is apt either to feign77 amiability78, or, not feigning79 it, to show all the repulsiveness80 of discontent: at any rate, to be called an ugly thing in contrast with that lovely creature your companion, is apt to produce some effect beyond a sense of fine veracity81 and fitness in the phrase. At the age of two-and-twenty Mary had certainly not attained82 that perfect good sense and good principle which are usually recommended to the less fortunate girl, as if they were to be obtained in quantities ready mixed, with a flavor of resignation as required. Her shrewdness had a streak83 of satiric84 bitterness continually renewed and never carried utterly85 out of sight, except by a strong current of gratitude86 towards those who, instead of telling her that she ought to be contented87, did something to make her so. Advancing womanhood had tempered her plainness, which was of a good human sort, such as the mothers of our race have very commonly worn in all latitudes88 under a more or less becoming headgear. Rembrandt would have painted her with pleasure, and would have made her broad features look out of the canvas with intelligent honesty. For honesty, truth-telling fairness, was Mary's reigning89 virtue74: she neither tried to create illusions, nor indulged in them for her own behoof, and when she was in a good mood she had humor enough in her to laugh at herself. When she and Rosamond happened both to be reflected in the glass, she said, laughingly--
"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," said Rosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes swerving90 towards the new view of her neck in the glass.
"You mean my beauty," said Mary, rather sardonically91.
Rosamond thought, "Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill." Aloud she said, "What have you been doing lately?"
"I? Oh, minding the house--pouring out syrup--pretending to be amiable92 and contented--learning to have a bad opinion of everybody."
"It is a wretched life for you."
"No," said Mary, curtly93, with a little toss of her head. "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," said Rosamond, reflectively; "one wonders what such people do, without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support. But," she added, dimpling, "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."
A certain change in Mary's face was chiefly determined94 by the resolve not to show any change.
"Does that always make people fall in love?" she answered, carelessly; "it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting95 each other."
"Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr. Lydgate is both."
"Oh, Mr. Lydgate!" said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse96 into indifference97. "You want to know something about him," she added, not choosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness.
"Merely, how you like him."
"There is no question of liking59 at present. My liking always wants some little kindness to kindle98 it. I am not magnanimous enough to like people who speak to me without seeming to see me."
"Is he so haughty99?" said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. "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 inventory100: heavy eyebrows101, 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."
Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively102, "I rather like a haughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling103 young man."
"I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pour tous les gouts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can choose the particular sort of conceit104 she would like, I should think it is you, Rosy."
"Haughtiness105 is not conceit; I call Fred conceited106."
"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." Mary spoke from a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment107. There was a vague uneasiness associated with the word "unsteady" which she hoped Rosamond might say something to dissipate. But she purposely abstained108 from mentioning Mrs. Waule's more special insinuation.
"Oh, Fred is horrid109!" said Rosamond. She would not have allowed herself so unsuitable a word to any one but Mary.
"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," said Mary, dryly.
"Then I wonder you can defend Fred," said Rosamond, inclined to push this point.
"I don't defend him," said Mary, laughing; "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?" said Mary, lighting110 up. "He would take mine. He is the only person who takes the least trouble to oblige me."
"You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary," said Rosamond, with her gravest mildness; "I would not tell mamma for the world."
"What would you not tell her?" said Mary, angrily.
"Pray do not go into a rage, Mary," said Rosamond, mildly as ever.
"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 exasperating111."
"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," said Rosamond, putting on her hat.
"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."
Mr. Lydgate was rather late this morning, but the visitors stayed long enough to see him; for Mr. Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing to him, and she herself was so kind as to propose a second favorite song of his--"Flow on, thou shining river"--after she had sung "Home, sweet home" (which she detested). This hard-headed old Overreach approved of the sentimental112 song, as the suitable garnish113 for girls, and also as fundamentally fine, sentiment being the right thing for a song.
Mr. Featherstone was still applauding the last performance, and assuring missy that her voice was as clear as a blackbird's, when Mr. Lydgate's horse passed the window.
His dull expectation of the usual disagreeable routine with an aged114 patient--who can hardly believe that medicine would not "set him up" if the doctor were only clever enough--added to his general disbelief in Middlemarch charms, made a doubly effective background to this vision of Rosamond, whom old Featherstone made haste ostentatiously to introduce as his niece, though he had never thought it worth while to speak of Mary Garth in that light. Nothing escaped Lydgate in Rosamond's graceful115 behavior: how delicately she waived116 the notice which the old man's want of taste had thrust upon her by a quiet gravity, not showing her dimples on the wrong occasion, but showing them afterwards in speaking to Mary, to whom she addressed herself with so much good-natured interest, that Lydgate, after quickly examining Mary more fully than he had done before, saw an adorable kindness in Rosamond's eyes. But Mary from some cause looked rather out of temper.
"Miss Rosy has been singing me a song--you've nothing to say against that, eh, doctor?" said Mr. Featherstone. "I like it better than your physic."
"That has made me forget how the time was going," said Rosamond, rising to reach her hat, which she had laid aside before singing, so that her flower-like head on its white stem was seen in perfection above-her riding-habit. "Fred, we must really go."
"Very good," said Fred, who had his own reasons for not being in the best spirits, and wanted to get away.
"Miss Vincy is a musician?" said Lydgate, following her with his eyes. (Every nerve and muscle in Rosamond was adjusted to the consciousness that she was being looked at. She was by nature an actress of parts that entered into her physique: she even acted her own character, and so well, that she did not know it to be precisely117 her own.)
"The best in Middlemarch, I'll be bound," said Mr. Featherstone, "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," said Rosamond, with a pretty lightness, going towards her whip, which lay at a distance.
Lydgate was quick in anticipating her. He reached the whip before she did, and turned to present it to her. She bowed and looked at him: he of course was looking at her, and their eyes met with that peculiar meeting which is never arrived at by effort, but seems like a sudden divine clearance118 of haze119. I think Lydgate turned a little paler than usual, but Rosamond blushed deeply and felt a certain astonishment120. After that, she was really anxious to go, and did not know what sort of stupidity her uncle was talking of when she went to shake hands with him.
Yet this result, which she took to be a mutual121 impression, called falling in love, was just what Rosamond had contemplated122 beforehand. Ever since that important new arrival in Middlemarch she had woven a little future, of which something like this scene was the necessary beginning. Strangers, whether wrecked123 and clinging to a raft, or duly escorted and accompanied by portmanteaus, have always had a circumstantial fascination124 for the virgin125 mind, against which native merit has urged itself in vain. And a stranger was absolutely necessary to Rosamond's social romance, which had always turned on a lover and bridegroom who was not a Middlemarcher, and who had no connections at all like her own: of late, indeed, the construction seemed to demand that he should somehow be related to a baronet. Now that she and the stranger had met, reality proved much more moving than anticipation126, and Rosamond could not doubt that this was the great epoch127 of her life. She judged of her own symptoms as those of awakening128 love, and she held it still more natural that Mr. Lydgate should have fallen in love at first sight of her. These things happened so often at balls, and why not by the morning light, when the complexion129 showed all the better for it? Rosamond, though no older than Mary, was rather used to being fallen in love with; but she, for her part, had remained indifferent and fastidiously critical towards both fresh sprig and faded bachelor. And here was Mr. Lydgate suddenly corresponding to her ideal, being altogether foreign to Middlemarch, carrying a certain air of distinction congruous with good family, and possessing connections which offered vistas130 of that middle-class heaven, rank; a man of talent, also, whom it would be especially delightful131 to enslave: in fact, a man who had touched her nature quite newly, and brought a vivid interest into her life which was better than any fancied "might-be" such as she was in the habit of opposing to the actual.
Thus, in riding home, both the brother and the sister were preoccupied132 and inclined to be silent. Rosamond, whose basis for her structure had the usual airy slightness, was of remarkably133 detailed134 and realistic imagination when the foundation had been once presupposed; and before they had ridden a mile she was far on in the costume and introductions of her wedded135 life, having determined on her house in Middle-march, and foreseen the visits she would pay to her husband's high-bred relatives at a distance, whose finished manners she could appropriate as thoroughly136 as she had done her school accomplishments137, preparing herself thus for vaguer elevations138 which might ultimately come. There was nothing financial, still less sordid139, in her previsions: she cared about what were considered refinements140, and not about the money that was to pay for them.
Fred's mind, on the other hand, was busy with an anxiety which even his ready hopefulness could not immediately quell141. He saw no way of eluding142 Featherstone's stupid demand without incurring143 consequences which he liked less even than the task of fulfilling it. His father was already out of humor with him, and would be still more so if he were the occasion of any additional coolness between his own family and the Bulstrodes. Then, he himself hated having to go and speak to his uncle Bulstrode, and perhaps after drinking wine he had said many foolish things about Featherstone's property, and these had been magnified by report. Fred felt that he made a wretched figure as a fellow who bragged144 about expectations from a queer old miser145 like Featherstone, and went to beg for certificates at his bidding. But--those expectations! He really had them, and he saw no agreeable alternative if he gave them up; besides, he had lately made a debt which galled146 him extremely, and old Featherstone had almost bargained to pay it off. The whole affair was miserably147 small: his debts were small, even his expectations were not anything so very magnificent. Fred had known men to whom he would have been ashamed of confessing the smallness of his scrapes. Such ruminations naturally produced a streak of misanthropic148 bitterness. To be born the son of a Middlemarch manufacturer, and inevitable149 heir to nothing in particular, while such men as Mainwaring and Vyan--certainly life was a poor business, when a spirited young fellow, with a good appetite for the best of everything, had so poor an outlook.
It had not occurred to Fred that the introduction of Bulstrode's name in the matter was a fiction of old Featherstone's; nor could this have made any difference to his position. He saw plainly enough that the old man wanted to exercise his power by tormenting150 him a little, and also probably to get some satisfaction out of seeing him on unpleasant terms with Bulstrode. Fred fancied that he saw to the bottom of his uncle Featherstone's soul, though in reality half what he saw there was no more than the reflex of his own inclinations151. The difficult task of knowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness is chiefly made up of their own wishes.
Fred's main point of debate with himself was, whether he should tell his father, or try to get through the affair without his father's knowledge. It was probably Mrs. Waule who had been talking about him; and if Mary Garth had repeated Mrs. Waule's report to Rosamond, it would be sure to reach his father, who would as surely question him about it. He said to Rosamond, as they slackened their pace--
"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 nettle152 you, Fred."
"Not at all. She would not have said so if you had not provoked her." Before reaching home, Fred concluded that he would tell the whole affair as simply as possible to his father, who might perhaps take on himself the unpleasant business of speaking to Bulstrode.
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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pinnacled
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| 小尖塔般耸立的，顶处的 | |
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walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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deafen
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| vt.震耳欲聋；使听不清楚 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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nethermost
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| adj.最下面的 | |
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sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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51
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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52
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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53
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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54
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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56
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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59
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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codicils
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| n.遗嘱的附件( codicil的名词复数 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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captiously
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68
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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73
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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80
repulsiveness
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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84
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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latitudes
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| 纬度 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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detesting
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的现在分词 ) | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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101
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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108
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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garnish
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| n.装饰，添饰，配菜 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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128
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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149
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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150
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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151
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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