"Pray do not ask me this morning."
"Why not this morning?"
"Really, Fred, I wish you would leave off playing the flute. A manlooks very silly playing the flute. And you play so out of tune."
"When next any one makes love to you, Miss Rosamond, I will tellhim how obliging you are."
"Why should you expect me to oblige you by hearing you play theflute, any more than I should expect you to oblige me by not playing it?"
"And why should you expect me to take you out riding?"
This question led to an adjustment, for Rosamond had set her mindon that particular ride.
So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour's practice of "Ar hyd ynos," "Ye banks and braes," and other favorite airs from his "Instructoron the Flute;" a wheezy performance, into which he threw much ambitionand an irrepressible hopefulness.
CHAPTER XII.
"He had more tow on his distaffe
Than Gerveis knew."
—CHAUCER.
The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the nextmorning, lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost allmeadows and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushybeauty and to spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave eachfield a particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked onthem from childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses were dankand trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place inmid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope ofthe old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; the huddledroofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of approach;the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering wood; andthe stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and valleys withwondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travel far to seein later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful. These are the thingsthat make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls—thethings they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart standingbetween their father's knees while he drove leisurely.
But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we haveseen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it was intoLowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple of miles'riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end ofthe first half, the house was already visible, looking as if it had beenarrested in its growth toward a stone mansion by an unexpected buddingof farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it from becominganything more than the substantial dwelling of a gentleman farmer. Itwas not the less agreeable an object in the distance for the cluster ofpinnacled corn-ricks which balanced the fine row of walnuts on the right.
Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig onthe circular drive before the front door.
"Dear me," said Rosamond, "I hope none of my uncle's horriblerelations are there."
"They are, though. That is Mrs. Waule's gig—the last yellow gig left, Ishould think. When I see Mrs. Waule in it, I understand how yellow canhave been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal thana hearse. But then Mrs. Waule always has black crape on. How does shemanage it, Rosy? Her friends can't always be dying."
"I don't know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical," saidRosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would have fullyaccounted for perpetual crape. "And, not poor," she added, after amoment's pause.
"No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules andFeatherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don't want to spendanything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, and are afraidof a farthing going away from their side of the family. But I believe hehates them all."
The Mrs. Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes ofthese distant connections, had happened to say this very morning (not atall with a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral tone, as of a voiceheard through cotton wool) that she did not wish "to enjoy their goodopinion." She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother's hearth,and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she hadbeen Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother'sname had been made free with by those who had no right to it.
"What are you driving at there?" said Mr. Featherstone, holding hisstick between his knees and settling his wig, while he gave her amomentary sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught ofcold air and set him coughing.
Mrs. Waule had to defer her answer till he was quiet again, till MaryGarth had supplied him with fresh syrup, and he had begun to rub thegold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. It was a bright fire, butit made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint of Mrs. Waule'sface, which was as neutral as her voice; having mere chinks for eyes, andlips that hardly moved in speaking.
"The doctors can't master that cough, brother. It's just like what Ihave; for I'm your own sister, constitution and everything. But, as I wassaying, it's a pity Mrs. Vincy's family can't be better conducted."
"Tchah! you said nothing o' the sort. You said somebody had madefree 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 Middlemarchhow unsteady young Vincy is, and has been forever gambling at billiardssince 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 whateverybody 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 openhouse 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 thatMr. Vincy mostly trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourself,brother, when a woman past forty has pink strings always flying, andthat light way of laughing at everything, it's very unbecoming. Butindulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay theirdebts is another. And it's openly said that young Vincy has raised moneyon 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 hearingscandal too much to wish to repeat it."
Mr. Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a briefconvulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuineness asan old whist-player's chuckle over a bad hand. Still looking at the fire, hesaid—
"And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn't got expectations? Such afine, spirited fellow is like enough to have 'em."
There was a slight pause before Mrs. Waule replied, and when shedid so, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though herface was still dry.
"Whether or no, brother, it is naturally painful to me and my brotherSolomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint beingsuch as may carry you off sudden, and people who are no moreFeatherstones than the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning onyour property coming to them. And me your own sister, and Solomonyour own brother! And if that's to be it, what has it pleased the Almightyto make families for?" Here Mrs. Waule's tears fell, but with moderation.
"Come, out with it, Jane!" said Mr. Featherstone, looking at her. "Youmean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance himmoney on what he says he knows about my will, eh?"
"I never said so, brother" (Mrs. Waule's voice had again become dryand unshaken). "It was told me by my brother Solomon last night whenhe called coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat, mebeing a widow, and my son John only three-and-twenty, though steadybeyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and notone, but many."
"Stuff and nonsense! I don't believe a word of it. It's all a got-upstory. Go to the window, missy; I thought I heard a horse. See if thedoctor's coming."
"Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever elsehe may be—and I don't deny he has oddities—has made his will andparted his property equal between such kin as he's friends with; though,for my part, I think there are times when some should be consideredmore 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 standnear him, so that she did not find out whose horses they were whichpresently paused stamping on the gravel before the door.
Before Mr. Featherstone's cough was quiet, Rosamond entered,bearing up her riding-habit with much grace. She bowed ceremoniouslyto Mrs. Waule, who said stiffly, "How do you do, miss?" smiled andnodded silently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing shouldcease, and allow her uncle to notice her.
"Heyday, miss!" he said at last, "you have a fine color. Where's Fred?"
"Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently."
"Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Waule, you'd better go."
Even those neighbors who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox,had never accused him of being insincerely polite, and his sister wasquite used to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he marked hissense of blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to thinkthat entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably wasincluded in the Almighty's intentions about families. She rose slowlywithout any sign of resentment, and said in her usual muffled monotone,"Brother, I hope the new doctor will be able to do something for you.Solomon says there's great talk of his cleverness. I'm sure it's my wishyou should be spared. And there's none more ready to nurse you thanyour own sister and your own nieces, if you'd only say the word. There'sRebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you know."
"Ay, ay, I remember—you'll see I've remembered 'em all—all darkand ugly. They'd need have some money, eh? There never was anybeauty in the women of our family; but the Featherstones have alwayshad some money, and the Waules too. Waule had money too. A warmman was Waule. Ay, ay; money's a good egg; and if you 've got money toleave 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 deafenhimself, and his sister went away ruminating on this oracular speech ofhis. Notwithstanding her jealousy of the Vincys and of Mary Garth, thereremained as the nethermost sediment in her mental shallows apersuasion that her brother Peter Featherstone could never leave hischief property away from his blood-relations:—else, why had theAlmighty carried off his two wives both childless, after he had gained somuch by manganese and things, turning up when nobody expected it?—and why was there a Lowick parish church, and the Waules andPowderells all sit ting in the same pew for generations, and theFeatherstone pew next to them, if, the Sunday after her brother Peter'sdeath, everybody was to know that the property was gone out of thefamily? The human mind has at no period accepted a moral chaos; andso preposterous a result was not strictly conceivable. But we arefrightened 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 thesatisfactory details of his appearance.
"You two misses go away," said Mr. Featherstone. "I want to speak toFred."
"Come into my room, Rosamond, you will not mind the cold for alittle while," said Mary. The two girls had not only known each other inchildhood, but had been at the same provincial school together (Mary asan articled pupil), so that they had many memories in common, andliked very well to talk in private. Indeed, this tete-a-tete was one ofRosamond's objects in coming to Stone Court.
Old Featherstone would not begin the dialogue till the door had beenclosed. He continued to look at Fred with the same twinkle and with oneof his habitual grimaces, alternately screwing and widening his mouth;and when he spoke, it was in a low tone, which might be taken for thatof an informer ready to be bought off, rather than for the tone of anoffended senior. He was not a man to feel any strong moral indignationeven on account of trespasses against himself. It was natural that othersshould want to get an advantage over him, but then, he was a little toocunning for them.
"So, sir, you've been paying ten per cent for money which you'vepromised 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 excellentreasons. But he was conscious of having spoken with some confidence(perhaps with more than he exactly remembered) about his prospect ofgetting Featherstone's land as a future means of paying present debts.
"I don't know what you refer to, sir. I have certainly never borrowedany 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, andremember every fool's name as well as I could twenty years ago. Whatthe deuce? I'm under eighty. I say, you must contradict this story."
"I have contradicted it, sir," Fred answered, with a touch ofimpatience, not remembering that his uncle did not verbally discriminatecontradicting from disproving, though no one was further fromconfounding the two ideas than old Featherstone, who often wonderedthat so many fools took his own assertions for proofs. "But I contradict itagain. The story is a silly lie."
