"Nonsense! you must bring dockiments. It comes from authority."
"Name the authority, and make him name the man of whom Iborrowed the money, and then I can disprove the story."
"It's pretty good authority, I think—a man who knows most of whatgoes on in Middlemarch. It's that fine, religious, charitable uncle o'yours. Come now!" Here Mr. Featherstone had his peculiar inward shakewhich signified merriment.
"Mr. Bulstrode?"
"Who else, eh?"
"Then the story has grown into this lie out of some sermonizingwords he may have let fall about me. Do they pretend that he named theman 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 tosay he doesn't believe you've ever promised to pay your debts out o' myland. Come now!"
Mr. Featherstone's face required its whole scale of grimaces as amuscular outlet to his silent triumph in the soundness of his faculties.
Fred felt himself to be in a disgusting dilemma.
"You must be joking, sir. Mr. Bulstrode, like other men, believesscores of things that are not true, and he has a prejudice against me. Icould easily get him to write that he knew no facts in proof of the reportyou speak of, though it might lead to unpleasantness. But I could hardlyask him to write down what he believes or does not believe about me."Fred paused an instant, and then added, in politic appeal to his uncle'svanity, "That is hardly a thing for a gentleman to ask." But he wasdisappointed 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. Aspeckilating fellow! He may come down any day, when the devil leavesoff backing him. And that's what his religion means: he wants GodA'mighty to come in. That's nonsense! There's one thing I made outpretty clear when I used to go to church—and it's this: God A'mightysticks to the land. He promises land, and He gives land, and He makeschaps rich with corn and cattle. But you take the other side. You likeBulstrode and speckilation better than Featherstone and land."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Fred, rising, standing with his back tothe fire and beating his boot with his whip. "I like neither Bulstrode norspeculation." He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated.
"Well, well, you can do without me, that's pretty clear," said oldFeatherstone, secretly disliking the possibility that Fred would showhimself at all independent. "You neither want a bit of land to make asquire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundred poundby the way. It's all one to me. I can make five codicils if I like, and Ishall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg. It's all one to me."
Fred colored again. Featherstone had rarely given him presents ofmoney, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with theimmediate prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospect ofthe land.
"I am not ungrateful, sir. I never meant to show disregard for anykind intentions you might have towards me. On the contrary."
"Very good. Then prove it. You bring me a letter from Bulstrodesaying he doesn't believe you've been cracking and promising to pay yourdebts out o' my land, and then, if there's any scrape you've got into, we'llsee if I can't back you a bit. Come now! That's a bargain. Here, give meyour arm. I'll try and walk round the room."
Fred, in spite of his irritation, had kindness enough in him to be alittle sorry for the unloved, unvenerated old man, who with his dropsicallegs 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 hisconstitution breaking up; and he waited good-temperedly, first before thewindow to hear the wonted remarks about the guinea-fowls and theweather-cock, and then before the scanty book-shelves, of which thechief glories in dark calf 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 bringingher more books for?"
"They amuse her, sir. She is very fond of reading."
"A little too fond," said Mr. Featherstone, captiously. "She was forreading when she sat with me. But I put a stop to that. She's got thenewspaper to read out loud. That's enough for one day, I should think. Ican't abide to see her reading to herself. You mind and not bring her anymore books, do you hear?"
"Yes, sir, I hear." Fred had received this order before, and hadsecretly 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 thewindow while Rosamond took off her hat, adjusted her veil, and appliedlittle touches of her finger-tips to her hair—hair of infantine fairness,neither flaxen nor yellow. Mary Garth seemed all the plainer standing atan angle between the two nymphs—the one in the glass, and the one outof it, who looked at each other with eyes of heavenly blue, deep enoughto hold the most exquisite meanings an ingenious beholder could put intothem, and deep enough to hide the meanings of the owner if theseshould happen to be less exquisite. Only a few children in Middlemarchlooked blond by the side of Rosamond, and the slim figure displayed byher riding-habit had delicate undulations. In fact, most men inMiddlemarch, except her brothers, held that Miss Vincy was the best girlin 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 hairwas rough and stubborn; her stature was low; and it would not be trueto declare, in satisfactory antithesis, that she had all the virtues.Plainness has its peculiar temptations and vices quite as much as beauty;it is apt either to feign amiability, or, not feigning it, to show all therepulsiveness of discontent: at any rate, to be called an ugly thing incontrast with that lovely creature your companion, is apt to producesome effect beyond a sense of fine veracity and fitness in the phrase. Atthe age of two-and-twenty Mary had certainly not attained that perfectgood sense and good principle which are usually recommended to theless fortunate girl, as if they were to be obtained in quantities readymixed, with a flavor of resignation as required. Her shrewdness had astreak of satiric bitterness continually renewed and never carried utterlyout of sight, except by a strong current of gratitude towards those who,instead of telling her that she ought to be contented, did something tomake her so. Advancing womanhood had tempered her plainness, whichwas of a good human sort, such as the mothers of our race have verycommonly worn in all latitudes under a more or less becoming headgear.Rembrandt would have painted her with pleasure, and would have madeher broad features look out of the canvas with intelligent honesty. Forhonesty, truth-telling fairness, was Mary's reigning virtue: she neithertried to create illusions, nor indulged in them for her own behoof, andwhen she was in a good mood she had humor enough in her to laugh atherself. When she and Rosamond happened both to be reflected in theglass, she said, laughingly—
"What a brown patch I am by the side of you, Rosy! You are the mostunbecoming companion."
"Oh no! No one thinks of your appearance, you are so sensible anduseful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality," saidRosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes swervingtowards the new view of her neck in the glass.
"You mean my beauty," said Mary, rather sardonically.
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 beamiable and contented—learning to have a bad opinion of everybody."
"It is a wretched life for you."
"No," said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of her head. "I think my lifeis 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 thateverything gets easier as one gets older."
"No," said Rosamond, reflectively; "one wonders what such peopledo, 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 havean 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 lovewith you, seeing you almost every day."
A certain change in Mary's face was chiefly determined by theresolve 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 detesting eachother."
"Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr.Lydgate is both."
"Oh, Mr. Lydgate!" said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse intoindifference. "You want to know something about him," she added, notchoosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness.
"Merely, how you like him."
"There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wantssome little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to likepeople who speak to me without seeming to see me."
"Is he so haughty?" 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 inventory: heavyeyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid whitehands—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, meditatively, "I rather like ahaughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young man."
"I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pourtous les gouts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can choosethe 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." Maryspoke from a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment. Therewas a vague uneasiness associated with the word "unsteady" which shehoped Rosamond might say something to dissipate. But she purposelyabstained from mentioning Mrs. Waule's more special insinuation.
"Oh, Fred is horrid!" said Rosamond. She would not have allowedherself 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 takeorders."
"I think Fred is quite right."
"How can you say he is quite right, Mary? I thought you had moresense 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 aclergyman; 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! Andonly 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 topush this point.
"I don't defend him," said Mary, laughing; "I would defend any parishfrom 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'spart."
"Why should I not take his part?" said Mary, lighting up. "He wouldtake mine. He is the only person who takes the least trouble to obligeme."
"You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary," said Rosamond, withher 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 herthat 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 thebell—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 intoa rage sometimes, what is the good of being friends?"
"Am I to repeat what you have said?" "Just as you please. I never saywhat I am afraid of having repeated. But let us go down."
Mr. Lydgate was rather late this morning, but the visitors stayedlong enough to see him; for Mr. Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing tohim, and she herself was so kind as to propose a second favorite song ofhis—"Flow on, thou shining river"—after she had sung "Home, sweethome" (which she detested). This hard-headed old Overreach approved ofthe sentimental song, as the suitable garnish for girls, and also asfundamentally fine, sentiment being the right thing for a song.
