This was not the first time that Mr. Bulstrode had begun byadmonishing Mr. Vincy, and had ended by seeing a very unsatisfactoryreflection of himself in the coarse unflattering mirror which thatmanufacturer's mind presented to the subtler lights and shadows of hisfellow-men; and perhaps his experience ought to have warned him howthe scene would end. But a full-fed fountain will be generous with itswaters even in the rain, when they are worse than useless; and a finefount of admonition is apt to be equally irrepressible.
It was not in Mr. Bulstrode's nature to comply directly inconsequence of uncomfortable suggestions. Before changing his course,he always needed to shape his motives and bring them into accordancewith his habitual standard. He said, at last—
"I will reflect a little, Vincy. I will mention the subject to Harriet. Ishall probably send you a letter."
"Very well. As soon as you can, please. I hope it will all be settledbefore I see you to-morrow."
CHAPTER XIV.
"Follows here the strict receipt
For that sauce to dainty meat,
Named Idleness, which many eat
By preference, and call it sweet:
First watch for morsels, like a hound
Mix well with buffets, stir them round
With good thick oil of flatteries,
And froth with mean self-lauding lies.
Serve warm: the vessels you must choose
To keep it in are dead men's shoes."
Mr. Bulstrode's consultation of Harriet seemed to have had the effectdesired by Mr. Vincy, for early the next morning a letter came whichFred could carry to Mr. Featherstone as the required testimony.
The old gentleman was staying in bed on account of the coldweather, and as Mary Garth was not to be seen in the sitting-room, Fredwent up-stairs immediately and presented the letter to his uncle, who,propped up comfortably on a bed-rest, was not less able than usual toenjoy his consciousness of wisdom in distrusting and frustratingmankind. He put on his spectacles to read the letter, pursing up his lipsand drawing down their corners.
"Under the circumstances I will not decline to state my conviction—tchah! what fine words the fellow puts! He's as fine as an auctioneer—that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of money onbequests promised by Mr. Featherstone—promised? who said I had everpromised? I promise nothing—I shall make codicils as long as I like—andthat considering the nature of such a proceeding, it is unreasonable topresume that a young man of sense and character would attempt it—ah,but the gentleman doesn't say you are a young man of sense andcharacter, mark you that, sir!—As to my own concern with any report ofsuch a nature, I distinctly affirm that I never made any statement to theeffect that your son had borrowed money on any property that mightaccrue to him on Mr. Featherstone's demise—bless my heart! 'property'—accrue—demise! Lawyer Standish is nothing to him. He couldn't speakfiner if he wanted to borrow. Well," Mr. Featherstone here looked overhis spectacles at Fred, while he handed back the letter to him with acontemptuous gesture, "you don't suppose I believe a thing becauseBulstrode writes it out fine, eh?"
Fred colored. "You wished to have the letter, sir. I should think itvery likely that Mr. Bulstrode's denial is as good as the authority whichtold you what he denies."
"Every bit. I never said I believed either one or the other. And nowwhat d' you expect?" said Mr. Featherstone, curtly, keeping on hisspectacles, but withdrawing his hands under his wraps.
"I expect nothing, sir." Fred with difficulty restrained himself fromventing his irritation. "I came to bring you the letter. If you like I will bidyou good morning."
"Not yet, not yet. Ring the bell; I want missy to come."
It was a servant who came in answer to the bell.
"Tell missy to come!" said Mr. Featherstone, impatiently. "Whatbusiness had she to go away?" He spoke in the same tone when Marycame.
"Why couldn't you sit still here till I told you to go? want mywaistcoat now. I told you always to put it on the bed."
Mary's eyes looked rather red, as if she had been crying. It was clearthat Mr. Featherstone was in one of his most snappish humors thismorning, and though Fred had now the prospect of receiving the much-needed present of money, he would have preferred being free to turnround on the old tyrant and tell him that Mary Garth was too good to beat his beck. Though Fred had risen as she entered the room, she hadbarely noticed him, and looked as if her nerves were quivering with theexpectation that something would be thrown at her. But she never hadanything worse than words to dread. When she went to reach thewaistcoat from a peg, Fred went up to her and said, "Allow me."
"Let it alone! You bring it, missy, and lay it down here," said Mr.Featherstone. "Now you go away again till I call you," he added, whenthe waistcoat was laid down by him. It was usual with him to season hispleasure in showing favor to one person by being especially disagreeableto another, and Mary was always at hand to furnish the condiment.When his own relatives came she was treated better. Slowly he took outa bunch of keys from the waistcoat pocket, and slowly he drew forth atin box which was under the bed-clothes.
"You expect I am going to give you a little fortune, eh?" he said,looking above his spectacles and pausing in the act of opening the lid.
"Not at all, sir. You were good enough to speak of making me apresent the other day, else, of course, I should not have thought of thematter." But Fred was of a hopeful disposition, and a vision hadpresented itself of a sum just large enough to deliver him from a certainanxiety. When Fred got into debt, it always seemed to him highlyprobable that something or other—he did not necessarily conceivewhat—would come to pass enabling him to pay in due time. And nowthat the providential occurrence was apparently close at hand, it wouldhave been sheer absurdity to think that the supply would be short of theneed: as absurd as a faith that believed in half a miracle for want ofstrength to believe in a whole one.
The deep-veined hands fingered many bank-notes-one after the other,laying them down flat again, while Fred leaned back in his chair,scorning to look eager. He held himself to be a gentleman at heart, anddid not like courting an old fellow for his money. At last, Mr.Featherstone eyed him again over his spectacles and presented him witha little sheaf of notes: Fred could see distinctly that there were but five,as the less significant edges gaped towards him. But then, each mightmean fifty pounds. He took them, saying—
"I am very much obliged to you, sir," and was going to roll them upwithout seeming to think of their value. But this did not suit Mr.Featherstone, who was eying him intently.
"Come, don't you think it worth your while to count 'em? You takemoney like a lord; I suppose you lose it like one."
"I thought I was not to look a gift-horse in the mouth, sir. But I shallbe very happy to count them."
Fred was not so happy, however, after he had counted them. Forthey actually presented the absurdity of being less than his hopefulnesshad decided that they must be. What can the fitness of things mean, ifnot their fitness to a man's expectations? Failing this, absurdity andatheism gape behind him. The collapse for Fred was severe when hefound that he held no more than five twenties, and his share in thehigher education of this country did not seem to help him. Neverthelesshe said, with rapid changes in his fair complexion—
"It is very handsome of you, sir."
"I should think it is," said Mr. Featherstone, locking his box andreplacing it, then taking off his spectacles deliberately, and at length, asif his inward meditation had more deeply convinced him, repeating, "Ishould think it handsome."
"I assure you, sir, I am very grateful," said Fred, who had had time torecover his cheerful air.
"So you ought to be. You want to cut a figure in the world, and Ireckon Peter Featherstone is the only one you've got to trust to." Here theold man's eyes gleamed with a curiously mingled satisfaction in theconsciousness that this smart young fellow relied upon him, and that thesmart young fellow was rather a fool for doing so.
"Yes, indeed: I was not born to very splendid chances. Few men havebeen more cramped than I have been," said Fred, with some sense ofsurprise at his own virtue, considering how hardly he was dealt with. "Itreally seems a little too bad to have to ride a broken-winded hunter, andsee men, who, are not half such good judges as yourself, able to throwaway any amount of money on buying bad bargains."
"Well, you can buy yourself a fine hunter now. Eighty pound isenough for that, I reckon—and you'll have twenty pound over to getyourself out of any little scrape," said Mr. Featherstone, chucklingslightly.
"You are very good, sir," said Fred, with a fine sense of contrastbetween the words and his feeling.
"Ay, rather a better uncle than your fine uncle Bulstrode. You won'tget much out of his spekilations, I think. He's got a pretty strong stringround your father's leg, by what I hear, eh?"
"My father never tells me anything about his affairs, sir."
"Well, he shows some sense there. But other people find 'em outwithout his telling. He'll never have much to leave you: he'll most-like diewithout a will—he's the sort of man to do it—let 'em make him mayor ofMiddlemarch as much as they like. But you won't get much by his dyingwithout a will, though you are the eldest son."
Fred thought that Mr. Featherstone had never been so disagreeablebefore. True, he had never before given him quite so much money atonce.
"Shall I destroy this letter of Mr. Bulstrode's, sir?" said Fred, risingwith the letter as if he would put it in the fire.
"Ay, ay, I don't want it. It's worth no money to me."
Fred carried the letter to the fire, and thrust the poker through itwith much zest. He longed to get out of the room, but he was a littleashamed before his inner self, as well as before his uncle, to run awayimmediately after pocketing the money. Presently, the farm-bailiff cameup to give his master a report, and Fred, to his unspeakable relief, wasdismissed with the injunction to come again soon.
He had longed not only to be set free from his uncle, but also to findMary Garth. She was now in her usual place by the fire, with sewing inher hands and a book open on the little table by her side. Her eyelidshad lost some of their redness now, and she had her usual air of self-command.
"Am I wanted up-stairs?" she said, half rising as Fred entered.
"No; I am only dismissed, because Simmons is gone up."
Mary sat down again, and resumed her work. She was certainlytreating him with more indifference than usual: she did not know howaffectionately indignant he had felt on her behalf up-stairs.
"May I stay here a little, Mary, or shall I bore you?"
"Pray sit down," said Mary; "you will not be so heavy a bore as Mr.John Waule, who was here yesterday, and he sat down without askingmy leave."
"Poor fellow! I think he is in love with you."
"I am not aware of it. And to me it is one of the most odious thingsin a girl's life, that there must always be some supposition of falling inlove coming between her and any man who is kind to her, and to whomshe is grateful. I should have thought that I, at least, might have beensafe from all that. I have no ground for the nonsensical vanity offancying everybody who comes near me is in love with me."
Mary did not mean to betray any feeling, but in spite of herself sheended in a tremulous tone of vexation.
"Confound John Waule! I did not mean to make you angry. I didn'tknow you had any reason for being grateful to me. I forgot what a greatservice you think it if any one snuffs a candle for you. Fred also had hispride, and was not going to show that he knew what had called forththis outburst of Mary's.
"Oh, I am not angry, except with the ways of the world. I do like tobe spoken to as if I had common-sense. I really often feel as if I couldunderstand a little more than I ever hear even from young gentlemenwho have been to college." Mary had recovered, and she spoke with asuppressed rippling under-current of laughter pleasant to hear.
"I don't care how merry you are at my expense this morning," saidFred, "I thought you looked so sad when you came up-stairs. It is ashame you should stay here to be bullied in that way."
"Oh, I have an easy life—by comparison. I have tried being a teacher,and I am not fit for that: my mind is too fond of wandering on its ownway. I think any hardship is better than pretending to do what one ispaid for, and never really doing it. Everything here I can do as well asany one else could; perhaps better than some—Rosy, for example.Though she is just the sort of beautiful creature that is imprisoned withogres in fairy tales."
"Rosy!" cried Fred, in a tone of profound brotherly scepticism.
"Come, Fred!" said Mary, emphatically; "you have no right to be socritical."
"Do you mean anything particular—just now?"
"No, I mean something general—always."
"Oh, that I am idle and extravagant. Well, I am not fit to be a poorman. I should not have made a bad fellow if I had been rich."
"You would have done your duty in that state of life to which it hasnot pleased God to call you," said Mary, laughing.
"Well, I couldn't do my duty as a clergyman, any more than youcould do yours as a governess. You ought to have a little fellow-feelingthere, Mary."
"I never said you ought to be a clergyman. There are other sorts ofwork. It seems to me very miserable not to resolve on some course andact accordingly."
"So I could, if—" Fred broke off, and stood up, leaning against themantel-piece.
"If you were sure you should not have a fortune?"
"I did not say that. You want to quarrel with me. It is too bad of youto be guided by what other people say about me."
"How can I want to quarrel with you? I should be quarrelling with allmy new books," said Mary, lifting the volume on the table. "Howevernaughty you may be to other people, you are good to me."
