Mr. Garth had a small office in the town, and to this Fred went withhis request. He obtained it without much difficulty, for a large amount ofpainful experience had not sufficed to make Caleb Garth cautious abouthis own affairs, or distrustful of his fellow-men when they had notproved themselves untrustworthy; and he had the highest opinion ofFred, was "sure the lad would turn out well—an open affectionate fellow,with a good bottom to his character—you might trust him for anything."Such was Caleb's psychological argument. He was one of those rare menwho are rigid to themselves and indulgent to others. He had a certainshame about his neighbors' errors, and never spoke of them willingly;hence he was not likely to divert his mind from the best mode ofhardening timber and other ingenious devices in order to preconceivethose errors. If he had to blame any one, it was necessary for him tomove all the papers within his reach, or describe various diagrams withhis stick, or make calculations with the odd money in his pocket, beforehe could begin; and he would rather do other men's work than find faultwith their doing. I fear he was a bad disciplinarian.
When Fred stated the circumstances of his debt, his wish to meet itwithout troubling his father, and the certainty that the money would beforthcoming so as to cause no one any inconvenience, Caleb pushed hisspectacles upward, listened, looked into his favorite's clear young eyes,and believed him, not distinguishing confidence about the future fromveracity about the past; but he felt that it was an occasion for a friendlyhint as to conduct, and that before giving his signature he must give arather strong admonition. Accordingly, he took the paper and loweredhis spectacles, measured the space at his command, reached his pen andexamined it, dipped it in the ink and examined it again, then pushed thepaper a little way from him, lifted up his spectacles again, showed adeepened depression in the outer angle of his bushy eyebrows, whichgave his face a peculiar mildness (pardon these details for once—youwould have learned to love them if you had known Caleb Garth), andsaid in a comfortable tone—
"It was a misfortune, eh, that breaking the horse's knees? And then,these exchanges, they don't answer when you have 'cute jockeys to dealwith. You'll be wiser another time, my boy."
Whereupon Caleb drew down his spectacles, and proceeded to writehis signature with the care which he always gave to that performance;for whatever he did in the way of business he did well. He contemplatedthe large well-proportioned letters and final flourish, with his head atrifle on one side for an instant, then handed it to Fred, said "Good-by,"and returned forthwith to his absorption in a plan for Sir JamesChettam's new farm-buildings.
Either because his interest in this work thrust the incident of thesignature from his memory, or for some reason of which Caleb was moreconscious, Mrs. Garth remained ignorant of the affair.
Since it occurred, a change had come over Fred's sky, which alteredhis view of the distance, and was the reason why his uncle Featherstone'spresent of money was of importance enough to make his color come andgo, first with a too definite expectation, and afterwards with aproportionate disappointment. His failure in passing his examination,had made his accumulation of college debts the more unpardonable byhis father, and there had been an unprecedented storm at home. Mr.Vincy had sworn that if he had anything more of that sort to put upwith, Fred should turn out and get his living how he could; and he hadnever yet quite recovered his good-humored tone to his son, who hadespecially enraged him by saying at this stage of things that he did notwant to be a clergyman, and would rather not "go on with that." Fredwas conscious that he would have been yet more severely dealt with ifhis family as well as himself had not secretly regarded him as Mr.Featherstone's heir; that old gentleman's pride in him, and apparentfondness for him, serving in the stead of more exemplary conduct—justas when a youthful nobleman steals jewellery we call the actkleptomania, speak of it with a philosophical smile, and never think ofhis being sent to the house of correction as if he were a ragged boy whohad stolen turnips. In fact, tacit expectations of what would be done forhim by uncle Featherstone determined the angle at which most peopleviewed Fred Vincy in Middlemarch; and in his own consciousness, whatuncle Featherstone would do for him in an emergency, or what he woulddo simply as an incorporated luck, formed always an immeasurabledepth of aerial perspective. But that present of bank-notes, once made,was measurable, and being applied to the amount of the debt, showed adeficit which had still to be filled up either by Fred's "judgment" or byluck in some other shape. For that little episode of the alleged borrowing,in which he had made his father the agent in getting the Bulstrodecertificate, was a new reason against going to his father for moneytowards meeting his actual debt. Fred was keen enough to foresee thatanger would confuse distinctions, and that his denial of having borrowedexpressly on the strength of his uncle's will would be taken as afalsehood. He had gone to his father and told him one vexatious affair,and he had left another untold: in such cases the complete revelationalways produces the impression of a previous duplicity. Now Fred piquedhimself on keeping clear of lies, and even fibs; he often shrugged hisshoulders and made a significant grimace at what he called Rosamond'sfibs (it is only brothers who can associate such ideas with a lovely girl);and rather than incur the accusation of falsehood he would even incursome trouble and self-restraint. It was under strong inward pressure ofthis kind that Fred had taken the wise step of depositing the eightypounds with his mother. It was a pity that he had not at once given themto Mr. Garth; but he meant to make the sum complete with anothersixty, and with a view to this, he had kept twenty pounds in his ownpocket as a sort of seed-corn, which, planted by judgment, and wateredby luck, might yield more than threefold—a very poor rate ofmultiplication when the field is a young gentleman's infinite soul, withall the numerals at command.
Fred was not a gambler: he had not that specific disease in which thesuspension of the whole nervous energy on a chance or risk becomes asnecessary as the dram to the drunkard; he had only the tendency to thatdiffusive form of gambling which has no alcoholic intensity, but iscarried on with the healthiest chyle-fed blood, keeping up a joyousimaginative activity which fashions events according to desire, andhaving no fears about its own weather, only sees the advantage theremust be to others in going aboard with it. Hopefulness has a pleasure inmaking a throw of any kind, because the prospect of success is certain;and only a more generous pleasure in offering as many as possible ashare in the stake. Fred liked play, especially billiards, as he likedhunting or riding a steeple-chase; and he only liked it the better becausehe wanted money and hoped to win. But the twenty pounds' worth ofseed-corn had been planted in vain in the seductive green plot—all of itat least which had not been dispersed by the roadside—and Fred foundhimself close upon the term of payment with no money at commandbeyond the eighty pounds which he had deposited with his mother. Thebroken-winded horse which he rode represented a present which hadbeen made to him a long while ago by his uncle Featherstone: his fatheralways allowed him to keep a horse, Mr. Vincy's own habits making himregard this as a reasonable demand even for a son who was ratherexasperating. This horse, then, was Fred's property, and in his anxiety tomeet the imminent bill he determined to sacrifice a possession withoutwhich life would certainly be worth little. He made the resolution with asense of heroism—heroism forced on him by the dread of breaking hisword to Mr. Garth, by his love for Mary and awe of her opinion. Hewould start for Houndsley horse-fair which was to be held the nextmorning, and—simply sell his horse, bringing back the money bycoach?—Well, the horse would hardly fetch more than thirty pounds,and there was no knowing what might happen; it would be folly to balkhimself of luck beforehand. It was a hundred to one that some goodchance would fall in his way; the longer he thought of it, the lesspossible it seemed that he should not have a good chance, and the lessreasonable that he should not equip himself with the powder and shotfor bringing it down. He would ride to Houndsley with Bambridge andwith Horrock "the vet," and without asking them anything expressly, heshould virtually get the benefit of their opinion. Before he set out, Fredgot the eighty pounds from his mother.
Most of those who saw Fred riding out of Middlemarch in companywith Bambridge and Horrock, on his way of course to Houndsley horse-fair, thought that young Vincy was pleasure-seeking as usual; and but foran unwonted consciousness of grave matters on hand, he himself wouldhave had a sense of dissipation, and of doing what might be expected ofa gay young fellow. Considering that Fred was not at all coarse, that herather looked down on the manners and speech of young men who hadnot been to the university, and that he had written stanzas as pastoraland unvoluptuous as his flute-playing, his attraction towards Bambridgeand Horrock was an interesting fact which even the love of horse-fleshwould not wholly account for without that mysterious influence ofNaming which determinates so much of mortal choice. Under any othername than "pleasure" the society of Messieurs Bambridge and Horrockmust certainly have been regarded as monotonous; and to arrive withthem at Houndsley on a drizzling afternoon, to get down at the Red Lionin a street shaded with coal-dust, and dine in a room furnished with adirt-enamelled map of the county, a bad portrait of an anonymous horsein a stable, His Majesty George the Fourth with legs and cravat, andvarious leaden spittoons, might have seemed a hard business, but for thesustaining power of nomenclature which determined that the pursuit ofthese things was "gay."
In Mr. Horrock there was certainly an apparent unfathomablenesswhich offered play to the imagination. Costume, at a glance, gave him athrilling association with horses (enough to specify the hat-brim whichtook the slightest upward angle just to escape the suspicion of bendingdownwards), and nature had given him a face which by dint ofMongolian eyes, and a nose, mouth, and chin seeming to follow his hat-brim in a moderate inclination upwards, gave the effect of a subduedunchangeable sceptical smile, of all expressions the most tyrannous overa susceptible mind, and, when accompanied by adequate silence, likelyto create the reputation of an invincible understanding, an infinite fundof humor—too dry to flow, and probably in a state of immovable crust,—and a critical judgment which, if you could ever be fortunate enough toknow it, would be the thing and no other. It is a physiognomy seen in allvocations, but perhaps it has never been more powerful over the youth ofEngland than in a judge of horses.
Mr. Horrock, at a question from Fred about his horse's fetlock,turned sideways in his saddle, and watched the horse's action for thespace of three minutes, then turned forward, twitched his own bridle,and remained silent with a profile neither more nor less sceptical than ithad been.
The part thus played in dialogue by Mr. Horrock was terriblyeffective. A mixture of passions was excited in Fred—a mad desire tothrash Horrock's opinion into utterance, restrained by anxiety to retainthe advantage of his friendship. There was always the chance thatHorrock might say something quite invaluable at the right moment.
Mr. Bambridge had more open manners, and appeared to give forthhis ideas without economy. He was loud, robust, and was sometimesspoken of as being "given to indulgence"—chiefly in swearing, drinking,and beating his wife. Some people who had lost by him called him avicious man; but he regarded horse-dealing as the finest of the arts, andmight have argued plausibly that it had nothing to do with morality. Hewas undeniably a prosperous man, bore his drinking better than othersbore their moderation, and, on the whole, flourished like the green bay-tree. But his range of conversation was limited, and like the fine oldtune, "Drops of brandy," gave you after a while a sense of returning uponitself in a way that might make weak heads dizzy. But a slight infusion ofMr. Bambridge was felt to give tone and character to several circles inMiddlemarch; and he was a distinguished figure in the bar and billiard-room at the Green Dragon. He knew some anecdotes about the heroes ofthe turf, and various clever tricks of Marquesses and Viscounts whichseemed to prove that blood asserted its pre-eminence even among black-legs; but the minute retentiveness of his memory was chiefly shownabout the horses he had himself bought and sold; the number of milesthey would trot you in no time without turning a hair being, after thelapse of years, still a subject of passionate asseveration, in which hewould assist the imagination of his hearers by solemnly swearing thatthey never saw anything like it. In short, Mr. Bambridge was a man ofpleasure and a gay companion.
Fred was subtle, and did not tell his friends that he was going toHoundsley bent on selling his horse: he wished to get indirectly at theirgenuine opinion of its value, not being aware that a genuine opinion wasthe last thing likely to be extracted from such eminent critics. It was notMr. Bambridge's weakness to be a gratuitous flatterer. He had neverbefore been so much struck with the fact that this unfortunate bay was aroarer to a degree which required the roundest word for perdition to giveyou any idea of it.
"You made a bad hand at swapping when you went to anybody butme, Vincy! Why, you never threw your leg across a finer horse than thatchestnut, and you gave him for this brute. If you set him cantering, hegoes on like twenty sawyers. I never heard but one worse roarer in mylife, and that was a roan: it belonged to Pegwell, the corn-factor; he usedto drive him in his gig seven years ago, and he wanted me to take him,but I said, 'Thank you, Peg, I don't deal in wind-instruments.' That waswhat I said. It went the round of the country, that joke did. But, whatthe hell! the horse was a penny trumpet to that roarer of yours."
"Why, you said just now his was worse than mine," said Fred, moreirritable than usual.
"I said a lie, then," said Mr. Bambridge, emphatically. "There wasn't apenny to choose between 'em."
Fred spurred his horse, and they trotted on a little way. When theyslackened again, Mr. Bambridge said—
