"If I can only see my boy strong again," she said, in her loving folly;"and who knows?—perhaps master of Stone Court! and he can marryanybody he likes then."
"Not if they won't have me, mother," said Fred. The illness had madehim childish, and tears came as he spoke.
"Oh, take a bit of jelly, my dear," said Mrs. Vincy, secretlyincredulous of any such refusal.
She never left Fred's side when her husband was not in the house,and thus Rosamond was in the unusual position of being much alone.Lydgate, naturally, never thought of staying long with her, yet it seemedthat the brief impersonal conversations they had together were creatingthat peculiar intimacy which consists in shyness. They were obliged tolook at each other in speaking, and somehow the looking could not becarried through as the matter of course which it really was. Lydgatebegan to feel this sort of consciousness unpleasant and one day lookeddown, or anywhere, like an ill-worked puppet. But this turned out badly:the next day, Rosamond looked down, and the consequence was thatwhen their eyes met again, both were more conscious than before. Therewas no help for this in science, and as Lydgate did not want to flirt,there seemed to be no help for it in folly. It was therefore a relief whenneighbors no longer considered the house in quarantine, and when thechances of seeing Rosamond alone were very much reduced.
But that intimacy of mutual embarrassment, in which each feels thatthe other is feeling something, having once existed, its effect is not to bedone away with. Talk about the weather and other well-bred topics is aptto seem a hollow device, and behavior can hardly become easy unless itfrankly recognizes a mutual fascination—which of course need not meananything deep or serious. This was the way in which Rosamond andLydgate slid gracefully into ease, and made their intercourse lively again.Visitors came and went as usual, there was once more music in thedrawing-room, and all the extra hospitality of Mr. Vincy's mayoraltyreturned. Lydgate, whenever he could, took his seat by Rosamond's side,and lingered to hear her music, calling himself her captive—meaning, allthe while, not to be her captive. The preposterousness of the notion thathe could at once set up a satisfactory establishment as a married manwas a sufficient guarantee against danger. This play at being a little inlove was agreeable, and did not interfere with graver pursuits. Flirtation,after all, was not necessarily a singeing process. Rosamond, for her part,had never enjoyed the days so much in her life before: she was sure ofbeing admired by some one worth captivating, and she did notdistinguish flirtation from love, either in herself or in another. Sheseemed to be sailing with a fair wind just whither she would go, and herthoughts were much occupied with a handsome house in Lowick Gatewhich she hoped would by-and-by be vacant. She was quite determined,when she was married, to rid herself adroitly of all the visitors who werenot agreeable to her at her father's; and she imagined the drawing-roomin her favorite house with various styles of furniture.
Certainly her thoughts were much occupied with Lydgate himself; heseemed to her almost perfect: if he had known his notes so that hisenchantment under her music had been less like an emotional elephant's,and if he had been able to discriminate better the refinements of hertaste in dress, she could hardly have mentioned a deficiency in him. Howdifferent he was from young Plymdale or Mr. Caius Larcher! Thoseyoung men had not a notion of French, and could speak on no subjectwith striking knowledge, except perhaps the dyeing and carrying trades,which of course they were ashamed to mention; they were Middlemarchgentry, elated with their silver-headed whips and satin stocks, butembarrassed in their manners, and timidly jocose: even Fred was abovethem, having at least the accent and manner of a university man.Whereas Lydgate was always listened to, bore himself with the carelesspoliteness of conscious superiority, and seemed to have the right clotheson by a certain natural affinity, without ever having to think about them.Rosamond was proud when he entered the room, and when heapproached her with a distinguishing smile, she had a delicious sensethat she was the object of enviable homage. If Lydgate had been aware ofall the pride he excited in that delicate bosom, he might have been justas well pleased as any other man, even the most densely ignorant ofhumoral pathology or fibrous tissue: he held it one of the prettiestattitudes of the feminine mind to adore a man's pre-eminence withouttoo precise a knowledge of what it consisted in. But Rosamond was notone of those helpless girls who betray themselves unawares, and whosebehavior is awkwardly driven by their impulses, instead of being steeredby wary grace and propriety. Do you imagine that her rapid forecast andrumination concerning house-furniture and society were ever discerniblein her conversation, even with her mamma? On the contrary, she wouldhave expressed the prettiest surprise and disapprobation if she had heardthat another young lady had been detected in that immodestprematureness—indeed, would probably have disbelieved in itspossibility. For Rosamond never showed any unbecoming knowledge,and was always that combination of correct sentiments, music, dancing,drawing, elegant note-writing, private album for extracted verse, andperfect blond loveliness, which made the irresistible woman for thedoomed man of that date. Think no unfair evil of her, pray: she had nowicked plots, nothing sordid or mercenary; in fact, she never thought ofmoney except as something necessary which other people would alwaysprovide. She was not in the habit of devising falsehoods, and if herstatements were no direct clew to fact, why, they were not intended inthat light—they were among her elegant accomplishments, intended toplease. Nature had inspired many arts in finishing Mrs. Lemon's favoritepupil, who by general consent (Fred's excepted) was a rare compound ofbeauty, cleverness, and amiability.
Lydgate found it more and more agreeable to be with her, and therewas no constraint now, there was a delightful interchange of influence intheir eyes, and what they said had that superfluity of meaning for them,which is observable with some sense of flatness by a third person; stillthey had no interviews or asides from which a third person need havebeen excluded. In fact, they flirted; and Lydgate was secure in the beliefthat they did nothing else. If a man could not love and be wise, surely hecould flirt and be wise at the same time? Really, the men inMiddlemarch, except Mr. Farebrother, were great bores, and Lydgate didnot care about commercial politics or cards: what was he to do forrelaxation? He was often invited to the Bulstrodes'; but the girls therewere hardly out of the schoolroom; and Mrs. Bulstrode's naive way ofconciliating piety and worldliness, the nothingness of this life and thedesirability of cut glass, the consciousness at once of filthy rags and thebest damask, was not a sufficient relief from the weight of her husband'sinvariable seriousness. The Vincys' house, with all its faults, was thepleasanter by contrast; besides, it nourished Rosamond—sweet to look atas a half-opened blush-rose, and adorned with accomplishments for therefined amusement of man.
But he made some enemies, other than medical, by his success withMiss Vincy. One evening he came into the drawing-room rather late,when several other visitors were there. The card-table had drawn off theelders, and Mr. Ned Plymdale (one of the good matches in Middlemarch,though not one of its leading minds) was in tete-a-tete with Rosamond.He had brought the last "Keepsake," the gorgeous watered-silkpublication which marked modern progress at that time; and heconsidered himself very fortunate that he could be the first to look overit with her, dwelling on the ladies and gentlemen with shiny copper-platecheeks and copper-plate smiles, and pointing to comic verses as capitaland sentimental stories as interesting. Rosamond was gracious, and Mr.Ned was satisfied that he had the very best thing in art and literature asa medium for "paying addresses"—the very thing to please a nice girl. Hehad also reasons, deep rather than ostensible, for being satisfied with hisown appearance. To superficial observers his chin had too vanishing anaspect, looking as if it were being gradually reabsorbed. And it didindeed cause him some difficulty about the fit of his satin stocks, forwhich chins were at that time useful.
"I think the Honorable Mrs. S. is something like you," said Mr. Ned.He kept the book open at the bewitching portrait, and looked at it ratherlanguishingly.
"Her back is very large; she seems to have sat for that," saidRosamond, not meaning any satire, but thinking how red youngPlymdale's hands were, and wondering why Lydgate did not come. Shewent on with her tatting all the while.
"I did not say she was as beautiful as you are," said Mr. Ned,venturing to look from the portrait to its rival.
"I suspect you of being an adroit flatterer," said Rosamond, feelingsure that she should have to reject this young gentleman a second time.
But now Lydgate came in; the book was closed before he reachedRosamond's corner, and as he took his seat with easy confidence on theother side of her, young Plymdale's jaw fell like a barometer towards thecheerless side of change. Rosamond enjoyed not only Lydgate's presencebut its effect: she liked to excite jealousy.
"What a late comer you are!" she said, as they shook hands. "Mammahad given you up a little while ago. How do you find Fred?"
"As usual; going on well, but slowly. I want him to go away—toStone Court, for example. But your mamma seems to have someobjection."
"Poor fellow!" said Rosamond, prettily. "You will see Fred sochanged," she added, turning to the other suitor; "we have looked to Mr.Lydgate as our guardian angel during this illness."
Mr. Ned smiled nervously, while Lydgate, drawing the "Keepsake"towards him and opening it, gave a short scornful laugh and tossed uphis chill, as if in wonderment at human folly.
"What are you laughing at so profanely?" said Rosamond, with blandneutrality.
"I wonder which would turn out to be the silliest—the engravings orthe writing here," said Lydgate, in his most convinced tone, while heturned over the pages quickly, seeming to see all through the book in notime, and showing his large white hands to much advantage, asRosamond thought. "Do look at this bridegroom coming out of church:did you ever see such a 'sugared invention'—as the Elizabethans used tosay? Did any haberdasher ever look so smirking? Yet I will answer for itthe story makes him one of the first gentlemen in the land."
"You are so severe, I am frightened at you," said Rosamond, keepingher amusement duly moderate. Poor young Plymdale had lingered withadmiration over this very engraving, and his spirit was stirred.
"There are a great many celebrated people writing in the 'Keepsake,'at all events," he said, in a tone at once piqued and timid. "This is thefirst time I have heard it called silly."
"I think I shall turn round on you and accuse you of being a Goth,"said Rosamond, looking at Lydgate with a smile. "I suspect you knownothing about Lady Blessington and L. E. L." Rosamond herself was notwithout relish for these writers, but she did not readily commit herselfby admiration, and was alive to the slightest hint that anything was not,according to Lydgate, in the very highest taste.
"But Sir Walter Scott—I suppose Mr. Lydgate knows him," saidyoung Plymdale, a little cheered by this advantage.
"Oh, I read no literature now," said Lydgate, shutting the book, andpushing it away. "I read so much when I was a lad, that I suppose it willlast me all my life. I used to know Scott's poems by heart."
"I should like to know when you left off," said Rosamond, "becausethen I might be sure that I knew something which you did not know."
"Mr. Lydgate would say that was not worth knowing," said Mr. Ned,purposely caustic.
"On the contrary," said Lydgate, showing no smart; but smiling withexasperating confidence at Rosamond. "It would be worth knowing bythe fact that Miss Vincy could tell it me."
Young Plymdale soon went to look at the whist-playing, thinking thatLydgate was one of the most conceited, unpleasant fellows it had everbeen his ill-fortune to meet.
"How rash you are!" said Rosamond, inwardly delighted. "Do you seethat you have given offence?"
"What! is it Mr. Plymdale's book? I am sorry. I didn't think about it."
"I shall begin to admit what you said of yourself when you first camehere—that you are a bear, and want teaching by the birds."
"Well, there is a bird who can teach me what she will. Don't I listento her willingly?"
To Rosamond it seemed as if she and Lydgate were as good asengaged. That they were some time to be engaged had long been an ideain her mind; and ideas, we know, tend to a more solid kind of existence,the necessary materials being at hand. It is true, Lydgate had thecounter-idea of remaining unengaged; but this was a mere negative, ashadow east by other resolves which themselves were capable ofshrinking. Circumstance was almost sure to be on the side of Rosamond'sidea, which had a shaping activity and looked through watchful blueeyes, whereas Lydgate's lay blind and unconcerned as a jelly-fish whichgets melted without knowing it.
That evening when he went home, he looked at his phials to see howa process of maceration was going on, with undisturbed interest; and hewrote out his daily notes with as much precision as usual. The reveriesfrom which it was difficult for him to detach himself were idealconstructions of something else than Rosamond's virtues, and theprimitive tissue was still his fair unknown. Moreover, he was beginningto feel some zest for the growing though half-suppressed feud betweenhim and the other medical men, which was likely to become moremanifest, now that Bulstrode's method of managing the new hospital wasabout to be declared; and there were various inspiriting signs that hisnon-acceptance by some of Peacock's patients might be counterbalancedby the impression he had produced in other quarters. Only a few dayslater, when he had happened to overtake Rosamond on the Lowick roadand had got down from his horse to walk by her side until he had quiteprotected her from a passing drove, he had been stopped by a servant onhorseback with a message calling him in to a house of some importancewhere Peacock had never attended; and it was the second instance ofthis kind. The servant was Sir James Chettam's, and the house wasLowick Manor.
