This distinction conferred on the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt wasthe reason why Mrs. Cadwallader made one of the group that watchedold Featherstone's funeral from an upper window of the manor. She wasnot fond of visiting that house, but she liked, as she said, to seecollections of strange animals such as there would be at this funeral; andshe had persuaded Sir James and the young Lady Chettam to drive theRector and herself to Lowick in order that the visit might be altogetherpleasant.
"I will go anywhere with you, Mrs. Cadwallader," Celia had said; "butI don't like funerals."
"Oh, my dear, when you have a clergyman in your family you mustaccommodate your tastes: I did that very early. When I marriedHumphrey I made up my mind to like sermons, and I set out by likingthe end very much. That soon spread to the middle and the beginning,because I couldn't have the end without them."
"No, to be sure not," said the Dowager Lady Chettam, with statelyemphasis.
The upper window from which the funeral could be well seen was inthe room occupied by Mr. Casaubon when he had been forbidden towork; but he had resumed nearly his habitual style of life now in spite ofwarnings and prescriptions, and after politely welcoming Mrs.Cadwallader had slipped again into the library to chew a cud of eruditemistake about Cush and Mizraim.
But for her visitors Dorothea too might have been shut up in thelibrary, and would not have witnessed this scene of old Featherstone'sfuneral, which, aloof as it seemed to be from the tenor of her life, alwaysafterwards came back to her at the touch of certain sensitive points inmemory, just as the vision of St. Peter's at Rome was inwoven withmoods of despondency. Scenes which make vital changes in ourneighbors' lot are but the background of our own, yet, like a particularaspect of the fields and trees, they become associated for us with theepochs of our own history, and make a part of that unity which lies inthe selection of our keenest consciousness.
The dream-like association of something alien and ill-understoodwith the deepest secrets of her experience seemed to mirror that sense ofloneliness which was due to the very ardor of Dorothea's nature. Thecountry gentry of old time lived in a rarefied social air: dotted apart ontheir stations up the mountain they looked down with imperfectdiscrimination on the belts of thicker life below. And Dorothea was notat ease in the perspective and chilliness of that height.
"I shall not look any more," said Celia, after the train had entered thechurch, placing herself a little behind her husband's elbow so that shecould slyly touch his coat with her cheek. "I dare say Dodo likes it: she isfond of melancholy things and ugly people."
"I am fond of knowing something about the people I live among,"said Dorothea, who had been watching everything with the interest of amonk on his holiday tour. "It seems to me we know nothing of ourneighbors, unless they are cottagers. One is constantly wondering whatsort of lives other people lead, and how they take things. I am quiteobliged to Mrs. Cadwallader for coming and calling me out of thelibrary."
"Quite right to feel obliged to me," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Your richLowick farmers are as curious as any buffaloes or bisons, and I dare sayyou don't half see them at church. They are quite different from youruncle's tenants or Sir James's—monsters—farmers without landlords—one can't tell how to class them."
"Most of these followers are not Lowick people," said Sir James; "Isuppose they are legatees from a distance, or from Middlemarch.Lovegood tells me the old fellow has left a good deal of money as well asland."
"Think of that now! when so many younger sons can't dine at theirown expense," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Ah," turning round at the soundof the opening door, "here is Mr. Brooke. I felt that we were incompletebefore, and here is the explanation. You are come to see this odd funeral,of course?"
"No, I came to look after Casaubon—to see how he goes on, youknow. And to bring a little news—a little news, my dear," said Mr.Brooke, nodding at Dorothea as she came towards him. "I looked into thelibrary, and I saw Casaubon over his books. I told him it wouldn't do: Isaid, 'This will never do, you know: think of your wife, Casaubon.' Andhe promised me to come up. I didn't tell him my news: I said, he mustcome up."
"Ah, now they are coming out of church," Mrs. Cadwalladerexclaimed. "Dear me, what a wonderfully mixed set! Mr. Lydgate asdoctor, I suppose. But that is really a good looking woman, and the fairyoung man must be her son. Who are they, Sir James, do you know?"
"I see Vincy, the Mayor of Middlemarch; they are probably his wifeand son," said Sir James, looking interrogatively at Mr. Brooke, whonodded and said—
"Yes, a very decent family—a very good fellow is Vincy; a credit tothe manufacturing interest. You have seen him at my house, you know."
"Ah, yes: one of your secret committee," said Mrs. Cadwallader,provokingly.
"A coursing fellow, though," said Sir James, with a fox-hunter'sdisgust.
"And one of those who suck the life out of the wretched handloomweavers in Tipton and Freshitt. That is how his family look so fair andsleek," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Those dark, purple-faced people are anexcellent foil. Dear me, they are like a set of jugs! Do look at Humphrey:one might fancy him an ugly archangel towering above them in his whitesurplice."
"It's a solemn thing, though, a funeral," said Mr. Brooke, "if you takeit in that light, you know."
"But I am not taking it in that light. I can't wear my solemnity toooften, else it will go to rags. It was time the old man died, and none ofthese people are sorry."
"How piteous!" said Dorothea. "This funeral seems to me the mostdismal thing I ever saw. It is a blot on the morning I cannot bear to thinkthat any one should die and leave no love behind."
She was going to say more, but she saw her husband enter and seathimself a little in the background. The difference his presence made toher was not always a happy one: she felt that he often inwardly objectedto her speech.
"Positively," exclaimed Mrs. Cadwallader, "there is a new face comeout from behind that broad man queerer than any of them: a little roundhead with bulging eyes—a sort of frog-face—do look. He must be ofanother blood, I think."
"Let me see!" said Celia, with awakened curiosity, standing behindMrs. Cadwallader and leaning forward over her head. "Oh, what an oddface!" Then with a quick change to another sort of surprised expression,she added, "Why, Dodo, you never told me that Mr. Ladislaw was comeagain!"
Dorothea felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her suddenpaleness as she looked up immediately at her uncle, while Mr. Casaubonlooked at her.
"He came with me, you know; he is my guest—puts up with me atthe Grange," said Mr. Brooke, in his easiest tone, nodding at Dorothea,as if the announcement were just what she might have expected. "Andwe have brought the picture at the top of the carriage. I knew you wouldbe pleased with the surprise, Casaubon. There you are to the very life—as Aquinas, you know. Quite the right sort of thing. And you will hearyoung Ladislaw talk about it. He talks uncommonly well—points outthis, that, and the other—knows art and everything of that kind—companionable, you know—is up with you in any track—what I've beenwanting a long while."
Mr. Casaubon bowed with cold politeness, mastering his irritation,but only so far as to be silent. He remembered Will's letter quite as wellas Dorothea did; he had noticed that it was not among the letters whichhad been reserved for him on his recovery, and secretly concluding thatDorothea had sent word to Will not to come to Lowick, he had shrunkwith proud sensitiveness from ever recurring to the subject. He nowinferred that she had asked her uncle to invite Will to the Grange; andshe felt it impossible at that moment to enter into any explanation.
Mrs. Cadwallader's eyes, diverted from the churchyard, saw a gooddeal of dumb show which was not so intelligible to her as she could havedesired, and could not repress the question, "Who is Mr. Ladislaw?"
"A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's," said Sir James, promptly. Hisgood-nature often made him quick and clear-seeing in personal matters,and he had divined from Dorothea's glance at her husband that therewas some alarm in her mind.
"A very nice young fellow—Casaubon has done everything for him,"explained Mr. Brooke. "He repays your expense in him, Casaubon," hewent on, nodding encouragingly. "I hope he will stay with me a longwhile and we shall make something of my documents. I have plenty ofideas and facts, you know, and I can see he is just the man to put theminto shape—remembers what the right quotations are, omne tulitpunctum, and that sort of thing—gives subjects a kind of turn. I invitedhim some time ago when you were ill, Casaubon; Dorothea said youcouldn't have anybody in the house, you know, and she asked me towrite."
Poor Dorothea felt that every word of her uncle's was about aspleasant as a grain of sand in the eye to Mr. Casaubon. It would bealtogether unfitting now to explain that she had not wished her uncle toinvite Will Ladislaw. She could not in the least make clear to herself thereasons for her husband's dislike to his presence—a dislike painfullyimpressed on her by the scene in the library; but she felt theunbecomingness of saying anything that might convey a notion of it toothers. Mr. Casaubon, indeed, had not thoroughly represented thosemixed reasons to himself; irritated feeling with him, as with all of us,seeking rather for justification than for self-knowledge. But he wished torepress outward signs, and only Dorothea could discern the changes inher husband's face before he observed with more of dignified bendingand sing-song than usual—
"You are exceedingly hospitable, my dear sir; and I owe youacknowledgments for exercising your hospitality towards a relative ofmine."
The funeral was ended now, and the churchyard was being cleared.
"Now you can see him, Mrs. Cadwallader," said Celia. "He is just likea miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt that hangs in Dorothea's boudoir—quite nice-looking."
"A very pretty sprig," said Mrs. Cadwallader, dryly. "What is yournephew to be, Mr. Casaubon?"
"Pardon me, he is not my nephew. He is my cousin."
"Well, you know," interposed Mr. Brooke, "he is trying his wings. Heis just the sort of young fellow to rise. I should be glad to give him anopportunity. He would make a good secretary, now, like Hobbes, Milton,Swift—that sort of man."
"I understand," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "One who can writespeeches."
"I'll fetch him in now, eh, Casaubon?" said Mr. Brooke. "He wouldn'tcome in till I had announced him, you know. And we'll go down andlook at the picture. There you are to the life: a deep subtle sort ofthinker with his fore-finger on the page, while Saint Bonaventure orsomebody else, rather fat and florid, is looking up at the Trinity.Everything is symbolical, you know—the higher style of art: I like thatup to a certain point, but not too far—it's rather straining to keep upwith, you know. But you are at home in that, Casaubon. And yourpainter's flesh is good—solidity, transparency, everything of that sort. Iwent into that a great deal at one time. However, I'll go and fetchLadislaw."
CHAPTER XXXV.
"Non, je ne comprends pas de plus charmant plaisir
Que de voir d'heritiers une troupe affligee
Le maintien interdit, et la mine allongee,
Lire un long testament ou pales, etonnes
On leur laisse un bonsoir avec un pied de nez.
Pour voir au naturel leur tristesse profonde
Je reviendrais, je crois, expres de l'autre monde."
—REGNARD: Le Legataire Universel.
When the animals entered the Ark in pairs, one may imagine thatallied species made much private remark on each other, and weretempted to think that so many forms feeding on the same store of fodderwere eminently superfluous, as tending to diminish the rations. (I fearthe part played by the vultures on that occasion would be too painful forart to represent, those birds being disadvantageously naked about thegullet, and apparently without rites and ceremonies.)
The same sort of temptation befell the Christian Carnivora whoformed Peter Featherstone's funeral procession; most of them havingtheir minds bent on a limited store which each would have liked to getthe most of. The long-recognized blood-relations and connections bymarriage made already a goodly number, which, multiplied bypossibilities, presented a fine range for jealous conjecture and pathetichopefulness. Jealousy of the Vincys had created a fellowship in hostilityamong all persons of the Featherstone blood, so that in the absence ofany decided indication that one of themselves was to have more than therest, the dread lest that long-legged Fred Vincy should have the land wasnecessarily dominant, though it left abundant feeling and leisure forvaguer jealousies, such as were entertained towards Mary Garth.Solomon found time to reflect that Jonah was undeserving, and Jonah toabuse Solomon as greedy; Jane, the elder sister, held that Martha'schildren ought not to expect so much as the young Waules; and Martha,more lax on the subject of primogeniture, was sorry to think that Janewas so "having." These nearest of kin were naturally impressed with theunreasonableness of expectations in cousins and second cousins, andused their arithmetic in reckoning the large sums that small legaciesmight mount to, if there were too many of them. Two cousins werepresent to hear the will, and a second cousin besides Mr. Trumbull. Thissecond cousin was a Middlemarch mercer of polite manners andsuperfluous aspirates. The two cousins were elderly men from Brassing,one of them conscious of claims on the score of inconvenient expensesustained by him in presents of oysters and other eatables to his richcousin Peter; the other entirely saturnine, leaning his hands and chin ona stick, and conscious of claims based on no narrow performance but onmerit generally: both blameless citizens of Brassing, who wished thatJonah Featherstone did not live there. The wit of a family is usually bestreceived among strangers.
