"Ask Ladislaw if he doesn't think your Captain the greatest bore heever met with. Ladislaw has almost forsaken the house since he came."
Rosamond thought she knew perfectly well why Mr. Ladislawdisliked the Captain: he was jealous, and she liked his being jealous. "It is impossible to say what will suit eccentric persons," sheanswered, "but in my opinion Captain Lydgate is a thorough gentleman,and I think you ought not, out of respect to Sir Godwin, to treat himwith neglect."
"No, dear; but we have had dinners for him. And he comes in andgoes out as he likes. He doesn't want me."
"Still, when he is in the room, you might show him more attention.He may not be a phoenix of cleverness in your sense; his profession isdifferent; but it would be all the better for you to talk a little on hissubjects. I think his conversation is quite agreeable. And he is anythingbut an unprincipled man."
"The fact is, you would wish me to be a little more like him, Rosy,"said Lydgate, in a sort of resigned murmur, with a smile which was notexactly tender, and certainly not merry. Rosamond was silent and didnot smile again; but the lovely curves of her face looked good-temperedenough without smiling.
Those words of Lydgate's were like a sad milestone marking how farhe had travelled from his old dreamland, in which Rosamond Vincyappeared to be that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverenceher husband's mind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaid, usingher comb and looking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of hisadored wisdom alone. He had begun to distinguish between thatimagined adoration and the attraction towards a man's talent because itgives him prestige, and is like an order in his button-hole or anHonorable before his name.
It might have been supposed that Rosamond had travelled too, sinceshe had found the pointless conversation of Mr. Ned Plymdale perfectlywearisome; but to most mortals there is a stupidity which is unendurableand a stupidity which is altogether acceptable—else, indeed, what wouldbecome of social bonds? Captain Lydgate's stupidity was delicatelyscented, carried itself with "style," talked with a good accent, and wasclosely related to Sir Godwin. Rosamond found it quite agreeable andcaught many of its phrases.
Therefore since Rosamond, as we know, was fond of horseback,there were plenty of reasons why she should be tempted to resume herriding when Captain Lydgate, who had ordered his man with two horsesto follow him and put up at the "Green Dragon," begged her to go out onthe gray which he warranted to be gentle and trained to carry a lady—indeed, he had bought it for his sister, and was taking it to Quallingham.Rosamond went out the first time without telling her husband, and cameback before his return; but the ride had been so thorough a success, andshe declared herself so much the better in consequence, that he wasinformed of it with full reliance on his consent that she should go ridingagain.
On the contrary Lydgate was more than hurt—he was utterlyconfounded that she had risked herself on a strange horse withoutreferring the matter to his wish. After the first almost thunderingexclamations of astonishment, which sufficiently warned Rosamond ofwhat was coming, he was silent for some moments.
"However, you have come back safely," he said, at last, in a decisivetone. "You will not go again, Rosy; that is understood. If it were thequietest, most familiar horse in the world, there would always be thechance of accident. And you know very well that I wished you to give upriding the roan on that account."
"But there is the chance of accident indoors, Tertius."
"My darling, don't talk nonsense," said Lydgate, in an imploring tone;"surely I am the person to judge for you. I think it is enough that I sayyou are not to go again."
Rosamond was arranging her hair before dinner, and the reflection ofher head in the glass showed no change in its loveliness except a littleturning aside of the long neck. Lydgate had been moving about with hishands in his pockets, and now paused near her, as if he awaited someassurance.
"I wish you would fasten up my plaits, dear," said Rosamond, lettingher arms fall with a little sigh, so as to make a husband ashamed ofstanding there like a brute. Lydgate had often fastened the plaits before,being among the deftest of men with his large finely formed fingers. Heswept up the soft festoons of plaits and fastened in the tall comb (tosuch uses do men come!); and what could he do then but kiss theexquisite nape which was shown in all its delicate curves? But when wedo what we have done before, it is often with a difference. Lydgate wasstill angry, and had not forgotten his point.
"I shall tell the Captain that he ought to have known better than offeryou his horse," he said, as he moved away.
"I beg you will not do anything of the kind, Tertius," said Rosamond,looking at him with something more marked than usual in her speech. "Itwill be treating me as if I were a child. Promise that you will leave thesubject to me."
There did seem to be some truth in her objection. Lydgate said, "Verywell," with a surly obedience, and thus the discussion ended with hispromising Rosamond, and not with her promising him.
In fact, she had been determined not to promise. Rosamond had thatvictorious obstinacy which never wastes its energy in impetuousresistance. What she liked to do was to her the right thing, and all hercleverness was directed to getting the means of doing it. She meant to goout riding again on the gray, and she did go on the next opportunity ofher husband's absence, not intending that he should know until it waslate enough not to signify to her. The temptation was certainly great: shewas very fond of the exercise, and the gratification of riding on a finehorse, with Captain Lydgate, Sir Godwin's son, on another fine horse byher side, and of being met in this position by any one but her husband,was something as good as her dreams before marriage: moreover she wasriveting the connection with the family at Quallingham, which must be awise thing to do.
But the gentle gray, unprepared for the crash of a tree that was beingfelled on the edge of Halsell wood, took fright, and caused a worse frightto Rosamond, leading finally to the loss of her baby. Lydgate could notshow his anger towards her, but he was rather bearish to the Captain,whose visit naturally soon came to an end.
In all future conversations on the subject, Rosamond was mildlycertain that the ride had made no difference, and that if she had stayedat home the same symptoms would have come on and would have endedin the same way, because she had felt something like them before.
Lydgate could only say, "Poor, poor darling!"—but he secretlywondered over the terrible tenacity of this mild creature. There wasgathering within him an amazed sense of his powerlessness overRosamond. His superior knowledge and mental force, instead of being,as he had imagined, a shrine to consult on all occasions, was simply setaside on every practical question. He had regarded Rosamond'scleverness as precisely of the receptive kind which became a woman. Hewas now beginning to find out what that cleverness was—what was theshape into which it had run as into a close network aloof andindependent. No one quicker than Rosamond to see causes and effectswhich lay within the track of her own tastes and interests: she had seenclearly Lydgate's preeminence in Middlemarch society, and could go onimaginatively tracing still more agreeable social effects when his talentshould have advanced him; but for her, his professional and scientificambition had no other relation to these desirable effects than if they hadbeen the fortunate discovery of an ill-smelling oil. And that oil apart,with which she had nothing to do, of course she believed in her ownopinion more than she did in his. Lydgate was astounded to find innumberless trifling matters, as well as in this last serious case of theriding, that affection did not make her compliant. He had no doubt thatthe affection was there, and had no presentiment that he had doneanything to repel it. For his own part he said to himself that he loved heras tenderly as ever, and could make up his mind to her negations; but—well! Lydgate was much worried, and conscious of new elements in hislife as noxious to him as an inlet of mud to a creature that has been usedto breathe and bathe and dart after its illuminated prey in the clearest ofwaters.
Rosamond was soon looking lovelier than ever at her worktable,enjoying drives in her father's phaeton and thinking it likely that shemight be invited to Quallingham. She knew that she was a much moreexquisite ornament to the drawing-room there than any daughter of thefamily, and in reflecting that the gentlemen were aware of that, did notperhaps sufficiently consider whether the ladies would be eager to seethemselves surpassed.
Lydgate, relieved from anxiety about her, relapsed into what sheinwardly called his moodiness—a name which to her covered histhoughtful preoccupation with other subjects than herself, as well as thatuneasy look of the brow and distaste for all ordinary things as if theywere mixed with bitter herbs, which really made a sort of weather-glassto his vexation and foreboding. These latter states of mind had one causeamongst others, which he had generously but mistakenly avoidedmentioning to Rosamond, lest it should affect her health and spirits.Between him and her indeed there was that total missing of each other'smental track, which is too evidently possible even between persons whoare continually thinking of each other. To Lydgate it seemed that he hadbeen spending month after month in sacrificing more than half of hisbest intent and best power to his tenderness for Rosamond; bearing herlittle claims and interruptions without impatience, and, above all,bearing without betrayal of bitterness to look through less and less ofinterfering illusion at the blank unreflecting surface her mind presentedto his ardor for the more impersonal ends of his profession and hisscientific study, an ardor which he had fancied that the ideal wife mustsomehow worship as sublime, though not in the least knowing why. Buthis endurance was mingled with a self-discontent which, if we know howto be candid, we shall confess to make more than half our bitternessunder grievances, wife or husband included. It always remains true thatif we had been greater, circumstance would have been less strong againstus. Lydgate was aware that his concessions to Rosamond were often littlemore than the lapse of slackening resolution, the creeping paralysis aptto seize an enthusiasm which is out of adjustment to a constant portionof our lives. And on Lydgate's enthusiasm there was constantly pressingnot a simple weight of sorrow, but the biting presence of a pettydegrading care, such as casts the blight of irony over all higher effort.
This was the care which he had hitherto abstained from mentioningto Rosamond; and he believed, with some wonder, that it had neverentered her mind, though certainly no difficulty could be less mysterious.It was an inference with a conspicuous handle to it, and had been easilydrawn by indifferent observers, that Lydgate was in debt; and he couldnot succeed in keeping out of his mind for long together that he wasevery day getting deeper into that swamp, which tempts men towards itwith such a pretty covering of flowers and verdure. It is wonderful howsoon a man gets up to his chin there—in a condition in which, spite ofhimself, he is forced to think chiefly of release, though he had a schemeof the universe in his soul.
Eighteen months ago Lydgate was poor, but had never known theeager want of small sums, and felt rather a burning contempt for any onewho descended a step in order to gain them. He was now experiencingsomething worse than a simple deficit: he was assailed by the vulgarhateful trials of a man who has bought and used a great many thingswhich might have been done without, and which he is unable to pay for,though the demand for payment has become pressing.
How this came about may be easily seen without much arithmetic orknowledge of prices. When a man in setting up a house and preparing formarriage finds that his furniture and other initial expenses come tobetween four and five hundred pounds more than he has capital to payfor; when at the end of a year it appears that his household expenses,horses and et caeteras, amount to nearly a thousand, while the proceedsof the practice reckoned from the old books to be worth eight hundredper annum have sunk like a summer pond and make hardly fivehundred, chiefly in unpaid entries, the plain inference is that, whetherhe minds it or not, he is in debt. Those were less expensive times thanour own, and provincial life was comparatively modest; but the ease withwhich a medical man who had lately bought a practice, who thought thathe was obliged to keep two horses, whose table was supplied withoutstint, and who paid an insurance on his life and a high rent for houseand garden, might find his expenses doubling his receipts, can beconceived by any one who does not think these details beneath hisconsideration. Rosamond, accustomed from her to an extravaganthousehold, thought that good housekeeping consisted simply in orderingthe best of everything—nothing else "answered;" and Lydgate supposedthat "if things were done at all, they must be done properly"—he did notsee how they were to live otherwise. If each head of householdexpenditure had been mentioned to him beforehand, he would haveprobably observed that "it could hardly come to much," and if any onehad suggested a saving on a particular article—for example, thesubstitution of cheap fish for dear—it would have appeared to himsimply a penny-wise, mean notion. Rosamond, even without such anoccasion as Captain Lydgate's visit, was fond of giving invitations, andLydgate, though he often thought the guests tiresome, did not interfere.This sociability seemed a necessary part of professional prudence, andthe entertainment must be suitable. It is true Lydgate was constantlyvisiting the homes of the poor and adjusting his prescriptions of diet totheir small means; but, dear me! has it not by this time ceased to beremarkable—is it not rather that we expect in men, that they shouldhave numerous strands of experience lying side by side and nevercompare them with each other? Expenditure—like ugliness and errors—becomes a totally new thing when we attach our own personality to it,and measure it by that wide difference which is manifest (in our ownsensations) between ourselves and others. Lydgate believed himself to becareless about his dress, and he despised a man who calculated theeffects of his costume; it seemed to him only a matter of course that hehad abundance of fresh garments—such things were naturally ordered insheaves. It must be remembered that he had never hitherto felt the checkof importunate debt, and he walked by habit, not by self-criticism. Butthe check had come.
