"Everybody" that day did not include Mr. Bulstrode, whose healthcould not well endure crowds and draughts. But Mrs. Bulstrode hadparticularly wished to have a certain picture—a "Supper at Emmaus,"attributed in the catalogue to Guido; and at the last moment before theday of the sale Mr. Bulstrode had called at the office of the "Pioneer," ofwhich he was now one of the proprietors, to beg of Mr. Ladislaw as agreat favor that he would obligingly use his remarkable knowledge ofpictures on behalf of Mrs. Bulstrode, and judge of the value of thisparticular painting—"if," added the scrupulously polite banker,"attendance at the sale would not interfere with the arrangements foryour departure, which I know is imminent."
This proviso might have sounded rather satirically in Will's ear if hehad been in a mood to care about such satire. It referred to anunderstanding entered into many weeks before with the proprietors ofthe paper, that he should be at liberty any day he pleased to hand overthe management to the subeditor whom he had been training; since hewished finally to quit Middlemarch. But indefinite visions of ambitionare weak against the ease of doing what is habitual or beguilinglyagreeable; and we all know the difficulty of carrying out a resolve whenwe secretly long that it may turn out to be unnecessary. In such states ofmind the most incredulous person has a private leaning towards miracle:impossible to conceive how our wish could be fulfilled, still—verywonderful things have happened! Will did not confess this weakness tohimself, but he lingered. What was the use of going to London at thattime of the year? The Rugby men who would remember him were notthere; and so far as political writing was concerned, he would rather fora few weeks go on with the "Pioneer." At the present moment, however,when Mr. Bulstrode was speaking to him, he had both a strengthenedresolve to go and an equally strong resolve not to go till he had oncemore seen Dorothea. Hence he replied that he had reasons for deferringhis departure a little, and would be happy to go to the sale.
Will was in a defiant mood, his consciousness being deeply stungwith the thought that the people who looked at him probably knew a facttantamount to an accusation against him as a fellow with low designswhich were to be frustrated by a disposal of property. Like most peoplewho assert their freedom with regard to conventional distinction, he wasprepared to be sudden and quick at quarrel with any one who might hintthat he had personal reasons for that assertion—that there was anythingin his blood, his bearing, or his character to which he gave the mask ofan opinion. When he was under an irritating impression of this kind hewould go about for days with a defiant look, the color changing in histransparent skin as if he were on the qui vive, watching for somethingwhich he had to dart upon.
This expression was peculiarly noticeable in him at the sale, andthose who had only seen him in his moods of gentle oddity or of brightenjoyment would have been struck with a contrast. He was not sorry tohave this occasion for appearing in public before the Middlemarch tribesof Toller, Hackbutt, and the rest, who looked down on him as anadventurer, and were in a state of brutal ignorance about Dante—whosneered at his Polish blood, and were themselves of a breed very much inneed of crossing. He stood in a conspicuous place not far from theauctioneer, with a fore-finger in each side-pocket and his head thrownbackward, not caring to speak to anybody, though he had been cordiallywelcomed as a connoissure by Mr. Trumbull, who was enjoying theutmost activity of his great faculties.
And surely among all men whose vocation requires them to exhibittheir powers of speech, the happiest is a prosperous provincialauctioneer keenly alive to his own jokes and sensible of his encyclopedicknowledge. Some saturnine, sour-blooded persons might object to beconstantly insisting on the merits of all articles from boot-jacks to"Berghems;" but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull had a kindly liquid in his veins;he was an admirer by nature, and would have liked to have the universeunder his hammer, feeling that it would go at a higher figure for hisrecommendation.
Meanwhile Mrs. Larcher's drawing-room furniture was enough forhim. When Will Ladislaw had come in, a second fender, said to havebeen forgotten in its right place, suddenly claimed the auctioneer'senthusiasm, which he distributed on the equitable principle of praisingthose things most which were most in need of praise. The fender was ofpolished steel, with much lancet-shaped open-work and a sharp edge.
"Now, ladies," said he, "I shall appeal to you. Here is a fender whichat any other sale would hardly be offered with out reserve, being, as Imay say, for quality of steel and quaintness of design, a kind of thing"—here Mr. Trumbull dropped his voice and became slightly nasal,trimming his outlines with his left finger—"that might not fall in withordinary tastes. Allow me to tell you that by-and-by this style ofworkmanship will be the only one in vogue—half-a-crown, you said?thank you—going at half-a-crown, this characteristic fender; and I haveparticular information that the antique style is very much sought after inhigh quarters. Three shillings—three-and-sixpence—hold it well up,Joseph! Look, ladies, at the chastity of the design—I have no doubtmyself that it was turned out in the last century! Four shillings, Mr.Mawmsey?—four shillings."
"It's not a thing I would put in my drawing-room," said Mrs.Mawmsey, audibly, for the warning of the rash husband. "I wonder atMrs. Larcher. Every blessed child's head that fell against it would be cutin two. The edge is like a knife."
"Quite true," rejoined Mr. Trumbull, quickly, "and most uncommonlyuseful to have a fender at hand that will cut, if you have a leather shoe-tie or a bit of string that wants cutting and no knife at hand: many aman has been left hanging because there was no knife to cut him down.Gentlemen, here's a fender that if you had the misfortune to hangyourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing celerity—four-and-sixpence—five—five-and-sixpence—an appropriate thing for aspare bedroom where there was a four-poster and a guest a little out ofhis mind—six shillings—thank you, Mr. Clintup—going at six shillings—going—gone!" The auctioneer's glance, which had been searching roundhim with a preternatural susceptibility to all signs of bidding, heredropped on the paper before him, and his voice too dropped into a toneof indifferent despatch as he said, "Mr. Clintup. Be handy, Joseph."
"It was worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell thatjoke on," said Mr. Clintup, laughing low and apologetically to his nextneighbor. He was a diffident though distinguished nurseryman, andfeared that the audience might regard his bid as a foolish one.
Meanwhile Joseph had brought a trayful of small articles. "Now,ladies," said Mr. Trumbull, taking up one of the articles, "this traycontains a very recherchy lot—a collection of trifles for the drawing-roomtable—and trifles make the sum of human things—nothing moreimportant than trifles—(yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes, by-and-by)—but pass thetray round, Joseph—these bijoux must be examined, ladies. This I havein my hand is an ingenious contrivance—a sort of practical rebus, I maycall it: here, you see, it looks like an elegant heart-shaped box,portable—for the pocket; there, again, it becomes like a splendid doubleflower—an ornament for the table; and now"—Mr. Trumbull allowed theflower to fall alarmingly into strings of heart-shaped leaves—"a book ofriddles! No less than five hundred printed in a beautiful red. Gentlemen,if I had less of a conscience, I should not wish you to bid high for thislot—I have a longing for it myself. What can promote innocent mirth,and I may say virtue, more than a good riddle?—it hinders profanelanguage, and attaches a man to the society of refined females. Thisingenious article itself, without the elegant domino-box, card-basket, &c.,ought alone to give a high price to the lot. Carried in the pocket it mightmake an individual welcome in any society. Four shillings, sir?—fourshillings for this remarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras.Here is a sample: 'How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds?Answer—money.' You hear?—lady-birds—honey money. This is anamusement to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting—it has what we callsatire, and wit without indecency. Four-and-sixpence—five shillings."
The bidding ran on with warming rivalry. Mr. Bowyer was a bidder,and this was too exasperating. Bowyer couldn't afford it, and onlywanted to hinder every other man from making a figure. The currentcarried even Mr. Horrock with it, but this committal of himself to anopinion fell from him with so little sacrifice of his neutral expression,that the bid might not have been detected as his but for the friendlyoaths of Mr. Bambridge, who wanted to know what Horrock would dowith blasted stuff only fit for haberdashers given over to that state ofperdition which the horse-dealer so cordially recognized in the majorityof earthly existences. The lot was finally knocked down at a guinea toMr. Spilkins, a young Slender of the neighborhood, who was recklesswith his pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles.
"Come, Trumbull, this is too bad—you've been putting some oldmaid's rubbish into the sale," murmured Mr. Toller, getting close to theauctioneer. "I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon."
"Immediately, Mr. Toller. It was only an act of benevolence whichyour noble heart would approve. Joseph! quick with the prints—Lot 235.Now, gentlemen, you who are connoissures, you are going to have atreat. Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by hisstaff on the Field of Waterloo; and notwithstanding recent events whichhave, as it were, enveloped our great Hero in a cloud, I will be bold tosay—for a man in my line must not be blown about by political winds—that a finer subject—of the modern order, belonging to our own time andepoch—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels might,perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men."
"Who painted it?" said Mr. Powderell, much impressed.
"It is a proof before the letter, Mr. Powderell—the painter is notknown," answered Trumbull, with a certain gaspingness in his lastwords, after which he pursed up his lips and stared round him.
"I'll bid a pound!" said Mr. Powderell, in a tone of resolved emotion,as of a man ready to put himself in the breach. Whether from awe orpity, nobody raised the price on him.
Next came two Dutch prints which Mr. Toller had been eager for,and after he had secured them he went away. Other prints, andafterwards some paintings, were sold to leading Middlemarchers whohad come with a special desire for them, and there was a more activemovement of the audience in and out; some, who had bought what theywanted, going away, others coming in either quite newly or from atemporary visit to the refreshments which were spread under themarquee on the lawn. It was this marquee that Mr. Bambridge was benton buying, and he appeared to like looking inside it frequently, as aforetaste of its possession. On the last occasion of his return from it hewas observed to bring with him a new companion, a stranger to Mr.Trumbull and every one else, whose appearance, however, led to thesupposition that he might be a relative of the horse-dealer's—also "givento indulgence." His large whiskers, imposing swagger, and swing of theleg, made him a striking figure; but his suit of black, rather shabby at theedges, caused the prejudicial inference that he was not able to affordhimself as much indulgence as he liked.
"Who is it you've picked up, Bam?" said Mr. Horrock, aside.
"Ask him yourself," returned Mr. Bambridge. "He said he'd justturned in from the road."
Mr. Horrock eyed the stranger, who was leaning back against hisstick with one hand, using his toothpick with the other, and lookingabout him with a certain restlessness apparently under the silenceimposed on him by circumstances.
At length the "Supper at Emmaus" was brought forward, to Willsimmense relief, for he was getting so tired of the proceedings that he haddrawn back a little and leaned his shoulder against the wall just behindthe auctioneer. He now came forward again, and his eye caught theconspicuous stranger, who, rather to his surprise, was staring at himmarkedly. But Will was immediately appealed to by Mr. Trumbull.
"Yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as a connoissure, I think.It is some pleasure," the auctioneer went on with a rising fervor, "to havea picture like this to show to a company of ladies and gentlemen—apicture worth any sum to an individual whose means were on a levelwith his judgment. It is a painting of the Italian school—by thecelebrated Guydo, the greatest painter in the world, the chief of the OldMasters, as they are called—I take it, because they were up to a thing ortwo beyond most of us—in possession of secrets now lost to the bulk ofmankind. Let me tell you, gentlemen, I have seen a great many picturesby the Old Masters, and they are not all up to this mark—some of themare darker than you might like and not family subjects. But here is aGuydo—the frame alone is worth pounds—which any lady might beproud to hang up—a suitable thing for what we call a refectory in acharitable institution, if any gentleman of the Corporation wished toshow his munificence. Turn it a little, sir? yes. Joseph, turn it a littletowards Mr. Ladislaw—Mr. Ladislaw, having been abroad, understandsthe merit of these things, you observe."
All eyes were for a moment turned towards Will, who said, coolly,"Five pounds." The auctioneer burst out in deep remonstrance.
"Ah! Mr. Ladislaw! the frame alone is worth that. Ladies andgentlemen, for the credit of the town! Suppose it should be discoveredhereafter that a gem of art has been amongst us in this town, andnobody in Middlemarch awake to it. Five guineas—five seven-six—fiveten. Still, ladies, still! It is a gem, and 'Full many a gem,' as the poetsays, has been allowed to go at a nominal price because the public knewno better, because it was offered in circles where there was—I was goingto say a low feeling, but no!—Six pounds—six guineas—a Guydo of thefirst order going at six guineas—it is an insult to religion, ladies; ittouches us all as Christians, gentlemen, that a subject like this should goat such a low figure—six pounds ten—seven—"
The bidding was brisk, and Will continued to share in it,remembering that Mrs. Bulstrode had a strong wish for the picture, andthinking that he might stretch the price to twelve pounds. But it wasknocked down to him at ten guineas, whereupon he pushed his waytowards the bow-window and went out. He chose to go under themarquee to get a glass of water, being hot and thirsty: it was empty ofother visitors, and he asked the woman in attendance to fetch him somefresh water; but before she was well gone he was annoyed to see enteringthe florid stranger who had stared at him. It struck Will at this momentthat the man might be one of those political parasitic insects of thebloated kind who had once or twice claimed acquaintance with him ashaving heard him speak on the Reform question, and who might think ofgetting a shilling by news. In this light his person, already rather heatingto behold on a summer's day, appeared the more disagreeable; and Will,half-seated on the elbow of a garden-chair, turned his eyes carefullyaway from the comer. But this signified little to our acquaintance Mr.Raffles, who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling observation,if it suited his purpose to do so. He moved a step or two till he was infront of Will, and said with full-mouthed haste, "Excuse me, Mr.Ladislaw—was your mother's name Sarah Dunkirk?"
