Middlemarch

CHAPTER XXXI.

That summer evening Lydgate spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs. Casaubon, and laid some emphasis on the strong feeling she appeared to have for that formal studious man thirty years older than herself. “Of course she is devoted to her husband,” said Rosamond, dimpling at the notion of necessary sequence which the scientific man regarded as the prettiest possible for a woman. But she was thinking at the same time that it would not be so very melancholy to be mistress of Lowick Manor with a husband likely to die young. “Do you think her very handsome?”

“She certainly is handsome, but I have not thought about it,” said Lydgate.

“I suppose it would be unprofessional,” said Rosamond. “But how your practice is spreading! You were called in before to the Chettams, I think; and now, the Casaubons.”

“Yes,” said Lydgate, in a tone of compulsory admission. “But I don’t really like attending such people so well as the poor. The cases are more monotonous, and one has to go through more fuss and listen more deferentially to nonsense.”

“Not more than in Middlemarch,” said Rosamond. “And at least you go through wide corridors and have the scent of rose-leaves everywhere.”

“That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci,” said Lydgate, just bending his head to the table and lifting with his fourth finger her delicate handkerchief which lay at the mouth of her reticule, as if to enjoy its scent, while he looked at her with a smile.

But this agreeable holiday freedom could not continue indefinitely. In that close-watched town, two people persistently flirting could not escape the entanglements and clashings by which things go on. Mrs. Vincy had gone with Fred to Stone Court, leaving Rosamond alone, and the gossip of Middlemarch began to buzz. Aunt Bulstrode came oftener into Lowick Gate, and Mrs. Plymdale, a round-eyed sharp little woman like a tamed falcon, took care to let her know what everyone was saying.

“Well, Harriet, I must say, anybody would suppose you and Mr. Bulstrode would be delighted with what has happened, for you have done everything to put Mr. Lydgate forward,” said Mrs. Plymdale.

“Selina, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, in genuine surprise.

Mrs. Plymdale explained that Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate were taken for engaged by every observer. Mrs. Bulstrode drove to her niece’s house with a mind newly weighted. Rosamond, blushing deeply, denied the engagement. “I am not engaged, aunt.” But when pressed, she refused to speak, choosing to be silent rather than admit Lydgate had not yet offered. Mrs. Bulstrode went away all the more convinced.

She then arranged a tête-à-tête with Lydgate, in which she passed from inquiries about Fred Vincy’s health to general remarks on the dangers which lay before young people with regard to their settlement in life. “Where you frequent a house it may militate very much against a girl’s making a desirable settlement in life, and prevent her from accepting offers even if they are made.”

Lydgate fumed a little, pushed his hair back, felt curiously in his waistcoat-pocket, then stooped to beckon the spaniel which declined his hollow caresses. He resolved he would not go to Mr. Vincy’s except on business.

Rosamond became very unhappy. Ten days passed without her seeing Lydgate. She lost her appetite and felt as forlorn as Ariadne left behind with all her costumes and no hope of a coach. On the eleventh day, Lydgate called at the house to deliver a message about Mr. Featherstone’s health. Miss Vincy was alone, and blushed so deeply when he came in that he felt a corresponding embarrassment. Rosamond was keenly hurt by his formal manner; her blush departed, and she assented coldly. After sitting two long moments while he moved his whip and could say nothing, Lydgate rose to go. Rosamond, made nervous by her struggle between mortification and the wish not to betray it, dropped her chain as if startled, and rose too, mechanically. Lydgate stooped to pick it up.

When he rose he was very near to a lovely little face set on a fair long neck. As he raised his eyes now he saw a certain helpless quivering which touched him quite newly, and made him look at Rosamond with a questioning flash. The tears rose and fell over her cheeks like water on a blue flower.

That moment of naturalness was the crystallizing feather-touch: it shook flirtation into love. “What is the matter? You are distressed. Tell me, pray.” Rosamond had never been spoken to in such tones before. Lydgate, completely mastered by the outrush of tenderness, put his arms round her, folding her gently and protectingly, and kissed each of the two large tears. In half an hour he left the house an engaged man, whose soul was the woman’s to whom he had bound himself. That evening he secured Mr. Vincy’s cheerful approval of the match, celebrated with punch.