Middlemarch

CHAPTER LVII.

The evening that Fred Vincy walked to Lowick Parsonage, he stopped first at the Garths’. He found the family group, dogs and cats included, under the great apple-tree in the orchard. Christy, the eldest son, was home for a short holiday. Jim was reading aloud from “Ivanhoe,” while Ben, having fetched his own old bow and arrows, was making himself dreadfully disagreeable. Mrs. Garth, seeing that Fred wished to say something, observed, “How glad you must be to have Christy here!” After a pause Fred added, “I fear you will think that I am going to be a great deal of trouble to Mr. Garth.” “Caleb likes taking trouble,” she answered. Fred thought to suggest his masculine examples: “A young man for whom two such elders had devoted themselves would indeed be culpable if he threw himself away and made their sacrifices vain.” Mrs. Garth, stirred, replied, “You made a great mistake, Fred, in asking Mr. Farebrother to speak for you.” Fred reddened: “I cannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Farebrother.” “Precisely; you cannot conceive,” said Mrs. Garth, cutting her words. “Do you mean to say, Mrs. Garth, that Mr. Farebrother is in love with Mary?” “And if it were so, Fred, I think you are the last person who ought to be surprised.” She then withdrew the remark, wishing to check unintended consequences.

At Lowick Parsonage, Fred found Mary with the three ladies discussing clergymen. He was feeling sure that he should have no chance of speaking to Mary, when Mr. Farebrother came in, having heard the news about the engagement under Mr. Garth. The vicar, with quiet satisfaction, said, “That is right.” Fred felt horribly jealous. When Mr. Farebrother invited them into his study to see a stupendous spider, Mary at once saw the vicar’s intention. After looking at the spider, Mr. Farebrother said, “Wait here a minute or two. I am going to look out an engraving which Fred is tall enough to hang for me,” and went out. The first word Fred said to Mary was, “It is of no use, whatever I do, Mary. You are sure to marry Farebrother at last.” “What do you mean, Fred?” Mary exclaimed indignantly, blushing deeply. “It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough—you who see everything.” Mary, now appeased by her inclination to laugh, said, “Fred, you are too delightfully ridiculous. If you were not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to play the wicked coquette.” Mary went on, “Never dare to mention this any more to me, Fred. I don’t know whether it is more stupid or ungenerous in you not to see that Mr. Farebrother has left us together on purpose that we might speak freely.”

There was no time to say any more before Mr. Farebrother came back. The result of the conversation was on the whole more painful to Mary: her attention had taken a new attitude, and she saw the possibility of new interpretations. She was in a position in which she seemed to herself to be slighting Mr. Farebrother, and this, in relation to a man who is much honored, is always dangerous to the firmness of a grateful woman. She earnestly desired to be always clear that she loved Fred best. “Fred has lost all his other expectations; he must keep this,” Mary said to herself, with a smile curling her lips.

CHAPTER LVIII.

Rosamond had never had any anxiety about ways and means, though her domestic life had been expensive. Her baby had been born prematurely, a misfortune attributed entirely to her having persisted in going out on horseback one day when Lydgate had desired her not to do so. What led her particularly to desire horse-exercise was a visit from Captain Lydgate, the baronet’s third son—a vapid fop, in Lydgate’s view, “parting his hair from brow to nape in a despicable fashion.” Rosamond was so intensely conscious of having a cousin who was a baronet’s son staying in the house that she imagined the knowledge of what was implied by his presence to be diffused through all other minds. She was riveting the connection with the family at Quallingham.

The Captain offered to let her ride his sister’s gray, and Rosamond went out without telling her husband. The second time, the gentle gray, unprepared for the crash of a tree being felled on the edge of Halsell wood, took fright, and led finally to the loss of her baby. Lydgate could not show his anger towards her, but he was rather bearish to the Captain, whose visit naturally soon came to an end.

Lydgate was also sinking into debt. Two furnishing tradesmen at Brassing had repeatedly sent him unpleasant letters. He had no money or prospects of money; and his practice was not getting more lucrative. He had offered the one good security in his power to the less peremptory creditor, a silversmith and jeweller named Mr. Dover, who consented to take on the upholsterer’s credit also. The security necessary was a bill of sale on the furniture of his house, which might make a creditor easy for a debt amounting to less than four hundred pounds.

That evening, when he came home from Brassing, he heard the piano and singing in the drawing-room. Of course, Ladislaw was there. The two singers went on towards the key-note, not regarding his entrance as an interruption. Lydgate flung himself into a chair, scowl on his face. Will, too quick to need more, said, “I shall be off.” Rosamond tried to keep him, but Lydgate said, “I have some serious business to speak to you about.” Will went quickly out of the room.

When the tea was gone and the candles lit, Lydgate spoke kindly. “Dear Rosy, lay down your work and come to sit by me. I am obliged to tell you what will hurt you, Rosy. But there are things which husband and wife must think of together. I dare say it has occurred to you already that I am short of money.” Rosamond turned her neck and looked at a vase on the mantel-piece. Lydgate continued: “The consequence is, there is a large debt at Brassing—three hundred and eighty pounds—which has been pressing on me a good while. I took pains to keep it from you while you were not well; but now we must think together about it, and you must help me.”

“What can I do, Tertius?” said Rosamond, in an utterance that fell like a mortal chill on Lydgate’s roused tenderness. He explained that a man must come to make an inventory of the furniture. “Have you not asked papa for money?” Rosamond said, rising to stand at two yards’ distance. “No.” “Then I must ask him!” “No, Rosy. I insist upon it that your father shall not know.” Rosamond’s chin and lips began to tremble.