 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. George Eliot Middlemarch, Book 6 The Widow and the Wife, Chapter 54 Nigli Occi porta la mia dona amore, perci se fa gentile io ce la mira, Uvella pasa ogni un verlesi gira, e qui saluta fa tremarlo core, Sicce, passando il viso, tutto smore, ed ogni suo difetto alor sospira, Fuggiun dinansi a lei superbia ed ira, aiuta temi, donne, a farle onore, Onghi dolcessa, onghi pensiero umile, nasse nel cora aci parlare la sente, Onde e' bia' toci prima la vita, che l'cela, parquando un po' co' sorrida, Non si può dicaer, né tener a mente, se un uovo miracola gentile. Dante, la vita nuova. By that delightful morning, when the hayricks at Stonecourt were sending the air quite impartially, as if Mr. Raffles had been a guest worthy of finest incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode at Loic Manor. After three months, fresh it had become rather oppressive. To sit like a model for St. Catherine, looking rapturously at Celia's baby, would not do for many hours in the day, and to remain in that moment of Spabe's presence, with persistent disregard was a course that could not have been tolerated in a childless sister. Dorothea would have been capable of carrying baby joyfully for a mile, if there had been need, and of loving it the more tenderly for that labour. But to an aunt who does not recognize her infant nephew as Buddha, and has nothing to do for him but to admire, his behaviour is apt to appear monotonous, and the interest of watching him exhaustible. This possibility was quite hidden from Celia, who felt that Dorothea's childless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the birth of little Arthur. Baby was named after Mr. Brook. Dorothea is just the creature not to mind about having anything of her own. Children or anything said Celia to her husband, and if she had had a baby, it never could have been such a dearest Arthur. Could it, James? Not if it had been like Caspern, said Sir James, conscious of some indirectness in his answer, and of holding a strictly private opinion as to the perfections of his first born. No, just imagine. Really it was a mercy, said Celia, and I think it is very nice for Dorothea to be a widow. She can be just as fond of our baby as if it were her own, and she can have as many notions of her own as she likes. It's a pity she was not a queen, said the devout Sir James. But what should we have been then? We must have been something else, said Celia, objecting to so laborious a flight of imagination. I like her better as she is. Hence, when she found that Dorothea was making arrangements for her final departure to Loic, Celia raised her eyebrows with disappointment, and in her quiet, unemphatic way shot a needly arrow of sarcasm. What will you do at Loic, Dorothea? You say yourself there is nothing to be done there. Everybody is so clean and well off. It makes you quite melancholy. And here you have been so happy, going all about Tipton with Mr. Garth into the worst backyards. And now, uncle is abroad, you and Mr. Garth can have it all your own way. And I'm sure James does everything you tell him. Oh, I shall often come here, and I shall see how baby grows all the better, said Dorothea. But you will never see him washed, said Celia, and that is quite the best part of the day. She was almost porting. It did seem to her very hard in Dodo to go away from the baby when she might stay. Dear Kitty, I will come and stay all night on purpose, said Dorothea, but I want to be alone now, and in my own home. I wish to know the Fairbrothers better, and to talk to Mr. Fairbrother about what there is to be done in Middlemarch. Dorothea's native strength of will was no longer all converted into resolute submission. She had a great yearning to be at Loic, and was simply determined to go, not feeling bound to tell all her reasons. But everyone around her disapproved. Sir James was much pained, and offered that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for a few months. But the sacred Ark, otherwise called a Craddle, at that period a man could hardly know what a propulsive Cheltenham were ejected. The dull ager Lady Chetum just returned from a visit to her daughter in town, wished at least that Mrs. Vigo should be written to, and invited to accept the office of companion to Mrs. Caspon. It was not credible that Dorothea, as a young widow, would think of living alone in the house of Loic. Mrs. Vigo had been reader and secretary to royal personages, and in point of knowledge and sentiments, even Dorothea could have nothing to object to her. Mrs. Cadwalludder said privately, you will certainly go mad in that house alone, my dear. You will see visions. We have all got to exert ourselves a little to keep sane, and call things by the same names as other people call them by. To be sure, for younger sons and women who have no money, it is a sort of provision to go mad. They are taken care of then, but you must not run into that. I daresay you are a little bored here with our good dull ager. But think what a bore you might become yourself to your fellow creatures, if you were always playing tragedy queen and taking things sublimely. Sitting alone in that library at Loic, you may fancy yourself ruling the weather. You must get a few people round you who wouldn't believe you if you told them. That is a good lowering medicine. I never called everything by the same name that all people about me did, said Dorothea stoutly. But I suppose you have found out your mistake, my dear, said Mrs. Cadwalludder, and that is a proof of sanity. Dorothea was aware of the sting, but it did not hurt her. No, she said. I still think that the greater part of the world is mistaken about many things. Surely one may be sane and yet think so, since the greater part of the world has often had to come round from its opinion. Mrs. Cadwalludder said no more on that point to Dorothea, but her husband, she remarked, it will be well for her to marry again as soon as is proper, if one could get her among the right people. Of course, the Chetums would not wish it, but I see clearly a husband is the best thing to keep her in order. If we were not so poor, I would invite Lord Triton. He will be Marquis some day, and there is no denying that she would make a good marginess. She looks handsommer than ever in her morning. My dear Eleanor, do let the poor woman alone. Such contrivances are of no use, said the director. No use? How are matches made except by bringing men and women together? And it is a shame that her uncle should have run away and shut up the Grange just now. There ought to be plenty of eligible matches invited to fresh it and the Grange. Lord Triton is precisely the man, full of plans for making the people happy in a soft-headed sort of way. That would just suit Mrs. Caspon. Let Mrs. Caspon choose for herself, Eleanor. That is the nonsense you wise men talk. How can she choose if she has no variety to choose from? A woman's choice usually means taking the only man she can get. Mark my words, Humphrey. If her friends don't exert themselves, there will be a worse business than the Caspon business yet. Heaven's sake, don't touch on that topic, Eleanor. It is a very sore point for Sir James. He would be deeply offended if you entered on it to him unnecessarily. I have never entered on it, said Mrs. Cadwallader, opening her hands. Celia told me all about the will at the beginning, without any asking of mine. Yes, yes, but they want the thing hushed up, and I understand that the young fellow is going out of the neighborhood. Mrs. Cadwallader said nothing, but gave her husband three significant nods with a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes. Dorothea quietly persisted in spite of remonstrance and persuasion. So by the end of June, the shutters were all opened at Lowick Manor, and the morning gazed calmly into the library, shining on the rows and notebooks as it shines on the wary waste planted with huge stones. The mute memorial of a forgotten faith, and the evening laden with roses entered silently into the blue-green boudoir, where Dorothea chose oftenest to sit. At first she walked into every room, questioning the eighteenth month of her married life, and carrying on her thoughts as if they were a speech to be heard by her husband. Then she lingered in the library, and could not be at rest till she had carefully arranged all the notebooks as she imagined that he would wish to see them, in orderly sequence. The pity which had been the restraining, compelling motive in her life with him still clung about his image, even while she remonstrated with him in indignant thought, and told him that he was unjust. One little act of hers may perhaps be smiled at as superstitious. The synoptical tabulation for the use of Mrs. Kaspern, she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope, I could not use it. Do you not see now that I could not submit my soul to yours, by working hopelessly at what I have no belief in? Dorothea. Then she deposited the paper in her own desk. That silent colloquy was perhaps only the more earnest, because underneath and through it all, there was always the deep longing which had really determined her to come to Loic. The longing was to see Will Ladislaw. She did not know any good that could come of their meeting. She was helpless. Her hands had been tied from making up to him for any unfairness in his lot, but her soul thirsted to see him. How could it be otherwise? If a princess in the days of enchantment had seen a forefooted creature from among those which live in herds, come to her once and again with a human gaze which rested upon her with choice and beseeching, what would she think of her journeying? What would she look for when the herds passed her? Surely for the gaze which had found her and which she would know again. Life would be no better than candlelight tinsel and daylight rubbish if our spirits were not touched by what has been to issues of longing and constancy. It was true that Dorothea wanted to know the Fairbrothers better and especially to talk to the new rector, but also true that remembering what Lidgate had told her about Will Ladislaw and Little Miss Noble, she counted on Will's coming to Loic to see her. She counted on Will's coming to Loic to see the Fairbrother family. The very first Sunday before she entered the church, she saw him as she had seen him the last time she was there, alone in the clergyman's pew, but when she entered his figure was gone. In the weak days when she went to see the Ladis at the rectory, she listened in vain for some word that they might let fall about Will, but it seemed to her that Mrs. Fairbrother talked of everyone else in the neighborhood and out of it. Probably some of Mr. Fairbrothers' middle-march-heirs may follow him to Loic sometimes. Do you not think so? said Dorothea, rather despising herself for having a secret motive in asking the question. If they are wise they will, Mrs. Gaspern said the old lady. I see that you set a right value on my son's preaching. His grandfather on my side was an excellent clergyman, but his father was in the law, most exemplary and honest nevertheless, which is a reason for our never being rich. They say fortune is a woman and capricious, but sometimes she is a good woman and gives to those who merit, which has been the case with you, Mrs. Gaspern, who have given a living to my son. Mrs. Fairbrother recurred to her knitting with a dignified satisfaction in her neat little effort at Oratory, but this was not what Dorothea wanted to hear. Poor thing! she did not even know whether Will Ladislow was still at middle-march, and there was no one whom she dared to ask unless it were Lidgate, but just now she could not see Lidgate without sending for him or going to seek him. Perhaps Will Ladislow, having heard of that strange ban against him lived by Mr. Gaspern, had felt it better that he and she should not meet again, and perhaps she was wrong to wish for a meeting that others might find many good reasons against. Still, I do wish it came at the end of those wise reflections, as naturally as a sob after holding the breath, and the meeting did happen, but in a formal way quite unexpected by her. One morning, about eleven, Dorothea was seated in her boudoir with a map of the land attached to the manor and other papers before her, which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself of her income and affairs. She had not yet applied herself to her work, but was seated with her hands folded on her lap, looking out along the avenue of limestone of the distant fields. Every leaf was at rest in the sunshine. The familiar scene was changeless, and seemed to represent the prospect of her life, full of motiveless ease, motiveless if her own energy could not seek out reason for ardent action. The widow's cap of those times made an oval frame for the face, and had a crown standing up. The dress was an experiment in the outmost laying of crepe, but this heavy solemnity of clothing made her face look all the jungle, with its recovered bloom and the sweet inquiring candor of her eyes. Her reverie was broken by Tantrip, who came to say that Mr Ladislaw was below, and begged permission to see Madame, if it were not too early. I will see him, said Dorothea, rising immediately. Let him be shown into the drawing room. The drawing room was the most neutral room in the house to her. The one least associated with the trials of her married life. The damask matched the woodwork, which was all white and gold. There were two tall mirrors and tables, with nothing on them. In brief it was a room where you had no reason for sitting in one place, rather than in another. It was below the boudoir, and had also a bow window looking out on the avenue. But when Pratt showed Will Ladislaw into it, the window was open, and a winged visitor, buzzing in and out now and then, without mining the furniture, made the room look less formal and uninhabited. Glad to see you here again, sir, said Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind. I am only come to say goodbye, Pratt, said Will, who wished even the butler to know that he was too proud to hang about Mrs Casper now. She was a rich widow. Very sorry to hear it, sir, said Pratt, retiring. Of course, as a servant who was to be told nothing, he knew the fact of which Ladislaw was still ignorant, and had drawn his inferences. Indeed, had not differed from his betrothed tantric, when he she said, Your master was as jealous as a fiend, and no reason. Madam would look higher than Mr Ladislaw, else I don't know her. Mrs Cadwelludder's maid says there is a lord coming, who is to marry her when the morning is over. There were not many moments for Will to walk about with his hat in his hand before Dorothea entered. The meeting was very different from that first meeting in Rome, when Will had been embarrassed and Dorothea calm. This time he felt miserable but determined, while she was in a state of agitation, which could not be hidden. Just outside the door she had felt that this longed for meeting was after all too difficult, and when she saw Will advancing towards her, the deep blush, which was rare in her, came with painful suddenness. Neither of them knew how it was, but neither of them spoke. She gave her hand for a moment, and then they went to sit down near the window, she on one city, and he on another opposite. Will was peculiarly uneasy. It seemed to him, not like Dorothea, that the mere fact of her being a widow should cause such a change in her manner of receiving him, and he knew of no other condition which could have affected their previous relation to each other, except that, as his imagination at once told him, her friends might have been poisoning her mind with their suspicions of him. I hope I have not presumed too much in calling, said Will. I could not bear to leave the neighborhood and begin a new life without seeing you to say goodbye. Presumed? Surely not! I should have thought it unkind if you had not wished to see me, said Dorothea, her habit of speaking with perfect genuineness, asserting itself through all her uncertainty and agitation. Are you going away immediately? A very soon, I think. I intend to go to town and eat my dinners as a barrister, since they say that is the preparation for all public business. There will be a great deal of political work to be done by and by, and I mean to try and do some of it. Other men have managed to win an honorable position for themselves without family or money, and that will make it all the more honorable, said Dorothea ardently. Besides, you have so many talents, I have heard from my uncle how well you speak in public, so that everyone is sorry when you leave off, and how clearly you can explain things, and you care that justice should be done to everyone. I am so glad. When we were in Rome, I thought you only cared for poetry and art, and the things that adorn life for us who are well off, but now I know you think about the rest of the world. While she was speaking, Dorothea had lost her personal embarrassment, and had become like her former self. She looked at Will with a direct glance, full of delighted confidence. You approve of my going away for years then, and never coming here again till I have made myself some mark in the world, said Will, trying hard to reconcile the outmost pride with the outmost effort to get an expression of strong feeling from Dorothea. She was not aware how long it was before she answered. She had turned her head and was looking out of the window on the rose bushes, which seemed to have in them the summers of all the years when Will would be away. This was no judicious behaviour, but Dorothea never thought of studying her manners. She thought only of bowing to sad necessity, which divided her from Will. Those first words of his about his intentions had seemed to make everything clear to her. He knew, she supposed, all about Mr. Caspian's final conduct in relation to him, and it he had come to him with the same sort of shock as to herself. He had never felt more than friendship for her, had never had anything in his mind to justify what she felt to be her husband's outrage on the feelings of both, and that friendship he still felt, something which may be called an inward silent sob, had gone on in Dorothea before she said with a pure voice, just trembling in the last words as if only from its liquid flexibility. Yes, it must be right for you to do as you say. I shall be very happy when I hear that you have made your value felt, but you must have patience. It will perhaps be a long while. Will never quite knew how it was that he saved himself from falling down at her feet. When the long while came forth with his gentle tremor, he used to say that the horrible you and surface of her creptress was most likely the sufficient controlling force. He said still, however, and only said, I shall never hear from you, and you will forget all about me. No, said Dorothea, I shall never forget you. I have never forgotten anyone whom I once knew. My life has never been crowded, and it seems not likely to be so, and I have a great deal of space for memory at Loic. Haven't I? she smiled. Good God! Will burst out passionately, rising with his hat still in his hand, and walking away to a marble table, where he suddenly turned and leaned his back against it. The blood had mounted to his face and neck, and he looked almost angry. It had seemed to him as if they were like two creatures slowly turning to marble in each other's presence, while their hearts were conscious and their eyes were joining. But there was no help for it. It should never be true of him that in this meeting to which he had come with bitter resolution, he had ended by a confession which might be interpreted into asking for our fortune. Moreover, it was actually true that he was fearful of the effect which such confessions might have on Dorothea herself. She looked at him from that distance in some trouble, imagining that there might have been an offence in her words. But all the while there was a current of thought in her about his probable want of money and the impossibility of her helping him. If her uncle had been at home, something might have been done through him. It was this preoccupation with the hardship of Will's wanting money, while she had what ought to have been his share, which led her to say, seeing that he remained silent and looked away from her. I wonder whether you would like to have that miniature which hangs upstairs. I mean that beautiful miniature of your grandmother. I think it is not right for me to keep it. If you would wish to have it, it is wonderfully like you. You are very good, said Will irritably. No, I don't mind about it. It is not very consoling to have one's own likeness. It would be more consoling if others wanted to have it. I thought you would like to cherish her memory. I thought Dorothea broke off an instant, her imagination suddenly warning her away from Angela's history. You would surely like to have the miniature as a family memorial. Why should I have that, when I have nothing else? A man with only a portmanteau for his stowage must keep his memorials in his head. Will spoke at random. He was merely venting his petulance. It was a little too exasperating to have his grandmother's portrait offered him at that moment. But Dorothea's feeling his words had a peculiar sting. She rose and said with a touch of indignation as well as of her. You are much the happier of us too, Mr Ladislohm, to have nothing. Will was startled. Whatever the words might be, the tone seemed like a dismissal, and, quitting his leaning posture, he walked a little towards her. Their eyes met, but with a strange questioning gravity. Something was keeping their minds aloof, and each was left to conjecture what was in the other. Will had really never thought of himself as having a claim of inheritance on the property which was held by Dorothea, and would have required a narrative to make him understand her present feeling. I never felt it a misfortune to have nothing till now, he said, but poverty may be as bad as leprosy if it divides us from what we most care for. The words cut Dorothea to the heart and made her relent. She answered in a tone of sad fellowship. Sorrow comes in so many ways. Two years ago I had no notion of that, I mean of the unexpected way in which trouble comes, and ties our hands, and makes us silent when we long to speak. I used to despise women a little for not shaping their lives more and doing better things. I was very fond of doing as I liked, but I have almost given it up. She ended smiling playfully. I have not given up doing as I like, but I can very seldom do it, said Will. He was standing two yards from her with his mind full of contradictory desires and resolves, desiring some unmistakable proof that she loved him, and yet, dreading the position into which such a proof might bring him. The thing one most longs for may be surrounded with conditions that would be intolerable. At this moment Pratt entered and said, Sir James Chetum is in the library, madame. Ask Sir James to come in here, said Dorothea immediately. It was as if the same electric shock had passed through her and Will. Each of them felt proudly resistant, and neither looked at the other while they awaited Sir James' entrance. After shaking hands with Dorothea, he bowed as slightly as possible to Ladislaw, who repaid the slightness exactly, and then, going towards Dorothea, said, I must say goodbye, Mrs. Caspern, and probably for a long while. Dorothea put out her hand and said her goodbye cordially. The sense that Sir James was depreciating Will and behaving rudely to him roused her resolution and dignity. There was no touch or confusion in her manner, and when Will had left the room, she looked with such calm self-possession at Sir James, saying, How is Celia that he was obliged to behave as if nothing had annoyed him, and what would be the use of behaving otherwise? Indeed, Sir James shrank with so much dislike from the association, even in thought of Dorothea with Ladislaw as her possible lover, that he would himself have wished to avoid an outward show or displeasure, which would have recognized the disagreeable possibility. If anyone had asked him why he shrank in that way, I am not sure that he would at first have said anything fuller or more precise than that Ladislaw. Though, on reflection, he might have urged that Mr. Caspern's could-he-sill, bearing Dorothea's marriage with Will, except unrepenalty, was enough to cast unfitness over any relation at all between them. His aversion was all the stronger because he felt himself unable to interfere. But Sir James was a power in a way unguessed by himself. Entering at that moment, he was an incorporation of the strongest reasons through which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him a sander from Dorothea. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please contact LibriVox.org. George Eliot, Middlemarch, Chapter 55 Hath she her faults? I would, you had them too. They are the fruity must of soundest wine, or say they are regenerating fire, such as hath turned the dense black element into a crystal pathway for the sun. If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that our elders are hopeful about us, for no age is so apt as youth to think its emotions, partings and resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems final, simply because it is new. We are told that the oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the earthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock and reflect that there are plenty more to come. Todorothea, still in their time of youth, when the eyes were their long full lashes, look out after their reign of tears, unsoiled and unwared, as a freshly opened passion flower. That morning, sparting with Willadis Lord seemed to be the close of their personal relations. He was going away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back, he would be another man. The actual state of his mind, his proud resolve to give the life of Forehand to any suspicion that he would play in the needy adventure seeking a rich woman, lay quite out of her imagination, and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by her supposition that Mr. Kaspen's codicil seemed to him as it did to her, a gross and cruel interdict of any active friendship between them. Their young delight in speaking to each other and saying what no one else would care to hear was forever ended and become a treasure of the past. For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check, that unique happens too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber she might have meant the passionate grief which she herself wandered at. For the first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it before her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged with a grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended. Can anyone who is rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it her eerie approach to her that she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it there and leaned her cheek upon it as if that would soothe the creatures who had suffered unjust condemnation. She didn't know then that it was love who had come to her briefly as in a dream before a waking, with a use of mourning on his wings, that it was love to whom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the blameless rigor of a resistable day. She only felt that there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot and her thoughts about the future were the more readily shaping into resolve. Arden souls ready to construct their coming lives are up to commit themselves to the fulfilment of their own visions. One day that she went to fresh it to fulfil her promise of staying all night and seeing baby washed. Mrs. Cadwalludder came to dine, the rector being gone on a fishing excursion. It was a warm evening and even in the delightful drawing room by the fine old turf sloped from the open window towards a lily pool and well-planted mounds. The heat was enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curves reflect with pity on what Dudo must feel in her black dress and close cap. But this was not until some episodes where the baby were over and had left her mind at leisure. She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time before she said in her quiet guttural, Dear Dudo, do throw off that cap. I'm sure your dress must make you feel ill. I'm so used to the cap. It has become a sort of shell, said Dorothea smiling. I feel rather bare and exposed when it's off. I must see you without it. It makes us all warm, said Celia, throwing down her fan and going to Dorothea. It was a pretty picture to see this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap from her more majestic sister and tossing it on to a chair. Just as the coils and braids of dark brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the room. He looked at the released head and said, Ah, in a tone of satisfaction. It was I who did it, James, said Celia. Dudo need not make such a slavery of her mourning. She need not wear that cap any more among her friends. My dear Celia, said Lady Chetum, a widow must wear her mourning at least a year. Not if she marries again before the end of it, said Mrs. Cadwalludder, who had some pleasure in startling her good friend, the Dowager. Sir James was annoyed and leaned forward to play with Celia's smaltest dog. That is very rare, I hope, said Lady Chetum, in a tone intended to guard against such events. No friend of ours ever committed herself in that way, except Mrs. Beaver, and it was very painful to Lord Grinsall when she did so. Her first husband was objectionable, which made it the greater wonder, and severely she was punished for it. They say Captain Beaver dragged her about by the hair and held up loaded pistols at her. Oh, if she took the wrong man, said Mrs. Cadwalludder, who was in a decidedly wicked mood. Marriage is always bad then, first or second. Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other. I would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first. My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you, said Lady Chetum. I am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if our director were taken away. Oh, I make no vows. It might be a necessary economy. It is lawful to marry again, I suppose, else we might as well be Hindus instead of Christians. Of course, if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take the consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate. But if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery, the sooner the better. I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-churching, said Sir James, with a look of disgust. Suppose we change it. Not on my account, Sir James, said Arothea, determined not to lose the opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to excellent matches. If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you that no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than second marriage. It's no more to me than if you talked of women going fox hunting, whether it's admirable in them or not. I shall not follow them. Pray, let Mrs. Capwell utter amuse herself on that subject as much as any other. My dear Mrs. Kaspen, said Lady Shatum in her stateless way, you do not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning Mrs. Beaver. It was only an instance that occurred to me. She was stepdaughter to Lord Grinsall. He married Mrs. Tevereiroi for his second wife. There could be no possible allusion to you. Oh, no, said Celia. Nobody chose the subject. It all came out of Dodo's cap. Mrs. Cadwell utter only said what was quite true. A woman could not be married in a widow's cap, James. Hush, my dear, said Mrs. Cadwell utter. I will not offend again. I will not even refer to Dedo or Senobia. Only what are we to talk about? I, for my part, object to the discussion of human nature, because that is the nature of rector's wives. Later in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwell utter was gone, Celia said privately to Dorothea, really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like yourself again in more ways than one. You spoke up just as you used to do when anything was said to displease you, but I could hardly make out whether it was James that you thought wrong or Mrs. Cadwell utter. Neither, said Dorothea. James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he was mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwell utter said. I should only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of blood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended. But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better to have blood and beauty, said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Caspern had not been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to caution Dorothea in time. Don't be anxious, Kitty. I have quite other thoughts about my life. I shall never marry again, said Dorothea, touching her sister's chin and looking at her with indulgent affection. Celia was nursing her baby, and Dorothea had come to say good night to her. Really? Quite, said Celia. Not anybody at all, if he were very wonderful indeed. Dorothea shook her head slowly. Not anybody at all. I have delightful plans. I should like to take a great deal of land and drain it, and make a little colony where everybody should work, and all the work should be done well. I should know everyone of the people and be their friend. I am going to have great consultations with Mr. Garth. He can tell me almost everything I want to know. Then you will be happy if you have a planned Dodo, said Celia. Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he can help you. Sir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite set against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to all sorts of plans, just like what she used to have. Sir James made no remark. To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a woman's second marriage, and no much would prevent him from feeling it is a sort of desecration for Dorothea. He was aware that the world would regard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a woman of one and twenty. The practice of the world being to treat of a young widow's second marriage is certain and probably near, and to smile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly. But if Dorothea did choose to expose her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well become her. End of chapter 55 of Middlemarch by George Eliot, read by Lars Rolander. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. George Eliot, Middlemarch, chapter 56. How happy is he born and taught that shorth no other's will, whose armor is his honest thought and simple truth his only skill. This man is freed from servile bands of hope to rise or fear to fall, lord of himself, though not of lands, and having nothing yet hath all. Sir Henry Wotong Dorothea's confidence in Calabgath's knowledge, which had begun on her hearing that he proved of her cottages, had grown fast during her stay at Freshit. Sir James, having induced her to take rides over the two estates in company with himself and Calabg, who quite returned her admiration and told his wife that Mr. Casabon had a head for business most uncommon in a woman. It must be remembered that by business Calabg never meant money transactions but the skillful application of labor. Most uncommon, repeated Calabg, she said a thing I often used to think myself when I was a lad. Mr. Garth, I should like to feel if I lived to be old that I had improved a great piece of land and built a great many good cottages. Because the work is of a healthy kind while it's being done, and all three it is done, men are the better for it. Those were the very words she sees into things in that way. But a womanly, I hope, said Mrs. Garth, half suspecting that Mr. Casabon might not hold the true principle of subordination. Oh, you can't think, said Calabg shaking his head. You would like to hear her speak, Susan. She speaks in such plain words and a voice like music. Bless me. It reminds me of bits in the Messiah, and straight away there appeared a multitude of heavenly hosts praising God and saying, it has a tone with it that satisfies your ear. Calabg was very fond of music, and when he could afford it, went to hear an oratorio that came within his reach, returning from it with a profound reverence for this mighty structure of tones, which made him sit meditatively, looking on the floor, and throwing much unutterable language into his outstretched hands. With this good understanding between them, it was natural that Dorothea asked Mr. Garth to undertake any business connected with the three farms and the numerous tenements attached to Loic Manor. Indeed, his expectation of getting work for two was being fast fulfilled. As he said, business breeds, and one form of business, which was beginning to breed just then, was the construction of railways. A projected line was to run through Loic Parish, where the cattle had hitherto graced in a peace unbroken by astonishment, and thus it happened that the infant struggles of the railway system entered into the affairs of Calabgarth, and determined the course of this history with regards to two persons who were dear to him. The submarine railway may have its difficulties, but the bed of the sea is not divided among various slanted proprietors, with claims for damages not only measurable but sentimental. In the hundred which Middlemarch belonged, railways were as exciting as a topic as the reform build or the imminent horrors of cholera, and those who held the most decided views on the subject were women and landholders. Women, both old and young, regarded travelling by steam as presumptuous and dangerous, and argued against it by saying that nothing should induce them to get into a railway carriage, while proprietors differing from each other in their arguments as much as Mr. Solomon Featherstone differed from Lord Medlicott, were yet unanimous in the opinion that in selling land, whether to the enemy of mankind or to a company obliged to purchase, these pernicious agencies must be made to pay a very high price to landowners for permission to injure mankind. But the slower wits, such as Mr. Solomon and Mr. Wall, who both occupied land of their own, took a long time to arrive at this conclusion, their minds halting at the vivid conception of what it would be to cut the big pasture in two, and turn it into three-cornered bits, which would be know-how, while accommodation bridges and high payments were remote and incredible. The counts will all cast their calves, brother, said Mrs. Wall, in a tone of deep melancholy. If the railway comes across the near-close, and I shouldn't wonder at the mayor, too, if he was in fall, it's a poor tale if a widow's property is to be spaded away, and the law say nothing to it. What's to hinder them from cutting right and left if they begin? It is well known. I can't fight. The best way would to be say nothing, and set somebody on to send them away with a flea in their ear when they came spying and measuring, said Solomon. Forks did that about brassing, by what I can understand. It's all a pretence, if the truth was known, about their being forced to take one away. Let them go, cutting in another parish, and I don't believe in any pay to make amends for bringing a lot of ruffians to trample your crops. Where's the company's pocket? Brother Peter, God forgive him, got money out of a company, said Mrs. Wall. But that was for the manganese. That wasn't for railways to blow you to pieces right and left. Well, there is this to be said, Jane, Mr. Solomon concluded, lowering his voice in a cautious manner. The more spokes we put in their wheel, the more they pay us to let them go on, if they must come whether or not. This reasoning of Mr. Solomon's was perhaps less thorough than he imagined, his cunning bearing about the same relation to the course of railways as the cunning of diplomatists bears to the general chill or Qatar of the solar system. But he set about acting on his views in a thoroughly diplomatic manner, by stimulating suspicion. His side of Loic was the most remote from the village, and the houses of the laboring people were either lone cottages or were collected in a hamlet called Frick, where a water mill and some stone pits made a little center of slow, heavy-shouldered industry. In the absence of any precise idea as to what railways were, public opinion in Frick was against them, for the human mind in that grassy corner had not the proverbial tendency to admire the unknown, holding rather that it was likely to be against the poor man, and that suspicion was the only wise attitude with regard to it. Even the rumor of reform had not yet excited any millennial expectations in Frick, there being no definite promise in it as of gratuitous grains to fatten Ford's pick, or of a publican at the weights and scales who would brew beer for nothing, or of an offer on the part of the three neighboring farmers to raise wages during winter. And without distinct good of this kind in his promises, reform seemed on a footing with a bragging of peddlers, which was a hint for distrust to every knowing person. The men of Frick were not ill-fed, and were less given to fanaticism than to a strong muscular suspicion, less inclined to believe that they were peculiarly cared for by heaven, than to regard heaven itself as rather disposed to take them in a disposition observable in the weather. Thus the mind of Frick was exactly of the sort for Mr Solomon Featherstone to work upon, he having more plantious ideas of the same order, with the suspicion of heaven and earth, which was better fed and more entirely at leisure. Solomon was overseer of the roads at that time, and on a slow-paced cob often took his rounds by Frick to look at the workmen getting their stones there, pausing with a mysterious deliberation, which might have misled you into supposing that he had some other reason for staying than the mere want of impulse to move. After looking for a long while at any work that was going on, he would raise his eyes a little, and look at the horizon. Finally he would shake his bridle, touch his horse with a whip, and get it to move slowly onward. The hour hand of a clock was quick by comparison with Mr Solomon, who had an agreeable sense that he could afford to be slow. He was in the habit of pausing for a cautious, vaguely designing chat with every hedger or ditcher on his way, and was especially willing to listen, even to news which he had heard before, feeling himself at an advantage over all narrators in partially disbelieving them. One day, however, he got into a dialogue with Hiram Ford, a vagoner in which he himself contributed information. He wished to know whether Hiram had seen fellows with staves and instruments spying about. They called themselves railroad people, but there was no telling what they were on, or what they meant to do. The least they pretended was that they were going to cut Loic Parish into sixes and sevens. Why, there'll be no staring from one place to another, said Hiram, thinking of his wagon and horses, not a bit, said Mr Solomon, and cutting up fine land such as this Parish. Let them go into Tipton, say I, but there's no knowing what there is at the bottom of it. Traffic is what they put for art, but it's to do harm to the land and the poor man in the long run. Why, there are London chaps I reckon, said Hiram, who had a dim notion of London as a centre of hostility to the country. I, to be sure, and in some parts against bracing by what I've heard say, the forks fell on them when they were spying in, broke their peep holes as they carry and drove them away so as they knew better than come again. It were good fun, Arby Bone, said Hiram, whose fun was much restricted by circumstances. Well, I wouldn't meddle with them and myself, said Solomon, but some say this country's seen its best days, and the sign is said as it's being overrun with these fellows trampling right and left and wanting to cut it up into railways and all for the big traffic to swallow up the little so as there shan't be a team left on the land nor a whip to crack. I'll crack my whip about their yarn before they bring it into that, though, said Hiram, while Mr Solomon's shaking-spridle moved onward. Nettled seed needs no digging. The ruin of this countryside by railroads was discussed not only at the weights and scales, but in the hayfield where the muster of working hands gave opportunities for talk, such as were rarely had through the rural year. One morning, not long after that interview between Mr Fairbrother and Mary Garth, in which she confessed to him her feeling for Fred Vinci, it happened that her father had some business which took him to Jodrell's farm in the direction of Frith. It was to measure and value an outlying piece of land belonging to Loic Manor, which Calab expected to dispose of advantageously for Dorothea. It must be confessed that his bias was towards getting the best possible terms from railroad companies. He put up his jig at Jodrell's and in walking with his assistant and measuring chain to the scene of his work. He encountered the party of the company's agents who were adjusting their spirit level. After a little chat he left them, observing that by and by they would reach him again where he was going to measure. It was one of those gray mornings after light rains, which become delicious about twelve o'clock when the clouds part a little, and the scent of the earth is sweet along the lanes and by the hedge-rose. The scent would have been sweeter to Fred Vinci, who was coming along the lanes and horseback, if his mind had not been worried by unsuccessful efforts to imagine what he was to do. With his father on one side expecting him straight away to enter the church, with Mary on the other threatening to forsake him if he did enter it, and with a working-day world showing no eager need, whatever of a young gentleman, without capital and generally unskilled. It was the harder to fred this position, because his father, satisfied that he was no longer rebellious, was in good humor with him, and had sent him on this pleasant ride to see after some greyhounds. Even when he had fixed on what he should do, there would be the task of telling his father. But it must be admitted that the fixing, which had come first, was the more difficult task. What secular abocation on earth was there for a young man, whose friends could not get him an appointment, which was at once gentlemanly, lucrative, and to be followed without special knowledge. Riding along the lanes by Frick in this mood, and slackening his pace while he reflected, whether he should venture to go round by Loic Parsonage to call on Mary, he could see over the hedges from one field to another. Suddenly a noise draws his attention, and on the far side of a field on his left hand, he could see six or seven men in smockfrocks, with hay forks in their hands, making an offensive approach towards the four railway agents who were facing them. While Caleb Garth and his assistant were hastening across the field to join the threatened group, Fred delayed a few moments by having to find the gate, could not gallop up to the spot before the party in smockfrocks, whose work of turning the hay had not been too pressing after swallowing their midday beer, were driving the men in coats before them, with their hay forks, while Caleb Garth's assistant, a lad of seventeen who had snatched up the spirit level at Caleb's order, had been knocked down and seemed to be lying helpless. The coated men had the advantage as runners, and Fred covered their retreat by getting in front of the smockfrocks, and charging them suddenly enough to throw their chase into confusion. What do you confound fools mean? shouted Fred, pursuing the divided group in a zig-sack, and cutting right and left with his whip. I swear to every one of you before the magistrate, you've knocked the lad down and killed him for what I know. You'll every one of you be hanged at the next assizes, if you don't mind, said Fred, who afterwards laughed heartily as he remembered his own phrases. The labours had been driven through the gateway into their hayfield, and Fred had checked his horse, when he ran forward, observing himself at a safe, challenging distance. Turn back and shout at the defiance which he did not know to be Homeric. You're a coward, you are. You get off your horse, young master, and I'll have a round with you. I will. You didn't come out without your horse and a whip. I'd soon knock the breath out on you. I would. Wait a minute, and I'll, I'll come back presently, have a round with you. All, in turn, if you like, said Fred, who felt confidence in his power of boxing with his dearly beloved brethren. But just now he wanted to hasten back to Caleb and the prostrate youth. The lad's ankle was strained, and he was in much pain from it, but he was no further hurt, and Fred placed him on the horse that he might ride to Jodrell's, and be taken care of there. Let them put the horse in the stable, and tell the surveyors that they can come back for the day traps, said Fred. The ground is clear now. No, no, said Caleb. Here's a breakage. They'll have to give up for today, and it will be as well. Here take the things before you on the horse, Tom. They'll see you coming, and they'll turn back. I'm glad I happened to be here at the right moment, Mr. Garth, said Fred as Tom rode away, not knowing what might have happened if the cavalry had not come up in time. Aye aye, it was lucky, said Caleb, speaking rather absently, and looking towards the spot where he'd been at work at the moment of interruption. But, Jews take it, this is what comes on men being fools. I'm hindered of my days' work. I can't get along without somebody to help me with a measuring chain. However, he was spinning to move towards the spot with a look of excation, as if he had forgotten Fred's present, but suddenly he turned round and said quickly, What have you got to do today, young fellow? Nothing, Mr. Garth. I'll help you with pleasure. Can I, said Fred with the sense that he should be courting Mary when he was helping her father. Well, you mustn't mind stopping and getting hot. I don't mind anything. Only I want to go first and have a round with that hulky fellow, who turned to challenge me. It would be a good lesson for him. I shall not be in five minutes. Nonsense, said Caleb, with his most peremptory intonation. I shall go and speak to the men myself. It's all ignorance. Somebody has been telling them lies. The poor fools don't know any better. I shall go with you then, said Fred. No, no, stay where you are. I don't want your young blood. I can take care of myself. Caleb was a powerful man and knew little of any fear, except the fear of hurting others and the fear of having to speachify him. But he felt his duty at this moment to try and give a little harangue. There was a striking mixture in him, which came from his having always been a hard-working man himself, of rigorous notions about workmen and practical indulgence towards them. To do a good day's work and to do it well, he held to be part of their welfare, as it was the chief part of his own happiness. But he had a strong sense of fellowship with them. When he advanced toward the labourers, they had not gone to work again, but were standing in that form of rural grouping, which consists in each turning a shoulder towards the other at a distance of two or three yards. They looked rather sulkily at Caleb, who walked quickly with one hand in his pocket and the other thrust between the buttons of his faced coat, and had his everyday mild air when he paused among them. Why, my lads, how's this, he began, taking as usual to brief phrases, which seemed pregnant to himself, because he had many thoughts lying under them, like the abundant roots of a plant that just manages to peep above the water. How came you to make such a mistake as this? Somebody has been telling you lies. You thought those men up there wanted to do mischief? Ah, was the answer, dropped at intervals by each according to his degree of unreadiness. Nonsense, no such thing! They're looking out to see which way the railroad is to take. Now, my lads, you can't hinder the railroad. It will be made whether you like it or not, and if you go fighting against it, you'll get yourselves into trouble. The law gives those men leave to come here on the land. The owner has nothing to say against it, and if you meddle with them, you'll have to do with the constable and Justice Blakely, and with the handcuffs at Middlemarch jail. And you might be in for it now, if anybody informed against you. Caleb paused here, and perhaps the greatest orator could not have chosen either his pause or his images better for the occasion. But come, you didn't mean any harm. Somebody told you the railroad was a bad thing. That was a lie. It may do a bit of harm here and there, to this and to that, and so does the sun in heaven. But the railway's a good thing. Ah, good for their big folks to make money out on, said old Timothy Cooper, who had stayed behind, turning his hay while the others had been gone on their spree. I see lots of things turn up, sin I wore a young on. The war and the peace and the candles, and the old King George, and the regent and the new King George, and the new one who has gotten you near, amen, it's been all alike to the poor man. What's the candles been tim? They brought him neither me, nor be gone, nor wage to lay by, if he didn't save it with clam in his own inside. Times have got worse for him, sin I wore a young on, and so will it be with the railroads. They'll only leave the poor man further behind, but them are fools as meddle, and so are tall the chaps here. This is the big folks where this is, but you're for the big folks, Muster Garth, you are! Timothy was a wiry old laborer of a type lingering in those times, who had his savings in a stocking-foot, lived in a lone cottage, and was not to be wrought on by any oratory, having as little as for the feudal spirit, and believing as little as if he had not been totally unacquainted with the age of reason and the rights of man. Caleb was in a difficulty known to any person attempting in dark times, and unassisted by miracle to reason with rustics, who are in possession of an undeniable truth, which they know through a hard process of feeling, and can let it fall like a giant's club on you, neatly carved argument for a social benefit which they do not feel. Caleb had no count at command, even if he could have chosen to use it, and he had been accustomed to meet all such difficulties, in no other way but doing his business faithfully, he answered, If you don't think well, O me, Tim, never mind, that's neither here nor there now. Things may be bad for the poor man, bad they are, but I want the lads here not to do what will make things worse for themselves. The cattle may have a heavy load, but it won't help them to throw it over into the roadside pit, when it's partly their own fodder. We were only for a bit of fun, said Hiram, was beginning to see consequences. That's for all we were after. Well, promise me not to meddle again, and I'll see that nobody informs against you. I never meddle, and I no call to promise, said Timothy. No, but the rest. Come, I'm as hard at work as any of you today, and I can't spare much time. Say you'll be quiet without the constable. Oh, we won't meddle, they may do us all like for us, were the forms in which Caleb got his pledges, and then he hastened back to Fred, who had followed him and watched him in the gateway. They went to work, and Fred helped vigorously. His spirits had risen, and he hardly enjoyed a good slip in the moist earth under the hedge-grow, which sold his perfect summer trousers. Was it a successful onset which had elated him, or the satisfaction of helping Mary's father? Something more. The accidents of the morning had helped his frustrated imagination to shape an employment for himself, which had several attractions. I'm not sure that certain fibres in Mr. Garth's mind had not resumed their old vibration towards the very end, which now revealed itself to Fred. For the effective accident is but the touch of fire, where there is oil and tow, and it always appeared to Fred that the railway brought the needed touch, but they went on in silence, except when their business demanded speech. At last, when they had finished, and were walking away, Mr. Garth said, A young fellow needn't be a BA to do this sort of work, a Fred? I wish I had taken to it before I had thought of being a BA, said Fred. He paused a moment and then added more hesitatingly. Do you think I'm too old to learn your business, Mr. Garth? My business is of many sorts, my boy, said Mr. Garth, smiling. A good deal of what I know can only come from experience. You can't learn it off as you learn things out of a book. But you are young enough to lay a foundation yet. Kaleb pronounced the last sentence emphatically, but paused in some uncertainty. He had been under the impression lately that Fred had made up his mind to enter the church. You do think I could do some good at it if I were to try? said Fred more eagerly. That depends, said Kaleb, turning his head on one side and lowering his voice, with the air of a man who felt himself to be saying something deeply religious. You must be sure of two things. You must love your work and not be always looking at the edge of it, wanting your play to begin. And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your work and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something else. You must have a pride in your own work and in learning to do it well and not be always saying there is this and there is that. If I had this or that to do, I might make something of it. No matter what a man is, I wouldn't give tuppence for him. Here Kaleb's mouth looked bitter and he snapped his fingers, whether he was the Prime Minister or the Rick Thatcher, if he didn't do well what he undertook to do. I can never feel that I should do that in being a clergyman, said Fred, meaning to take a step in argument. Then let it alone, my boy, said Kaleb abruptly. Else you'll never be easy, or if you are easy you'll be a poor stick. That is very nearly what Mary thinks about it, said Fred colouring. I think you must know what I feel for Mary, Mr. Garth. I hope it does not displease you that I have always loved her better than anyone else and that I shall never love anyone as I love her. The expression of Kaleb's face was visibly softening while Fred spoke, but he swung his head with the solemn slowness and said, That makes things more serious, Fred. If you want to take Mary's happiness into your keeping. I know that, Mr. Garth, said Fred eagerly, and I would do anything for her. She says she will never have me if I go into the church, and I shall be the most miserable devil in the world if I lose all hope of Mary. Really, if I could get some other profession, business, anything that I'm at all fit for, I would work hard. I would deserve your good opinion. I should like to have to do with outdoor things. I know a good deal about land and cattle already. I used to believe, you know, that you will think me rather foolish for it, that I should have land of my own. I'm sure knowledge of that sort would come easily to me, especially if I could be under you in any way. Softly, my boy, said Kaleb, having the image of Susan before his eyes. What have you said to your father about all this? Nothing yet, but I must tell him. I'm only waiting to know what I can do instead of entering the church. I'm very sorry to disappoint him, but a man ought to be allowed to judge for himself when he is four and twenty. How could I know when I was fifteen what it would be right for me to do now? My education was a mistake. But harken to this, Fred, said Kaleb. Are you sure Mary is fond of you, or would ever have you? I asked Mr. Fairbrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden me. I didn't know what else to do, said Fred apologetically. And he says that I have every reason to hope. If I can put myself in an honorable position, I mean out of the church. I dare say you think it unwarrantable in me, Mr. Garth, to be troubling you and obtruding my own wishes about Mary, before I have done anything at all for myself. Of course I have not the least claim. Indeed, I have already adept to you, which will never be discharged, even when I have been able to pay it in the shape of money. Yes, my boy, you have a claim, said Kaleb, with much feeling in his voice. The young ones have always a claim on the old to help them forward. I was young myself once, and had to do without much help. But help would have been welcome to me, if had it been only for the fellow-feeling's sake. But I must consider. Come to me tomorrow, at the office at nine o'clock. At the office, mind! Mr. Garth would take no important step without consulting Susan. But it must be confessed that before he reached home, he had taken his resolution. With regard to a large number of matters about which other men are decided or obstinate, he was the most easily manageable man in the world. He never knew what he meet he would choose, and if Susan had said they ought to live in a four-roomed cottage in order to save, he would have said, let us go without inquiring into details. But where Kaleb's feeling and judgment strongly pronounced, he was a ruler, and in spite of his mildness and timidity in reproving, everyone about him knew that on the exceptional occasions when he choose, he was absolute. He never indeed choose to be absolute, except on someone else's behalf. On ninety-nine points Mrs. Garth decided, but on the hundredth, she was often aware that she would have to perform the singularly difficult task of carrying out her own principle and to make herself subordinate. It has come round as I thought, Susan, said Kaleb, when they were seated alone in the evening. He had already narrated the adventure which had brought about Fred's sharing in his work, but had kept back the further result. The children are fond of each other. I mean, Fred and Mary. Mrs. Garth laid her work on her knee, and fixed her penetrating eyes anxiously on her husband. After we done our work, Fred poured it all out to me. He can't bear to be a clergyman, and Mary says she won't have him if he's one, and the lad would like to be under me and give his mind to business, and I've determined to take him and make a man of him. Kaleb, said Mrs. Garth in a deep contralto, expressive or resigned astonishment. It's a fine thing to do, said Mr. Garth, settling himself firmly against the back of his chair and grasping the elbows. I shall have trouble with him, but I think I shall carry it through. The lad loves Mary, and a true love for a good woman is a great thing, Susan. It shapes many a rough fellow. Has Mary spoken to you on the subject? Said Mrs. Garth, secretly a little hurt that she had to be informed on it herself. Not a word. I asked her about Fred once. I gave her a bit of warning, but she assured me she would never marry an idle, self-indulgent man. Nothing thinks. But it seems Fred set on Mr. Fairbrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden him to speak himself. And Mr. Fairbrother has found out that she is fond of Fred, but says he must not be a clergyman. Fred's heart is fixed on Mary, that I can see. It gives me a good opinion of the lad, and we always liked him, Susan. It's a pity for Mary, I think, said Mrs. Garth. Why a pity? Because, Calab, she might have had a man who is worth twenty Fred v inches. Ah! said Calab with surprise. I firmly believe that Mr. Fairbrother is attached to her, meant to make her an offer. But, of course, now that Fred has used him as envoy, there is an end to that better prospect. There was a severe precision in Mrs. Garth's utterance. She was vexed and disappointed, but she was bent on abstaining from useless words. Calab was silent a few moments under a conflict of feelings. He looked at the floor and moved his head and hands in accompaniment into some inward argumentation. At last he said, That would have made me very proud and happy, Susan, and I should have been glad for your sake. I've always felt that your belongings have never been on a level with you. But you took me. Though I was a plain man, I took the best and cleverest man I had ever known, said Mrs. Garth, convinced that she would never have loved anyone who came short of that mark. Well, perhaps other thought you might have done better, but it would have been worse for me, and that is what touches me close about Fred. The lad is good at bottom and clever enough to do. If he is put in the right way, and he loves and honors my daughter beyond anything, and she has given him a sort of promise according to what he turns out, I say that young man's soul in my hand, and I'll do the best I can for him, so help me God, it's my duty, Susan. Mrs. Garth was not given to tears, but there was a large one rolling down her face before her husband had finished. It came from the pressure of various feelings, in which there was much affection and some vexation. She wiped it away quickly, saying, Few men, besides you, would think it a duty to add to their anxieties in that way, Calab. That signifies nothing what other men would think. I've got a clear feeling inside me, and that I shall follow, and I hope your heart will go with me, Susan, in making everything as light as can be to marry, poor child. Calab, leaning back in his chair, looked with anxious appeal towards his wife. She rose and kissed him, saying, God bless you, Calab, our children have a good father. But she went out and had a hearty cry to make up for the suppression of her words. She felt sure that her husband's conduct would be misunderstood, and about Fred she was rational and unhopeful, which would turn out to have the more foresight in it, her rationality, or Calab's ardent generosity. When Fred went to the office next morning, there was a test to be gone through, which he was not prepared for. Now, Fred said, Calab, you will have some desk work. I have always done a good deal of writing myself, but I can't do without help, and as I want you to understand the counts and get the values into your head, I mean to do without another clerk. So you must buckle, too. How are you at writing an arithmetic? Fred felt an awkward movement of the heart. He had not thought of desk work, but he was in a resolute mood, and not going to shrink. I am not afraid of arithmetic, Mr. Garth. It always came easily to me. I think you know my writing. Let us see, said Calab, taking up a pen, examining it carefully and handing it, well dipped to Fred with a sheet of ruled paper. Copy me a line or two of that valuation, with the figures at the end. At that time the opinion existed that it was beneath a gentleman to write legibly, or with a hand in the least suitable to a clerk. Fred wrote the lines demanded in a hand as gentlemanly, as that of any white count or bishop of the day. The bowels were all alike, and the consonants only distinguishable, as turning up or down. The strokes had a blotted solidity, and the letters disdained to keep the line. In short, it was a manuscript of that venerable kind easy to interpret when you know beforehand what the writer means. As Calab looked on, his visage showed a growing depression. But when Fred handed him the paper, he gave something like a snarl, and wrapped the paper passionately with the back of his hand. Bad work like this dispelled all Calab's mildness. The juice, he explained snarily, to think that this is a country where a man's education may cost hundreds and hundreds, and it turns you out this. Then in a more pathetic tone, pushing up his spectacles and looking at the unfortunate scribe, the Lord have mercy on us, Fred. I can't put up with this. What can I do, Mr. Garth, said Fred, whose spirits had sunk very low, not only at the estimate of his handwriting, but at the vision of himself as liable to be ranked with office clerks. Do? Why, you must learn to form your letters and keep the line. What's the use of writing at all if nobody can understand it? asked Calab energetically, quite preoccupied with the bad quality of the work. Is there so little business in the world that you must be sending puzzles over the country? But that's the way people are brought up. I should lose no end of time with the letters some people send me if Susan did not make them out for me. It's disgusting! Here Calab tossed the paper from him. In his stranger peeping into the office at that moment, might have wondered what was the drama between the indignant man of business and the fine-looking young fellow whose blonde complexion was getting rather patchy as he bit his lip with modification. Fred was struggling with many thoughts. Mr. Garth had been so kind and encouraging at the beginning of their interview, that gratitude and hopefulness had been at a high pitch, and the downfall was proportionate. He had not thought of desk work. In fact, like the majority of young gentlemen, he wanted an occupation which should be free from disagreeables. I cannot tell what might have been the consequences if he had not distinctly promised himself that he would go to Loic to see Mary and tell her that he was engaged to work under her father. He did not like to disappoint himself there. I'm very sorry for all the words that he could muster. But Mr. Garth was already relenting. We must make the best of it, Fred, he began with a return to his usual quiet tone. Every man can learn to write. I taught myself, go at it with a will, and sit up at night if the daytime isn't enough. We'll be patient, my boy. Callum shall go on with the books for a bit while you are learning. But now I must be off, said Callum Rising. You must let your father know our agreement. You'll save me Callum's salary, you know, when you can write, and I can afford to give you 80 pounds for the first year and more after. When Fred made the necessary disclosure to his parents, the relative effect on the tube was a surprise which entered very deeply into his memory. He went straight from Mr. Garth's office to the warehouse, rightly feeling that the most respectful way in which he could behave to his father was to make the painful communication as gravely and formally as possible. Moreover, the decision would be more certainly understood to be final if the interview took place in his father's gravest hours, which were always though spent in his private room at the warehouse. Fred entered on the subject directly and declared briefly what he had done and was resolved to do, expressing at the end his regret that he should be the cause of disappointment to his father and taking the blame on his own deficiencies. The regret was genuine and inspired Fred with strong, simple words. Mr. Vinci listened in a profound surprise without uttering even an exclamation, a silence which in his impatient temperament was a sign of unusual emotion. He had not been in good spirits about trade that morning and the slight bitterness in his lips grew intense as he listened. When Fred had ended, there was a pause of nearly a minute during which Mr. Vinci replaced a book in his desk and turned the key emphatically. Then he looked at his son steadily and said, So, you've made up your mind at last, sir? Yes, father. Very well, stick to it. I have no more to say. You've thrown away your education and gone down a step in life when I had given you the means of rising. That's all. I'm very sorry that we differ, father. I think I can be quite as much of a gentleman at the work I've undertaken as if I had been a curate. But I am grateful to you for wishing me to do the best for me. Very well. I have no more to say. I wash my hands of you. I only hope when you have a son of your own he will make a better return for the pains you spend on him. This was very cutting to Fred. His father was using that unfair advantage possessed by us all when we are in a pathetic situation and see our own past as if it were simply part of the pathos. In reality, Mr. Vincis wishes about his son had had a great deal of pride inconsiderateness and egoistic folly in them. But still, the disappointed father held a strong lever and Fred felt as if he were being banished with a malediction. I hope you will not object to my remaining at home, sir, he said, after rising to go. I shall have a sufficient salary to pay for my board as, of course, I should wish to do. Board be hanged, said Mr. Vincis, recovering himself in his disgust at the notion that Fred's keep would be missed at his table. Of course your mother will want you to stay, but I shall keep no horse for you, you understand, and you will pay your own tailor. You will do with a suit or two less, I fancy, when you have to pay for them. Fred lingered. There was still something to be said. At last it came. I hope you will shake hands with me, father, and forgive me the vexation I have caused you. Mr. Vincis from his chair threw a quick glance upward at his son, who advanced near to him, and then gave his hand, saying hardly, Yes, yes, let us say no more. Fred went through much more narrative and explanation with his mother, but she was inconsolable, having before her eyes what perhaps her husband had never thought of, the certainty that Fred would marry Mary Gath, that her life would henceforth be spoiled by perpetual infusion of Gaths and their ways, and that her darling boy, with his beautiful face and stylish air, beyond anybody else's son in middle-march, would be sure to get like that family in plainness of appearance and carelessness about his clothes. To her it seemed that there was a Gath conspiracy to get possession of the desirable Fred, but she dared not enlarge on this opinion, because a slight hint of it had made him fly out at her as he had never done before. Her temper was too sweet for her to show any anger, but she felt that her happiness had received a bruise, and for several days merely to look at Fred made her cry a little, as if he were the subject of some baleful prophecy. Perhaps she was the slower to recover her usual cheerfulness, because Fred had warned her that she must not reopen the sore question with his father, who had accepted his decision and forgiven him. If her husband had been vehement against Fred, she would have been urged into defense of her darling. It was the end of the fourth day when Mr. Vincy said to her, Come Lucy, my dear, don't be so downhearted. You always have spoiled the boy, and you must go on spoiling him. Nothing ever did cut me so before, Vincy, said the wife, her fair throat and chin beginning to tremble again. Only his illness, poor, poor, never mind. We must expect to have trouble with our children. Don't make it worse by letting me see you out of spirits. Well, I won't, said Mrs. Vincy, roused by his appeal and adjusting herself with a little shake, as of a bird which lays down in a ruffled plummage. It won't do to begin making a fuss about one, said Mr. Vincy, wishing to combine a little grumbling with domestic cheerfulness. There's Rosamonde as well as Fred. Yes, poor thing. I'm sure I felt for her being disappointed of her baby, but she got over it nicely. Baby, phew! I can see Lidgate is making a mess of his practice and getting into depth, too, by what I hear. I shall have Rosamonde coming to me with a pretty tale one of these days, but they'll get no money from me, I know. Let his family help him. I never did like that marriage, but it's no use talking. Ring the bell for lemons, and don't look dull any more, Lucy. I'll drive you and Louisa to Riverstone tomorrow. End of Chapter 56 of Middlemarch by George Elliot Read by Losch Rolander His name, who told of Loyal Evendue, of Quaint Bradwardine, and Vichyne Vaw, making the little world their childhood new, large with a land of mountain, lake, and score, and larger yet with wonder, love, belief, toward Walter Scott, who, living far away, sent them this wealth of joy and nobility. The book and they must part, but, day by day, in lines that thwart like portly spiders ran, they wrote the tale from Tully, Vialand. The evening that Fred Vincy walked to Loic Parsnidge, he began to see that this was a world in which even a spirited young man must sometimes walk for want of a horse to carry him. He said, on the other side of the road, that he was a man who had never seen a man walk for want of a horse to carry him. He set out at five o'clock and called on Mrs. Garth, by the way, wishing to assure himself that she accepted any relations willingly. He found the family group, dogs, and cats included under the great apple-tree in the orchard. It was a festival with Mrs. Garth, for her eldest son, Christie, her peculiar joy and pride, had come home for a short holiday. Christie, who held it the most desirable thing in the world to be a tutor, to study all literatures and be a regenerate porson, and who was an incorporate criticism on poor Fred, a sort of object lesson given to him by the educational mother. Christie himself, a square-browed, broad-shouldered masculine edition of his mother, not much higher than Fred's shoulder, which made it the harder that he should be held superior, was always as simple as possible, and fought no more of Fred's disinclination to scholarship than of a giraffe's, wishing that he himself were more of the same height. He was lying on the ground now by his mother's chair, with his straw hat laid flat over his eyes, while Jim, on the other side, was reading aloud from that beloved writer who has made a chief part in the happiness of many young lives. The volume was Ivan Ho, and Jim was in the great archery scene at the tournament, but suffered much interruption from Ben, who'd fetched his own old bow and arrows, and was making himself dreadfully disagreeable, let he thought, by begging all present to observe his random shots, which no one wished to do, except Brownie, the active-minded but probably shallow mongrel, while the grizzled Muffinland lying in the sun looked on with the dull-eyed neutrality of extreme old age. Let he herself, showing as to her mouth and pinafore some slight signs that she had been assisting at the gathering of the cherries which stood in a coral heap on the tea table, was now seated on the grass, listening open-eyed to the reading. But the centre of interest was changed for all by the arrival of Fred Vincy. When, seating himself on a garden-stool, he said that he was on his way to Loic Parsonage. Ben, who'd thrown down his bow and snatched up a reluctant half-grown kitten instead, strode across Fred's outstretched leg, and said, Take me! Oh, and me too, said Letty. You can't keep up with Fred and me, said Ben. Yes, I can. Mother, please say that I am to go! urged Letty, whose life was much checkered by resistance to her depreciation as a girl. I shall stay with Christie, observed Jim, as much to say that he had the advantage of those simpletons, whereupon Letty put a hand up to her head and looked with jealous indecision from the one to the other. Let us all go and see Mary, said Christie, opening his arms. No, my dear child, we must not go in a swarm to the Parsonage, and that old Glasgow suit of yours would never do besides your father will come home. We must let Fred go alone. He can tell Mary that you are here, and she will come back tomorrow. Christie glanced at his own thread-bear-knees, and then at Fred's beautiful white trousers. Certainly, Fred's tailoring suggested the advantages of an English university, and he had a graceful way, even of looking warm and of putting his hair back with his handkerchief. Children run away, said Mrs. Garth. It is too warm to hang about your friends. Take your brother and show him the rabbits. The eldest understood, and led off the children immediately. Fred felt that Mrs. Garth wished to give him an opportunity of saying anything he had to say, but he could only begin by observing. How glad you must be to have Christie here! Yes, he has come sooner than I expected. He got down from the coach at nine o'clock, just after his father went out. I am longing for Caleb to come and hear what wonderful progress Christie is making. He's paid his expenses for the last year by giving lessons, carrying on hard study at the same time. He hopes soon to get a private tutorship and go abroad. He's a great fellow, said Fred, to whom these cheerful truths had a medicinal taste, and no trouble to anybody. After a slight pause, he added, But I fear you will think that I am going to be a great real trouble to Mr. Garth. Caleb likes taking trouble. He is one of those men who always do more than anyone would have thought of asking them to do, answered Mrs. Garth. She was knitting, and could either look at Fred or not, as she chose, always an advantage when one is bent on loading speech with salatory meaning. And though Mrs. Garth intended it to be duly reserved, she did not wish to say something that Fred might be the better for. I know you think me very undeserving, Mrs. Garth, and with good reason, said Fred. His spirit arising a little at the perception of something like a disposition to lecture him. I happen to have behaved just the worst to the people I can't help wishing for the most from. But while two men like Mr. Garth and Mr. Fairbrother have not given me up, I don't see why I should give myself up. Fred thought it might be well to suggest these masculine examples to Mrs. Garth. A shorely, said she, with gathering emphasis. 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. Fred wondered a little at this strong language, but only said, I hope it will not be so with me, Mrs. Garth, since I have some encouragement to believe that I may win Mary. Mr. Garth has told you about that? You were not surprised, I dare say. Fred ended, innocently referring only to his own love, as probably evident enough. Not surprised that Mary has given you encouragement, returned Mrs. Garth, who thought it would be well for Fred to be more alive to the fact that Mary's friends could not possibly have wished this beforehand whatever the Vincies might suppose. Yes, I confess I was surprised. She never did give me any, not the least in the world, when I talked to her myself, said Fred, eager to vindicate Mary. But when I asked Mr. Fairbrother to speak for me, she allowed him to tell me there was hope. The power of admonition which had begun to stir in Mrs. Garth had not yet discharged itself. It was a little too provoking even for her self-control that this blooming youngster should flourish on the disappointments of sadder and wiser people, making a meal of a nightingale and never knowing it, and that all the while his family should suppose that hers was in eager need of this sprig, and her vexation of fermented the more actively because of its total repression before her husband. Exemplary wise will sometimes find scapescoats in this way. She now said with energetic decision, you made a great mistake, Fred, in asking Mr. Fairbrother to speak for you. Oh, did I? said Fred, reddening instantaneously. He was alarmed, but at a loss to know what Mrs. Garth meant, and added in an apologetic tone, Mr. Fairbrother has always been such a friend of ours. A Mary I knew would listen to him gravely, and he took it on himself quite readily. Yes, young people are usually blind to everything but their own wishes, and seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others, said Mrs. Garth. She did not mean to go beyond this salutary general doctrine, and threw her indignation into a needless unwinding of her worsted, knitting her brow at it with a grand air. I cannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Fairbrother, said Fred, who nevertheless felt that surprising conceptions were beginning to form themselves. Precisely, you cannot conceive, said Mrs. Garth, cutting her words as neatly as possible. For a moment Fred looked at the horizon with a dismayed anxiety, and then, turning with a quick movement, said almost sharply, do you mean to say, Mrs. Garth, that Mr. Fairbrother is in love with Mary? And if it was so, Fred, I think you are the last person who ought to be surprised, returned Mrs. Garth, laying her knitting down beside her, unfolding her arms. It was an unwanted sign of emotion in her that she should put her work out of her hands. In fact, her feelings were divided between the satisfaction of giving Fred his discipline, and the sense of having gone a little too far. Fred took his hat and stick and rose quickly. Then you think I am standing in his way, and in Mary's too, he said in a tone which seemed to demand an answer. Mrs. Garth could not speak immediately. She had brought herself into the unpleasant position of being called on to say what she really felt, yet what she knew there were strong reasons for concealing. And to her, the consciousness of having exceeded in words was peculiarly mortifying. Besides, Fred had given out unexpected electricity, and he now added, Mr. Garth seemed pleased that Mary should be attached to me. He could not have known anything of this. Mrs. Garth thought a severe twinge at the mention of her husband, the fear that Caleb might think her in the wrong, not being an easily indurable. She answered, wanting to check unintended consequences. I spoke from inference only. I am not aware that Mary knows anything of the matter. But she hesitated to beg that he could keep entire silence on a subject which she had herself unnecessarily mentioned, not being used to stoop in that way. And while she was hesitating, there was already a rush of unintended consequences under the apple-tree where the tea-thing stood. Ben, bouncing across the grass with Brownie at his heels, and seeing the kitten dragging the knitting by a lengthening line of wool, shouted and clapped his hands. Brownie Bart, the kitten, desperate, jumped on the tea-table and upset the milk, then jumped down again and swept half the cherries with it. And Ben, snatching up the half-knitted sock-top, fitted it over the kitten's head as a new source of madness, while Letty arrived, cried out to her mother, against this cruelty. It was history as full of sensation as this is the house that Jack built. Mrs. Garth was obliged to interfere. The other young ones came up, and the tater-tate with Fred was ended. He got away as soon as he could, and Mrs. Garth could only imply some retraction of her severity by saying, God bless you, when she shook hands with him. She was unpleasantly conscious that she had been on the verge of speaking as one of the foolish women speaketh, telling first an entreating silence after. But she had not entreated silence, and to prevent Caleb's blame she determined to blame herself and confess all to him that very night. It was curious what an awful tribunal the mild Caleb's was to her whenever he set it up. But she meant to point out to him that the revelation might do Fred Vincy a great deal of good. No doubt it was having a strong effect on him as he walked to Loic. Fred's light, hopeful nature had perhaps never had so much of a bruise as from this suggestion that if he had been out of the way Mary might have made a thoroughly good match. Also he was peaked that he had been what he called such a stupid lout as to ask that intervention from Mr. Fairbrother. But it was not on a lover's nature, it was not in Fred's, that the new anxiety raised about Mary's feelings should not surmount every other. Notwithstanding his trust in Mr. Fairbrother's generosity, notwithstanding what Mary had said to him, Fred could not help feeling that he had a rival. It was a new consciousness, and he objected to it extremely, not being the least ready to give up Mary for her good, being ready rather to fight for her with any man whatsoever. But the fighting with Mr. Fairbrother must be of a metaphorical kind which was much more difficult to Fred than the muscular. Certainly this experience was a discipline for Fred hardly less sharp than his disappointment about his uncle's will. The yarn had not entered into his soul, but he had begun to imagine what the sharp edge would be. It did not once occur to Fred that Mrs. Garth might be mistaken about Mr. Fairbrother, but he suspected that she might be wrong about Mary. Mary had been staying at the passage lately, and her mother might know very little of what had been passing in her mind. He did not feel easier when he found her looking cheerful with the three ladies in the drawing-room. They were in animated discussion on some subject which was dropped when he entered. Mary was copying the labels from a heap of shallow cabinet drawers in a minute handwriting which she was skilled in. Mr. Fairbrother was somewhere in the village, and the three ladies knew nothing of Fred's peculiar relation to Mary. It was impossible for either of them to propose that they should walk round the garden, and Fred predicted to himself that she should have to go away without saying a word to her in private. He told her first of Christy's arrival, and then of his own engagement with her father, and he was comforted by seeing that this latter news touched her keenly. She said hurriedly, I am so glad, and then bent over her writing to hinder anyone from noticing her face. But here was a subject which Mrs. Fairbrother could not let pass. You don't mean, my dear Mrs. Garth, that you are glad to hear of a young man giving up the church from which he was educated? You only mean that things being so, you are glad that he should be under an excellent man like your father. No really, Mrs. Fairbrother, I am glad of both, I fear, said Mary, cleverly getting rid of one rebellious tear. I have a dreadfully secular mind. I never liked any clergyman except the vicar of Wakefield and Anne, Mr. Fairbrother. No, why, my dear, said Mrs. Fairbrother, pausing on her large wooden knitting needles and looking at Mary. You have always had a good reason for your opinions, but this astonishes me. Of course, I put out of the question those who preach new doctrine, but why should you dislike a clergyman? Oh, dear, said Mary, her face breaking into merriment as she seemed to consider a moment. I don't like their neck-cloths. Why, you don't like camdons, then? said Miss Winifred in some anxiety. Yes, I do, said Mary. I don't like the other clergyman's neck-cloths, because it's they who wear them. Her very puzzling, said Miss Noble, feeling that her own intellect was probably deficient. My dear, you are joking. You would have been better reasons than these for slighting so respectable a class of men, said Mrs. Fairbrother, logistically. Ah, Miss Garth has such severe notions of what people should be that it is difficult to satisfy her, said Fred. Well, I am glad at least that she makes an exception in favour of my son, said the old lady. Mary was wondering at Fred's peaked tone, where Mr. Fairbrother came in, and had to hear the news about the engagement under Mr. Garth. At the end, he said with quiet satisfaction, that is right, and then bent to look at Mary's labels and praise her handwriting. Fred felt horribly jealous, was glad, of course, that Mr. Fairbrother was so estimable, but wished that he'd been ugly and fat as men at forty-sometimes are. It was clear what the end would be, since Mary openly placed Fairbrother above everybody, and these women were all evidently encouraging the affair. He was feeling sure that he would have no chance of speaking to Mary, where Mr. Fairbrother said, Ah, Fred, help me to carry these drawers back into my study. You have never seen my fine new study. Ah, pray come to, Miss Garth. I want you to see a stupendous spider I found this morning. Mary at once saw the vicar's intention. He had never, since the memorable evening, deviated from his old pastoral kindness towards her, and from her momentary wonder and doubt had quite gone to sleep. Mary was accustomed to think rather rigorously of what was probable, and if a belief flattered her vanity, she felt warned to dismiss it as ridiculous, having earlier had much exercise in such dismissals. It was as she had foreseen. When Fred had been asked to admire the fittings of the study, and she had been asked to admire the spider, Mr. Fairbrother said, Ah, wait here a minute or two. I'm going to look at an engraving which Fred is tall enough to hang for me. I shall be back in a few minutes. And then he went out. Nevertheless, the first word Fred said to Mary was, It is of no use whatever I do, Mary. You're sure to marry Fairbrother at last? There was some rage in his tone. What do you mean, Fred? Mary exclaimed indignantly blushing deeply and surprised out of all her redness in reply. It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough, you who see everything. I only see that you are behaving very ill, Fred, in speaking so of Mr. Fairbrother, after he has pleaded your cause in every way. Now, how can you have taken up such an idea? Fred was rather deep in spite of his irritation, if Mary had really been unsuspicious, there was no good in telling her what Mrs. Garth had said. It follows as a matter of course, he replied, When you are continually seeing a man who beats me in everything and whom you set up above everybody, I can have no fair chance. You are very ungrateful, Fred, said Mary. I wish I had never told Mr. Fairbrother that I cared for you in the least. No, I am not ungrateful. I should be the happiest fellow in the world if it were not for this. I told your father everything, and he was very kind. He treated me as if I were his son. I could go to the work with a will, writing, and everything if it were not for this. For this? For what? said Mary, imagining now that something specific must have been said or done. This dreadful certainty that I should be bowled out by Fairbrother. Mary was appeased by her intonation to laugh. Fred, she said, peeping round to catch his eyes, which was suckling turned away from her. You are too delightfully ridiculous. If you were not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to play the wicked caquette, and let you suppose that somebody besides you has made love to me. Do you really like me best, Mary? said Fred, turning eyes full of affection on her, and trying to take her hand. I don't like you at all at this moment, said Mary, retreating, and putting her hands behind her. I only said that no mortal ever made love to me besides you. That is no argument that a very wise man ever will, she ended merrily. I wish you would tell me that you could not possibly ever think of him, said Fred. Never dare to mention this any more to me, Fred, said Mary, getting serious again. I don't know whether it is more stupid or ungenerous in you not to see that Mr. Fairbrother has left us together on purpose that we might speak freely. I am disappointed that you would be superblind to his delicate feeling. There was no time to say any more before Mr. Fairbrother came back with the engraving, and Fred had to return to the drawing-room still with a jealous dread in his heart, but yet with comforting arguments from Mary's words and manner. The result of the conversation was on the whole more painful to Mary. Inevitably, 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 slightly Mr. Fairbrother, and this, in relation to a man who is much honored, is always dangerous to the firmness of a grateful woman. To have a reason for going home the next day was a relief, for Mary earnestly desired to be always clear that she loved Fred best. When a tender affection has been storing itself in us through many of our years, the idea that we could accept any exchange for it seems to be a cheapening of our lives, and we can set a watch over our affections and our constancy as we can over other treasures. Fred has lost all his other expectations. He must keep this, Mary said to herself, with a smile curling her lips. It was impossible to help fleeting visions of another kind, new dignities, and an acknowledged value of which she had often felt the absence. But these things with Fred outside them, Fred forsaken looking sad for the want of her, could never tempt her deliberate thought. End of Chapter 57 Recording by Simon Evers