MIDDLEMARCH
PART 32
CHAPTER
LIX.
They said of old the Soul had human
shape,
But smaller, subtler than the fleshly
self,
So wandered forth for airing when it
pleased.
And see! beside her cherub-face there
floats
A pale-lipped form aerial whispering
Its promptings in that little shell her
ear."
News is
often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen which the bees
carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when they are buzzing in search
of their particular nectar. This fine comparison has reference to Fred Vincy,
who on that evening at Lowick Parsonage heard a lively discussion among the
ladies on the news which their old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr.
Casaubon's strange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his will made not
long before his death. Miss Winifred was astounded to find that her brother had
known the fact before, and observed that Camden was the most wonderful man for
knowing things and not telling them; whereupon Mary Garth said that the codicil
had perhaps got mixed up with the habits of spiders, which Miss Winifred never
would listen to. Mrs. Farebrother considered that the news had something to do
with their having only once seen Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick, and Miss Noble made
many small compassionate mewings.
Fred knew
little and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubons, and his mind never
recurred to that discussion till one day calling on Rosamond at his mother's
request to deliver a message as he passed, he happened to see Ladislaw going
away. Fred and Rosamond had little to say to each other now that marriage had
removed her from collision with the unpleasantness of brothers, and especially
now that he had taken what she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of
giving up the Church to take to such a business as Mr. Garth's. Hence Fred
talked by preference of what he considered indifferent news, and "a propos
of that young Ladislaw" mentioned what he had heard at Lowick Parsonage.
Now
Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, knew a great deal more than he told, and when he
had once been set thinking about the relation between Will and Dorothea his
conjectures had gone beyond the fact. He imagined that there was a passionate
attachment on both sides, and this struck him as much too serious to gossip
about. He remembered Will's irritability when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubon,
and was the more circumspect. On the whole his surmises, in addition to what he
knew of the fact, increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw,
and made him understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch after he
had said that he should go away. It was significant of the separateness between
Lydgate's mind and Rosamond's that he had no impulse to speak to her on the
subject; indeed, he did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. And he was
right there; though he had no vision of the way in which her mind would act in
urging her to speak.
When she
repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, he said, "Take care you don't drop the
faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy. He is likely to fly out as if you insulted
him. Of course it is a painful affair."
Rosamond
turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of placid indifference.
But the next time Will came when Lydgate was away, she spoke archly about his
not going to London as he had threatened.
"I
know all about it. I have a confidential little bird," said she, showing
very pretty airs of her head over the bit of work held high between her active
fingers. "There is a powerful magnet in this neighborhood."
"To
be sure there is. Nobody knows that better than you," said Will, with
light gallantry, but inwardly prepared to be angry.
"It
is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and foreseeing that
there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much like to marry, and no
one who would so much like to marry her as a certain gentleman; and then laying
a plan to spoil all by making her forfeit her property if she did marry that
gentleman—and then—and then—and then—oh, I have no doubt the end will be
thoroughly romantic."
"Great
God! what do you mean?" said Will, flushing over face and ears, his
features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake. "Don't joke;
tell me what you mean."
"You
don't really know?" said Rosamond, no longer playful, and desiring nothing
better than to tell in order that she might evoke effects.
"No!"
he returned, impatiently.
"Don't
know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs. Casaubon marries
you she is to forfeit all her property?"
"How
do you know that it is true?" said Will, eagerly.
"My
brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers." Will started up from his
chair and reached his hat.
"I
dare say she likes you better than the property," said Rosamond, looking
at him from a distance.
"Pray
don't say any more about it," said Will, in a hoarse undertone extremely
unlike his usual light voice. "It is a foul insult to her and to me."
Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing nothing.
"Now
you are angry with me," said Rosamond. "It is too bad to bear me
malice. You ought to be obliged to me for telling you."
"So
I am," said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul which
belongs to dreamers who answer questions.
"I
expect to hear of the marriage," said Rosamond, playfully.
"Never!
You will never hear of the marriage!"
With
those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, put out his hand to Rosamond, still
with the air of a somnambulist, and went away.
When he
was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end of the room,
leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and looking out of the
window wearily. She was oppressed by ennui, and by that dissatisfaction which
in women's minds is continually turning into a trivial jealousy, referring to
no real claims, springing from no deeper passion than the vague exactingness of
egoism, and yet capable of impelling action as well as speech. "There
really is nothing to care for much," said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking
of the family at Quallingham, who did not write to her; and that perhaps
Tertius when he came home would tease her about expenses. She had already
secretly disobeyed him by asking her father to help them, and he had ended
decisively by saying, "I am more likely to want help myself."
CHAPTER
LX.
Good phrases are surely, and ever were,
very commendable.
—Justice
Shallow.
A few
days afterwards—it was already the end of August—there was an occasion which
caused some excitement in Middlemarch: the public, if it chose, was to have the
advantage of buying, under the distinguished auspices of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull,
the furniture, books, and pictures which anybody might see by the handbills to
be the best in every kind, belonging to Edwin Larcher, Esq. This was not one of
the sales indicating the depression of trade; on the contrary, it was due to
Mr. Larcher's great success in the carrying business, which warranted his
purchase of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high style by an
illustrious Spa physician—furnished indeed with such large framefuls of
expensive flesh-painting in the dining-room, that Mrs. Larcher was nervous
until reassured by finding the subjects to be Scriptural. Hence the fine
opportunity to purchasers which was well pointed out in the handbills of Mr.
Borthrop Trumbull, whose acquaintance with the history of art enabled him to
state that the hall furniture, to be sold without reserve, comprised a piece of
carving by a contemporary of Gibbons.
At
Middlemarch in those times a large sale was regarded as a kind of festival.
There was a table spread with the best cold eatables, as at a superior funeral;
and facilities were offered for that generous-drinking of cheerful glasses
which might lead to generous and cheerful bidding for undesirable articles. Mr.
Larcher's sale was the more attractive in the fine weather because the house
stood just at the end of the town, with a garden and stables attached, in that
pleasant issue from Middlemarch called the London Road, which was also the road
to the New Hospital and to Mr. Bulstrode's retired residence, known as the
Shrubs. In short, the auction was as good as a fair, and drew all classes with
leisure at command: to some, who risked making bids in order simply to raise
prices, it was almost equal to betting at the races. The second day, when the
best furniture was to be sold, "everybody" was there; even Mr. Thesiger,
the rector of St. Peter's, had looked in for a short time, wishing to buy the
carved table, and had rubbed elbows with Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Horrock. There
was a wreath of Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the large
table in the dining-room, where Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with desk and
hammer; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were often varied by
incomings and outgoings both from the door and the large bow-window opening on
to the lawn.
"Everybody"
that day did not include Mr. Bulstrode, whose health could not well endure
crowds and draughts. But Mrs. Bulstrode had particularly wished to have a
certain picture—a "Supper at Emmaus," attributed in the catalogue to
Guido; and at the last moment before the day of the sale Mr. Bulstrode had
called at the office of the "Pioneer," of which he was now one of the
proprietors, to beg of Mr. Ladislaw as a great favour that he would obligingly
use his remarkable knowledge of pictures on behalf of Mrs. Bulstrode, and judge
of the value of this particular painting—"if," added the scrupulously
polite banker, "attendance at the sale would not interfere with the
arrangements for your departure, which I know is imminent."
This
proviso might have sounded rather satirically in Will's ear if he had been in a
mood to care about such satire. It referred to an understanding entered into
many weeks before with the proprietors of the paper, that he should be at
liberty any day he pleased to hand over the management to the subeditor whom he
had been training; since he wished finally to quit Middlemarch. But indefinite
visions of ambition are weak against the ease of doing what is habitual or
beguilingly agreeable; and we all know the difficulty of carrying out a resolve
when we secretly long that it may turn out to be unnecessary. In such states of
mind the most incredulous person has a private leaning towards miracle:
impossible to conceive how our wish could be fulfilled, still—very wonderful
things have happened! Will did not confess this weakness to himself, but he
lingered. What was the use of going to London at that time of the year? The
Rugby men who would remember him were not there; and so far as political
writing was concerned, he would rather for a few weeks go on with the "Pioneer."
At the present moment, however, when Mr. Bulstrode was speaking to him, he had
both a strengthened resolve to go and an equally strong resolve not to go till
he had once more seen Dorothea. Hence he replied that he had reasons for
deferring his departure a little, and would be happy to go to the sale.
Will was
in a defiant mood, his consciousness being deeply stung with the thought that
the people who looked at him probably knew a fact tantamount to an accusation
against him as a fellow with low designs which were to be frustrated by a
disposal of property. Like most people who assert their freedom with regard to
conventional distinction, he was prepared to be sudden and quick at quarrel
with any one who might hint that he had personal reasons for that assertion—that
there was anything in his blood, his bearing, or his character to which he gave
the mask of an opinion. When he was under an irritating impression of this kind
he would go about for days with a defiant look, the colour changing in his
transparent skin as if he were on the qui vive, watching for something which he
had to dart upon.
This
expression was peculiarly noticeable in him at the sale, and those who had only
seen him in his moods of gentle oddity or of bright enjoyment would have been struck
with a contrast. He was not sorry to have this occasion for appearing in public
before the Middlemarch tribes of Toller, Hackbutt, and the rest, who looked
down on him as an adventurer, and were in a state of brutal ignorance about
Dante—who sneered at his Polish blood, and were themselves of a breed very much
in need of crossing. He stood in a conspicuous place not far from the
auctioneer, with a fore-finger in each side-pocket and his head thrown
backward, not caring to speak to anybody, though he had been cordially welcomed
as a connoissure by Mr. Trumbull, who was enjoying the utmost activity
of his great faculties.
And
surely among all men whose vocation requires them to exhibit their powers of
speech, the happiest is a prosperous provincial auctioneer keenly alive to his
own jokes and sensible of his encyclopedic knowledge. Some saturnine,
sour-blooded persons might object to be constantly insisting on the merits of
all articles from boot-jacks to "Berghems;" but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull
had a kindly liquid in his veins; he was an admirer by nature, and would have
liked to have the universe under his hammer, feeling that it would go at a
higher figure for his recommendation.
Meanwhile
Mrs. Larcher's drawing-room furniture was enough for him. When Will Ladislaw
had come in, a second fender, said to have been forgotten in its right place,
suddenly claimed the auctioneer's enthusiasm, which he distributed on the
equitable principle of praising those things most which were most in need of
praise. The fender was of polished steel, with much lancet-shaped open-work and
a sharp edge.
"Now,
ladies," said he, "I shall appeal to you. Here is a fender which at
any other sale would hardly be offered with out reserve, being, as I may say,
for quality of steel and quaintness of design, a kind of thing"—here Mr.
Trumbull dropped his voice and became slightly nasal, trimming his outlines
with his left finger—"that might not fall in with ordinary tastes. Allow
me to tell you that by-and-by this style of workmanship will be the only one in
vogue—half-a-crown, you said? thank you—going at half-a-crown, this
characteristic fender; and I have particular information that the antique style
is very much sought after in high quarters. Three
shillings—three-and-sixpence—hold it well up, Joseph! Look, ladies, at the
chastity of the design—I have no doubt myself that it was turned out in the
last century! Four shillings, Mr. Mawmsey?—four shillings."
"It's
not a thing I would put in my drawing-room," said Mrs. Mawmsey,
audibly, for the warning of the rash husband. "I wonder at Mrs.
Larcher. Every blessed child's head that fell against it would be cut in two.
The edge is like a knife."
"Quite
true," rejoined Mr. Trumbull, quickly, "and most uncommonly useful to
have a fender at hand that will cut, if you have a leather shoe-tie or a bit of
string that wants cutting and no knife at hand: many a man has been left
hanging because there was no knife to cut him down. Gentlemen, here's a fender
that if you had the misfortune to hang yourselves would cut you down in no
time—with astonishing celerity—four-and-sixpence—five—five-and-sixpence—an
appropriate thing for a spare bedroom where there was a four-poster and a guest
a little out of his mind—six shillings—thank you, Mr. Clintup—going at six
shillings—going—gone!" The auctioneer's glance, which had been searching
round him with a preternatural susceptibility to all signs of bidding, here
dropped on the paper before him, and his voice too dropped into a tone of
indifferent despatch as he said, "Mr. Clintup. Be handy, Joseph."
"It
was worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell that joke
on," said Mr. Clintup, laughing low and apologetically to his next
neighbor. He was a diffident though distinguished nurseryman, and feared that
the audience might regard his bid as a foolish one.
Meanwhile
Joseph had brought a trayful of small articles. "Now, ladies," said
Mr. Trumbull, taking up one of the articles, "this tray contains a very
recherchy lot—a collection of trifles for the drawing-room table—and trifles
make the sum of human things—nothing more important than trifles—(yes,
Mr. Ladislaw, yes, by-and-by)—but pass the tray round, Joseph—these bijoux must
be examined, ladies. This I have in my hand is an ingenious contrivance—a sort
of practical rebus, I may call it: here, you see, it looks like an elegant
heart-shaped box, portable—for the pocket; there, again, it becomes like a
splendid double flower—an ornament for the table; and now"—Mr. Trumbull
allowed the flower to fall alarmingly into strings of heart-shaped
leaves—"a book of riddles! No less than five hundred printed in a
beautiful red. Gentlemen, if I had less of a conscience, I should not wish you
to bid high for this lot—I have a longing for it myself. What can promote
innocent mirth, and I may say virtue, more than a good riddle?—it hinders
profane language, and attaches a man to the society of refined females. This
ingenious article itself, without the elegant domino-box, card-basket, &c.,
ought alone to give a high price to the lot. Carried in the pocket it might
make an individual welcome in any society. Four shillings, sir?—four shillings
for this remarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras. Here is a
sample: 'How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds? Answer—money.'
You hear?—lady-birds—honey money. This is an amusement to sharpen the intellect;
it has a sting—it has what we call satire, and wit without indecency.
Four-and-sixpence—five shillings."
The
bidding ran on with warming rivalry. Mr. Bowyer was a bidder, and this was too
exasperating. Bowyer couldn't afford it, and only wanted to hinder every other
man from making a figure. The current carried even Mr. Horrock with it, but
this committal of himself to an opinion fell from him with so little sacrifice
of his neutral expression, that the bid might not have been detected as his but
for the friendly oaths of Mr. Bambridge, who wanted to know what Horrock would
do with blasted stuff only fit for haberdashers given over to that state of
perdition which the horse-dealer so cordially recognized in the majority of
earthly existences. The lot was finally knocked down at a guinea to Mr.
Spilkins, a young Slender of the neighborhood, who was reckless with his
pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles.
"Come,
Trumbull, this is too bad—you've been putting some old maid's rubbish into the
sale," murmured Mr. Toller, getting close to the auctioneer. "I want
to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon."
"Immediately,
Mr. Toller. It was only an act of benevolence which your noble heart would
approve. Joseph! quick with the prints—Lot 235. Now, gentlemen, you who are
connoissures, you are going to have a treat. Here is an engraving of the
Duke of Wellington surrounded by his staff on the Field of Waterloo; and
notwithstanding recent events which have, as it were, enveloped our great Hero
in a cloud, I will be bold to say—for a man in my line must not be blown about
by political winds—that a finer subject—of the modern order, belonging to our
own time and epoch—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels
might, perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men."
"Who
painted it?" said Mr. Powderell, much impressed.
"It
is a proof before the letter, Mr. Powderell—the painter is not known,"
answered Trumbull, with a certain gaspingness in his last words, after which he
pursed up his lips and stared round him.
"I'll
bid a pound!" said Mr. Powderell, in a tone of resolved emotion, as of a
man ready to put himself in the breach. Whether from awe or pity, nobody raised
the price on him.
Next came
two Dutch prints which Mr. Toller had been eager for, and after he had secured
them he went away. Other prints, and afterwards some paintings, were sold to
leading Middlemarchers who had come with a special desire for them, and there
was a more active movement of the audience in and out; some, who had bought
what they wanted, going away, others coming in either quite newly or from a
temporary visit to the refreshments which were spread under the marquee on the
lawn. It was this marquee that Mr. Bambridge was bent on buying, and he
appeared to like looking inside it frequently, as a foretaste of its
possession. On the last occasion of his return from it he was observed to bring
with him a new companion, a stranger to Mr. Trumbull and every one else, whose
appearance, however, led to the supposition that he might be a relative of the
horse-dealer's—also "given to indulgence." His large whiskers,
imposing swagger, and swing of the leg, made him a striking figure; but his
suit of black, rather shabby at the edges, caused the prejudicial inference
that he was not able to afford himself as much indulgence as he liked.
"Who
is it you've picked up, Bam?" said Mr. Horrock, aside.
"Ask
him yourself," returned Mr. Bambridge. "He said he'd just turned in
from the road."
Mr.
Horrock eyed the stranger, who was leaning back against his stick with one
hand, using his toothpick with the other, and looking about him with a certain
restlessness apparently under the silence imposed on him by circumstances.
At length
the "Supper at Emmaus" was brought forward, to Will's immense relief,
for he was getting so tired of the proceedings that he had drawn back a little
and leaned his shoulder against the wall just behind the auctioneer. He now
came forward again, and his eye caught the conspicuous stranger, who, rather to
his surprise, was staring at him markedly. But Will was immediately appealed to
by Mr. Trumbull.
"Yes,
Mr. Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as a connoissure, I think. It is
some pleasure," the auctioneer went on with a rising fervor, "to have
a picture like this to show to a company of ladies and gentlemen—a picture
worth any sum to an individual whose means were on a level with his judgment.
It is a painting of the Italian school—by the celebrated Guydo, the greatest
painter in the world, the chief of the Old Masters, as they are called—I take
it, because they were up to a thing or two beyond most of us—in possession of
secrets now lost to the bulk of mankind. Let me tell you, gentlemen, I have
seen a great many pictures by the Old Masters, and they are not all up to this
mark—some of them are darker than you might like and not family subjects. But
here is a Guydo—the frame alone is worth pounds—which any lady might be proud
to hang up—a suitable thing for what we call a refectory in a charitable institution,
if any gentleman of the Corporation wished to show his munificence. Turn
it a little, sir? yes. Joseph, turn it a little towards Mr. Ladislaw—Mr.
Ladislaw, having been abroad, understands the merit of these things, you
observe."
All eyes
were for a moment turned towards Will, who said, coolly, "Five
pounds." The auctioneer burst out in deep remonstrance.
"Ah!
Mr. Ladislaw! the frame alone is worth that. Ladies and gentlemen, for the
credit of the town! Suppose it should be discovered hereafter that a gem of art
has been amongst us in this town, and nobody in Middlemarch awake to it. Five
guineas—five seven-six—five ten. Still, ladies, still! It is a gem, and 'Full
many a gem,' as the poet says, has been allowed to go at a nominal price
because the public knew no better, because it was offered in circles where
there was—I was going to say a low feeling, but no!—Six pounds—six guineas—a
Guydo of the first order going at six guineas—it is an insult to religion,
ladies; it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, that a subject like this
should go at such a low figure—six pounds ten—seven—"
The
bidding was brisk, and Will continued to share in it, remembering that Mrs.
Bulstrode had a strong wish for the picture, and thinking that he might stretch
the price to twelve pounds. But it was knocked down to him at ten guineas,
whereupon he pushed his way towards the bow-window and went out. He chose to go
under the marquee to get a glass of water, being hot and thirsty: it was empty
of other visitors, and he asked the woman in attendance to fetch him some fresh
water; but before she was well gone he was annoyed to see entering the florid stranger
who had stared at him. It struck Will at this moment that the man might be one
of those political parasitic insects of the bloated kind who had once or twice
claimed acquaintance with him as having heard him speak on the Reform question,
and who might think of getting a shilling by news. In this light his person,
already rather heating to behold on a summer's day, appeared the more
disagreeable; and Will, half-seated on the elbow of a garden-chair, turned his
eyes carefully away from the comer. But this signified little to our
acquaintance Mr. Raffles, who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling
observation, if it suited his purpose to do so. He moved a step or two till he
was in front of Will, and said with full-mouthed haste, "Excuse me, Mr.
Ladislaw—was your mother's name Sarah Dunkirk?"
Will,
starting to his feet, moved backward a step, frowning, and saying with some
fierceness, "Yes, sir, it was. And what is that to you?"
It was in
Will's nature that the first spark it threw out was a direct answer of the
question and a challenge of the consequences. To have said, "What is that
to you?" in the first instance, would have seemed like shuffling—as if he
minded who knew anything about his origin!
Raffles
on his side had not the same eagerness for a collision which was implied in
Ladislaw's threatening air. The slim young fellow with his girl's complexion
looked like a tiger-cat ready to spring on him. Under such circumstances Mr.
Raffles's pleasure in annoying his company was kept in abeyance.
"No
offence, my good sir, no offence! I only remember your mother—knew her when she
was a girl. But it is your father that you feature, sir. I had the pleasure of
seeing your father too. Parents alive, Mr. Ladislaw?"
"No!"
thundered Will, in the same attitude as before.
"Should
be glad to do you a service, Mr. Ladislaw—by Jove, I should! Hope to meet
again."
Hereupon
Raffles, who had lifted his hat with the last words, turned himself round with
a swing of his leg and walked away. Will looked after him a moment, and could
see that he did not re-enter the auction-room, but appeared to be walking
towards the road. For an instant he thought that he had been foolish not to let
the man go on talking;—but no! on the whole he preferred doing without knowledge
from that source.
Later in
the evening, however, Raffles overtook him in the street, and appearing either
to have forgotten the roughness of his former reception or to intend avenging
it by a forgiving familiarity, greeted him jovially and walked by his side,
remarking at first on the pleasantness of the town and neighborhood. Will
suspected that the man had been drinking and was considering how to shake him
off when Raffles said—
"I've
been abroad myself, Mr. Ladislaw—I've seen the world—used to parley-vous a
little. It was at Boulogne I saw your father—a most uncommon likeness you are
of him, by Jove! mouth—nose—eyes—hair turned off your brow just like his—a
little in the foreign style. John Bull doesn't do much of that. But your father
was very ill when I saw him. Lord, lord! hands you might see through. You were
a small youngster then. Did he get well?"
"No,"
said Will, curtly.
"Ah!
Well! I've often wondered what became of your mother. She ran away from her
friends when she was a young lass—a proud-spirited lass, and pretty, by Jove! I
knew the reason why she ran away," said Raffles, winking slowly as he
looked sideways at Will.
"You
know nothing dishonourable of her, sir," said Will, turning on him rather
savagely. But Mr. Raffles just now was not sensitive to shades of manner.
"Not
a bit!" said he, tossing his head decisively "She was a little too
honourable to like her friends—that was it!" Here Raffles again winked
slowly. "Lord bless you, I knew all about 'em—a little in what you may
call the respectable thieving line—the high style of receiving-house—none of
your holes and corners—first-rate. Slap-up shop, high profits and no mistake.
But Lord! Sarah would have known nothing about it—a dashing young lady she
was—fine boarding-school—fit for a lord's wife—only Archie Duncan threw it at
her out of spite, because she would have nothing to do with him. And so she ran
away from the whole concern. I travelled for 'em, sir, in a gentlemanly way—at
a high salary. They didn't mind her running away at first—godly folks, sir,
very godly—and she was for the stage. The son was alive then, and the daughter
was at a discount. Hallo! here we are at the Blue Bull. What do you say, Mr.
Ladislaw?—shall we turn in and have a glass?"
"No,
I must say good evening," said Will, dashing up a passage which led into
Lowick Gate, and almost running to get out of Raffles's reach.
He walked
a long while on the Lowick road away from the town, glad of the starlit
darkness when it came. He felt as if he had had dirt cast on him amidst shouts
of scorn. There was this to confirm the fellow's statement—that his mother
never would tell him the reason why she had run away from her family.
Well!
what was he, Will Ladislaw, the worse, supposing the truth about that family to
be the ugliest? His mother had braved hardship in order to separate herself
from it. But if Dorothea's friends had known this story—if the Chettams had
known it—they would have had a fine colour to give their suspicions a welcome
ground for thinking him unfit to come near her. However, let them suspect what
they pleased, they would find themselves in the wrong. They would find out that
the blood in his veins was as free from the taint of meanness as theirs.
To be continued
