levity about her, which makes me anxious for the children.”
“Well, Harriet, if I am to speak my mind,” said Mrs. Plymdale, with emphasis, “I must say, anybody would suppose you and Mr. Bulstrode would be delighted with what has happened, for you have done everything to put Mr. Lydgate forward.”
“Selina, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, in genuine surprise.
“Not but what I am truly thankful for Ned’s sake,” said Mrs. Plymdale. “He could certainly better afford to keep such a wife than some people can; but I should wish him to look elsewhere. Still a mother has anxieties, and some young men would take to a bad life in consequence. Besides, if I was obliged to speak, I should say I was not fond of strangers coming into a town.”
“I don’t know, Selina,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, with a little emphasis in her turn. “Mr. Bulstrode was a stranger here at one time. Abraham and Moses were strangers in the land, and we are told to entertain strangers. And especially,” she added, after a slight pause, “when they are unexceptionable.”
“I was not speaking in a religious sense, Harriet. I spoke as a mother.”
“Selina, I am sure you have never heard me say anything against a niece of mine marrying your son.”
“Oh, it is pride in Miss Vincy—I am sure it is nothing else,” said Mrs. Plymdale, who had never before given all her confidence to “Harriet” on this subject. “No young man in Middlemarch was good enough for her: I have heard her mother say as much. That is not a Christian spirit, I think. But now, from all I hear, she has found a man AS proud as herself.”
“You don’t mean that there is anything between Rosamond and Mr. Lydgate?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, rather mortified at finding out her own ignorance
“Is it possible you don’t know, Harriet?”
“Oh, I go about so little; and I am not fond of gossip; I really never hear any. You see so many people that I don’t see. Your circle is rather different from ours.”
“Well, but your own niece and Mr. Bulstrode’s great favorite— and yours too, I am sure, Harriet! I thought, at one time, you meant him for Kate, when she is a little older.”
“I don’t believe there can be anything serious at present,” said Mrs. Bulstrode. “My brother would certainly have told me.”
“Well, people have different ways, but I understand that nobody can see Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate together without taking them to be engaged. However, it is not my business. Shall I put up the pattern of mittens?”
After this Mrs. Bulstrode drove to her niece with a mind newly weighted. She was herself handsomely dressed, but she noticed with a little more regret than usual that Rosamond, who was just come in and met her in walking- dress, was almost as expensively equipped. Mrs. Bulstrode was a feminine smaller edition of her brother, and had none of her husband’s low-toned pallor. She had a good honest glance and used no circumlocution.
“You are alone, I see, my dear,” she said, as they entered the drawing-room together, looking round gravely. Rosamond felt sure that her aunt had something particular to say, and they sat down near each other. Nevertheless, the quilling inside Rosamond’s bonnet was so charming that it was impossible not to desire the same kind of thing for Kate, and Mrs. Bulstrode’s eyes, which were rather fine, rolled round that ample quilled circuit, while she spoke.
“I have just heard something about you that has surprised me very much, Rosamond.”
“What is that, aunt?” Rosamond’s eyes also were roaming over her aunt’s large embroidered collar.
“I can hardly believe it—that you should be engaged without my knowing it—without your father’s telling me.” Here Mrs. Bulstrode’s eyes finally rested on Rosamond’s, who blushed deeply, and said—
“I am not engaged, aunt.”
“How is it that every one says so, then—that it is the town’s talk?”
“The town’s talk is of very little consequence, I think,” said Rosamond, inwardly gratified.
“Oh, my dear, be more thoughtful; don’t despise your neighbors so. Remember you are turned twenty-two now, and you will have no fortune: your father, I am sure, will not be able to spare you anything. Mr. Lydgate is very intellectual and clever; I know there is an attraction in that. I like talking to such men myself; and your uncle finds him very useful. But the profession is a poor one here. To be sure, this life is not everything; but it is seldom a medical man has true religious views—there is too much pride of intellect. And you are not fit to marry a poor man.
“Mr. Lydgate is not a poor man, aunt. He has very high connections.”
“He told me himself he was poor.”
“That is because he is used to people who have a high style
“My dear Rosamond, YOU must not think of living in high style.”
Rosamond looked down and played with her reticule. She was not a fiery young lady and had no sharp answers, but she meant to live as she pleased.
“Then it is really true?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, looking very earnestly at her niece. “You are thinking of Mr. Lydgate—there is some understanding between you, though your father doesn’t know. Be open, my dear Rosamond: Mr. Lydgate has really made you an offer?”
Poor Rosamond’s feelings were very unpleasant. She had been quite easy as to Lydgate’s feeling and intention, but now when her aunt put this question she did not like being unable to say Yes. Her pride was hurt, but her habitual control of manner helped her.
“Pray excuse me, aunt. I would rather not speak on the subject.”
“You would not give your heart to a man without a decided prospect, I trust, my dear. And think of the two excellent offers I know of that you have refused!—and one still within your reach, if you will not throw it away. I knew a very great beauty who married badly at last, by doing so. Mr. Ned Plymdale is a nice young man— some might think good-looking; and an only son; and a large business of that kind is better than a profession. Not that
