his acquaintance more fully, and that they might go
over the long-neglected Italian drawings together—it
also felt such an interest in a young man who was
starting in life with a stock of ideas—that
by the end of the second page it had persuaded Mr.
Brooke to invite young Ladislaw, since he could not
be received at Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange.
Why not? They could find a great many things
to do together, and this was a period of peculiar
growth—the political horizon was expanding,
and—in short, Mr. Brooke’s pen went
off into a little speech which it had lately reported
for that imperfectly edited organ the “Middlemarch
Pioneer.” While Mr. Brooke was sealing
this letter, he felt elated with an influx of dim
projects:—a young man capable of putting
ideas into form, the “Pioneer” purchased
to clear the pathway for a new candidate, documents
utilized—who knew what might come of it
all? Since Celia was going to marry immediately,
it would be very pleasant to have a young fellow at
table with him, at least for a time.
But he went away without telling Dorothea what he
had put into the letter, for she was engaged with
her husband, and—in fact, these things
were of no importance to her.
How will you know the pitch
of that great bell
Too large for you to stir?
Let but a flute
Play ’neath the fine-mixed
metal listen close
Till the right note flows
forth, a silvery rill.
Then shall the huge bell tremble—then
the mass
With myriad waves concurrent
shall respond
In low soft unison.
Lydgate that evening spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs. Casaubon,
and laid some emphasis on the strong feeling she appeared
to have for that formal studious man thirty years
older than herself.
“Of course she is devoted to her husband,”
said Rosamond, implying a notion of necessary sequence
which the scientific man regarded as the prettiest
possible for a woman; but she was thinking at the
same time that it was not so very melancholy to be
mistress of Lowick Manor with a husband likely to die
soon. “Do you think her very handsome?”
“She certainly is handsome, but I have not thought
about it,” said Lydgate.
“I suppose it would be unprofessional,”
said Rosamond, dimpling. “But how your
practice is spreading! You were called in before
to the Chettams, I think; and now, the Casaubons.”
“Yes,” said Lydgate, in a tone of compulsory
admission. “But I don’t really like
attending such people so well as the poor. The
cases are more monotonous, and one has to go through
more fuss and listen more deferentially to nonsense.”
“Not more than in Middlemarch,” said Rosamond.
“And at least you go through wide corridors
and have the scent of rose-leaves everywhere.”
“That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci,”
said Lydgate, just bending his head to the table and
lifting with his fourth finger her delicate handkerchief
which lay at the mouth of her reticule, as if to enjoy
its scent, while he looked at her with a smile.
