Middlemarch by George Eliot (ebook and pdf reader TXT) 📕

should happen to be less exquisite. Only a few children in Middlemarch looked blond by the side of Rosamond, and the slim figure displayed by her riding-habit had delicate undulations. In fact, most men in Middlemarch, except her brothers, held that Miss Vincy was the best girl in the world, and some called her an angel. Mary Garth, on the contrary, had the aspect of an ordinary sinner: she was brown; her curly dark hair was rough and stubborn; her stature was low; and it would not be true to declare, in satisfactory antithesis, that she had all the virtues. Plainness has its peculiar temptations and vices quite as much as beauty; it is apt either to feign amiability, or, not feigning it, to show all the repulsiveness of discontent: at any rate, to be called an ugly thing in contrast with that lovely creature your companion, is apt to produce some effect beyond a sense of fine veracity and fitness in the phrase. At the age of two-and-twenty Mary had certainly not attained that perfect good sense and good principle which are usually recommended to the less fortunate girl, as if they were to be obtained in quantities ready mixed, with a flavor of resignation as required. Her shrewdness had a streak of satiric bitterness continually renewed and never carried utterly out of sight, except by a strong current of gratitude towards those who, instead of telling her that she ought to be contented, did something to make her so. Advancing womanhood had tempered her plainness, which was of a good human sort, such as the mothers of our race have very commonly worn in all latitudes under a more or less becoming headgear. Rembrandt would have painted her with pleasure, and would have made her broad features look out of the canvas with intelligent honesty. For honesty, truth-telling fairness, was Mary’s reigning virtue: she neither tried to create illusions, nor indulged in them for her own behoof, and when she was in a good mood she had humor enough in her to laugh at herself. When she and Rosamond happened both to be reflected in the glass, she said, laughingly⁠—

“What a brown patch I am by the side of you, Rosy! You are the most unbecoming companion.”

“Oh no! No one thinks of your appearance, you are so sensible and useful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality,” said Rosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes swerving towards the new view of her neck in the glass.

“You mean my beauty,” said Mary, rather sardonically.

Rosamond thought, “Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill.” Aloud she said, “What have you been doing lately?”

“I? Oh, minding the house⁠—pouring out syrup⁠—pretending to be amiable and contented⁠—learning to have a bad opinion of everybody.”

“It is a wretched life for you.”

“No,” said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of her head. “I think my life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan’s.”

“Yes; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, and not young.”

“She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all sure that everything gets easier as one gets older.”

“No,” said Rosamond, reflectively; “one wonders what such people do, without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support. But,” she added, dimpling, “it is very different with you, Mary. You may have an offer.”

“Has anyone told you he means to make me one?”

“Of course not. I mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love with you, seeing you almost every day.”

A certain change in Mary’s face was chiefly determined by the resolve not to show any change.

“Does that always make people fall in love?” she answered, carelessly; “it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other.”

“Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr. Lydgate is both.”

“Oh, Mr. Lydgate!” said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse into indifference. “You want to know something about him,” she added, not choosing to indulge Rosamond’s indirectness.

“Merely, how you like him.”

“There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wants some little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to like people who speak to me without seeming to see me.”

“Is he so haughty?” said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. “You know that he is of good family?”

“No; he did not give that as a reason.”

“Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he? Describe him to me.”

“How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavy eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid white hands⁠—and⁠—let me see⁠—oh, an exquisite cambric pocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about the time of his visits.”

Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively, “I rather like a haughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young man.”

“I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pour tous les gouts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can choose the particular sort of conceit she would like, I should think it is you, Rosy.”

“Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred conceited.”

“I wish no one said any worse of him. He should be more careful. Mrs. Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady.” Mary spoke from a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment. There was a vague uneasiness associated with the word “unsteady” which she hoped Rosamond might say something to dissipate. But she purposely abstained from mentioning Mrs. Waule’s more special insinuation.

“Oh, Fred is horrid!” said Rosamond. She would not have allowed herself so unsuitable a word to anyone but Mary.

“What do you mean by horrid?”

“He is so idle, and makes papa so angry, and says he will not take orders.”

“I think Fred is quite right.”

“How can you say he is quite right, Mary? I thought you had more sense of religion.”

“He is not fit to be a clergyman.”

“But he ought to be fit.”⁠—“Well, then, he is not