Mrs. Bulstrode did not repeat her brother's complaints to her husband, but in the evening she spoke to him of Lydgate and Rosamond.
He did not share her warm interest, however; and only spoke with resignation of the risks attendant on the beginning of medical practice and the desirability of prudence.
"I am sure we are bound to pray for that thoughtless girl—brought up as she has been," said Mrs. Bulstrode, wishing to rouse her husband's feelings.
"Truly, my dear," said Mr. Bulstrode, assentingly.
"Those who are not of this world can do little else to arrest the errors of the obstinately worldly.
That is what we must accustom ourselves to recognize with regard to your brother's family.
I could have wished that Mr. Lydgate had not entered into such a union; but my relations with him are limited to that use of his gifts for God's purposes which is taught us by the divine government under each dispensation."
Mrs. Bulstrode said no more, attributing some dissatisfaction which she felt to her own want of spirituality.
She believed that her husband was one of those men whose memoirs should be written when they died.
As to Lydgate himself, having been accepted, he was prepared to accept all the consequences which he believed himself to foresee with perfect clearness.
Of course he must be married in a year—perhaps even in half a year.
This was not what he had intended; but other schemes would not be hindered: they would simply adjust themselves anew.
Marriage, of course, must be prepared for in the usual way. A house must be taken instead of the rooms he at present occupied; and Lydgate, having heard Rosamond speak with admiration of old Mrs. Bretton's house (situated in Lowick Gate), took notice when it fell vacant after the old lady's death, and immediately entered into treaty for it.
He did this in an episodic way, very much as he gave orders to his tailor for every requisite of perfect dress, without any notion of being extravagant.
On the contrary, he would have despised any ostentation of expense; his profession had familiarized him with all grades of poverty, and he cared much for those who suffered hardships.
He would have behaved perfectly at a table where the sauce was served in a jug with the handle off, and he would have remembered nothing about a grand dinner except that a man was there who talked well.
But it had never occurred to him that he should live in any other than what he would have called an ordinary way, with green glasses for hock, and excellent waiting at table.
In warming himself at French social theories he had brought away no smell of scorching.
We may handle even extreme opinions with impunity while our furniture, our dinner-giving, and preference for armorial bearings in our own case, link us indissolubly with the established order.
And Lydgate's tendency was not towards extreme opinions: he would have liked no barefooted doctrines, being particular about his boots: he was no radical in relation to anything but medical reform and the prosecution of discovery.
In the rest of practical life he walked by hereditary habit; half from that personal pride and unreflecting egoism which I have already called commonness, and half from that naivete which belonged to preoccupation with favorite ideas.
Any inward debate Lydgate had as to the consequences of this engagement which had stolen upon him, turned on the paucity of time rather than of money.
Certainly, being in love and being expected continually by some one who always turned out to be prettier than memory could represent her to be, did interfere with the diligent use of spare hours which might serve some "plodding fellow of a German" to make the great, imminent discovery.
This was really an argument for not deferring the marriage too long, as he implied to Mr. Farebrother, one day that the Vicar came to his room with some pond-products which he wanted to examine under a better microscope than his own, and, finding Lydgate's tableful of apparatus and specimens in confusion, said sarcastically—
"Eros has degenerated; he began by introducing order and harmony, and now he brings back chaos."
"Yes, at some stages," said Lydgate, lifting his brows and smiling, while he began to arrange his microscope.
"But a better order will begin after."
"Soon?" said the Vicar.
"I hope so, really.
This unsettled state of affairs uses up the time, and when one has notions in science, every moment is an opportunity.
I feel sure that marriage must be the best thing for a man who wants to work steadily.
He has everything at home then—no teasing with personal speculations—he can get calmness and freedom."
"You are an enviable dog," said the Vicar, "to have such a prospect—Rosamond, calmness and freedom, all to your share.
Here am I with nothing but my pipe and pond-animalcules.
Now, are you ready?"
Lydgate did not mention to the Vicar another reason he had for wishing to shorten the period of courtship.
It was rather irritating to him, even with the wine of love in his veins, to be obliged to mingle so often with the family party at the Vincys', and to enter so much into Middlemarch gossip, protracted good cheer, whist-playing, and general futility.
He had to be deferential when Mr. Vincy decided questions with trenchant ignorance, especially as to those liquors which were the best inward pickle, preserving you from the effects of bad air.
Mrs. Vincy's openness and simplicity were quite unstreaked with suspicion as to the subtle offence she might give to the taste of her intended son-in-law; and altogether Lydgate had to confess to himself that he was descending a little in relation to Rosamond's family.
But that exquisite creature herself suffered in the same sort of way:—it was at least one delightful thought that in marrying her, he could give her a much-needed transplantation.
"Dear!" he said to her one evening, in his gentlest tone, as he sat down by her and looked closely at her face—
But I must first say that he had found her alone in the drawing-room, where the great old-fashioned window, almost as large as the side of the room, was opened to the summer scents of the garden at the back of the house.
Her father and mother were gone to a party, and the rest were all out with the butterflies.
"Dear! your eyelids are red."
"Are they?" said Rosamond.
"I wonder why."
It was not in her nature to pour forth wishes or grievances. They only came forth gracefully on solicitation.
"As if you could hide it from me!" said Lydgate, laying his hand tenderly on both of hers.
"Don't I see a tiny drop on one of the lashes?
Things trouble you, and you don't tell me.