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.