There were hardly any wives in Middlemarch whose matrimonial misfortunes would in different ways be likely to call forth more of this moral activity than Rosamond and her aunt Bulstrode. Mrs. Bulstrode was not an object of dislike, and had never consciously injured any human being. Men had always thought her a handsome comfortable woman, and had reckoned it among the signs of Bulstrode’s hypocrisy that he had chosen a red-blooded Vincy, instead of a ghastly and melancholy person suited to his low esteem for earthly pleasure. When the scandal about her husband was disclosed they remarked of her—“Ah, poor woman! She’s as honest as the day—she never suspected anything wrong in him, you may depend on it.” Women, who were intimate with her, talked together much of “poor Harriet,” imagined what her feelings must be when she came to know everything, and conjectured how much she had already come to know. There was no spiteful disposition towards her; rather, there was a busy benevolence anxious to ascertain what it would be well for her to feel and do under the circumstances, which of course kept the imagination occupied with her character and history from the times when she was Harriet Vincy till now. With the review of Mrs. Bulstrode and her position it was inevitable to associate Rosamond, whose prospects were under the same blight with her aunt’s. Rosamond was more severely criticised and less pitied, though she too, as one of the good old Vincy family who had always been known in Middlemarch, was regarded as a victim to marriage with an interloper. The Vincys had their weaknesses, but then they lay on the surface: there was never anything bad to be “found out” concerning them. Mrs. Bulstrode was vindicated from any resemblance to her husband. Harriet’s faults were her own.
“She has always been showy,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, making tea for a small party, “though she has got into the way of putting her religion forward, to conform to her husband; she has tried to hold her head up above Middlemarch by making it known that she invites clergymen and heaven-knows-who from Riverston and those places.”
“We can hardly blame her for that,” said Mrs. Sprague; “because few of the best people in the town cared to associate with Bulstrode, and she must have somebody to sit down at her table.”
“Mr. Thesiger has always countenanced him,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “I think he must be sorry now.”
“But he was never fond of him in his heart—that every one knows,” said Mrs. Tom Toller. “Mr. Thesiger never goes into extremes. He keeps to the truth in what is evangelical. It is only clergymen like Mr. Tyke, who want to use Dissenting hymn-books and that low kind of religion, who ever found Bulstrode to their taste.”
“I understand, Mr. Tyke is in great distress about him,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “And well he may be: they say the Bulstrodes have half kept the Tyke family.”
“And of course it is a discredit to his doctrines,” said Mrs. Sprague, who was elderly, and old-fashioned in her opinions.
“People will not make a boast of being methodistical in Middlemarch for a good while to come.”
“I think we must not set down people’s bad actions to their religion,” said falcon-faced Mrs. Plymdale, who had been listening hitherto.
“Oh, my dear, we are forgetting,” said Mrs. Sprague. “We ought not to be talking of this before you.”
“I am sure I have no reason to be partial,” said Mrs. Plymdale, coloring. “It’s true Mr. Plymdale has always been on good terms with Mr. Bulstrode, and Harriet Vincy was my friend long before she married him. But I have always kept my own opinions and told her where she was wrong, poor thing. Still, in point of religion, I must say, Mr. Bulstrode might have done what he has, and worse, and yet have been a man of no religion. I don’t say that there has not been a little too much of that—I like moderation myself. But truth is truth. The men tried at the assizes are not all over-religious, I suppose.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, wheeling adroitly, “all I can say is, that I think she ought to separate from him.”
“I can’t say that,” said Mrs. Sprague. “She took him for better or worse, you know.”
“But ‘worse’ can never mean finding out that your husband is fit for Newgate,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “Fancy living with such a man! I should expect to be poisoned.”
“Yes, I think myself it is an encouragement to crime if such men are to be taken care of and waited on by good wives,” said Mrs. Tom Toller.
“And a good wife poor Harriet has been,” said Mrs. Plymdale. “She thinks her husband the first of men. It’s true he has never denied her anything.”
“Well, we shall see what she will do,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “I suppose she knows nothing yet, poor creature. I do hope and trust I shall not see her, for I should be frightened to death lest I should say anything about her husband. Do you think any hint has reached her?”
“I should hardly think so,” said Mrs. Tom Toller. “We hear that he is ill, and has never stirred out of the house since the meeting on Thursday; but she was with her girls at church yesterday, and they had new Tuscan bonnets. Her own had a feather in it. I have never seen that her religion made any difference in her dress.”
“She wears very neat patterns always,” said Mrs. Plymdale, a little stung. “And that feather I know she got dyed a pale lavender on purpose to be consistent. I must say it of Harriet that she wishes to do right.”
“As to her knowing what has happened, it can’t be kept from her long,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “The Vincys know, for Mr. Vincy was at the meeting. It will be a great blow to him. There is his daughter as well as his sister.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Sprague. “Nobody supposes that Mr. Lydgate can go on holding up his head in Middlemarch, things look so black about the thousand pounds he took just at that man’s death. It really makes one shudder.”
“Pride must have a fall,” said Mrs. Hackbutt.
“I am not so sorry for Rosamond Vincy that was as I am for her aunt,” said Mrs. Plymdale. “She needed a lesson.”
“I suppose the Bulstrodes will go and live abroad somewhere,” said Mrs. Sprague. “That is what is generally done when there is anything disgraceful in a family.”
“And a most deadly blow it will be to Harriet,” said Mrs. Plymdale. “If ever a woman was crushed, she will be. I pity her from my heart. And with all her faults, few women are better. From a girl she had the neatest ways, and was always good-hearted, and as open as the day. You might look into her drawers when you would—always the same. And so she has brought up Kate and Ellen. You may think how hard it will be for her to go among foreigners.”
“The doctor says that is what he should recommend the Lydgates to do,” said Mrs. Sprague. “He says Lydgate ought to have kept among the French.”
“That would suit her well enough, I dare say,” said Mrs. Plymdale; “there is that kind of lightness about her. But she got that from her mother; she never got it from her aunt Bulstrode, who always gave her good advice, and to my knowledge would rather have had her marry elsewhere.”
Mrs. Plymdale was in a situation which caused her some complication of feeling. There had been not only her intimacy with Mrs. Bulstrode, but also a profitable business relation of the great Plymdale dyeing house with Mr. Bulstrode, which on the one hand would have inclined her to desire that the mildest view of his character should be the true one, but on the other, made her the more afraid of seeming to palliate his culpability. Again,
