‘Very likely not; but you have been no loser by my trade yet,’ said Mr Vincy, thoroughly nettled (a result which was seldom much retarded by previous resolutions). ‘And when you married Harriet, I don’t see how you could expect that our families should not hang by the same nail. If you’ve changed your mind, and want my family to come down in the world, you’d better say so. I’ve never changed: I’m a plain Churchman now, just as I used to be before doctrines came up. I take the world as I find it, in trade and everything else. I’m contented to be no worse than my neighbours. But if you want us to come down in the world, say so. I shall know better what to do then.’
‘You talk unreasonably. Shall you come down in the world for want of this letter about your son?’
‘Well, whether or not, I consider it very unhandsome of you to refuse it. Such doings may be lined with religion, but outside they have a nasty, dog-in-the-manger look. You might as well slander Fred: it comes pretty near to it when you refuse to say you didn’t set a slander going. It’s this sort of thing—this tyrannical spirit, wanting to play bishop and banker everywhere—it’s this sort of thing makes a man’s name stink.’
‘Vincy, if you insist on quarrelling with me, it will be exceedingly painful to Harriet as well as myself,’ said Mr Bulstrode, with a trifle more eagerness and paleness than usual.
‘I don’t want to quarrel. It’s for my interest—and perhaps for yours too—that we should be friends. I bear you no grudge; I think no worse of you than I do of other people. A man who half starves himself, and goes the length in family prayers, and so on, that you do, believes in his religion whatever it may be: you could turn over your capital just as fast with cursing and swearing:—plenty of fellows do. You like to be master, there’s no denying that; you must be first chop in heaven, else you won’t like it much. But you’re my sister’s husband, and we ought to stick together; and if I know Harriet, she’ll consider it your fault if we quarrel because you strain at a gnat in this way, and refuse to do Fred a good turn. And I don’t mean to say I shall bear it well. I consider it unhandsome.’
Mr Vincy rose, began to button his greatcoat, and looked steadily at his brother-in-law, meaning to imply a demand for a decisive answer.
This was not the first time that Mr Bulstrode had begun by admonishing Mr Vincy, and had ended by seeing a very unsatisfactory reflection of himself in the coarse unflattering mirror which that manufacturer’s mind presented to the subtler lights and shadows of his fellow-men; and perhaps his experience ought to have warned him how the scene would end. But a full-fed fountain will be generous with its waters even in the rain, when they are worse than useless; and a fine fount of admonition is apt to be equally irrepressible.
It was not in Mr Bulstrode’s nature to comply directly in consequence of uncomfortable suggestions. Before changing his course he always needed to shape his motives and bring them into accordance with his habitual standard. He said, at last—
‘I will reflect a little, Vincy. I will mention the subject to Harriet. I shall probably send you a letter.’
‘Very well. As soon as you can, please. I hope it will all be settled before I see you to-morrow.’
‘Follows here the strict receipt
For that sauce to dainty meat,
Named Idleness, which many eat
By preference, and call it sweet:
First watch for morsels, like a hound,
Mix well with buffets, stir them round
With good thick oil of flatteries,
And froth with mean self-lauding lies.
Serve warm: the vessels you must choose
To keep it in are dead men’s shoes.’
Mr Bulstrode’s consultation of Harriet seemed to have had the effect desired by Mr Vincy, for early the next morning a letter came which Fred could carry to Mr Featherstone as the required testimony.
The old gentleman was staying in bed on account of the cold weather, and as Mary Garth was not to be seen in the sitting-room, Fred went upstairs immediately and presented the letter to his uncle, who, propped up comfortably on a bed-rest, was not less able than usual to enjoy his consciousness of wisdom in distrusting and frustrating mankind. He put on his spectacles to read the letter, pursing up his lips and drawing down their corners.
‘Under the circumstances I will not decline to state my conviction—tchah! what fine words the fellow puts! He’s as fine as an auctioneer—that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of money on bequests promised by Mr Featherstone—promised? who said I had ever promised? I promise nothing—I shall make codicils as long as I like—and that considering the nature of such a proceeding, it is unreasonable to presume that a young man of sense and character would attempt it—ah, but the gentleman doesn’t say you are a young man of sense and character, mark you that, sir!—as to my own concern with any report of such a nature, I distinctly affirm that I never made any statement to the effect that your son had borrowed money on any property that might accrue to him on Mr Featherstone’s demise—bless my heart! “property—accrue—demise”! Lawyer Standish is nothing to him. He couldn’t speak finer if he wanted to borrow. Well,’ Mr Featherstone here looked over his spectacles at Fred, while he handed back the letter to him with a contemptuous gesture, ‘you don’t suppose I believe a thing because Bulstrode writes it out fine, eh?’
Fred coloured. ‘You wished to have the letter, sir, I should think it very likely that Mr Bulstrode’s denial is as good as the authority which told you what he denies.’
‘Every bit. I never said I believed either one or the other. And now what d’you expect?’ said Mr Featherstone, curtly, keeping on his spectacles, but withdrawing his hands under his wraps.
‘I expect nothing, sir.’ Fred with difficulty restrained himself from venting his irritation. ‘I came to bring you the letter. If you like, I will bid you good-morning.’
‘Not yet, not yet. Ring the bell; I want missy to come.’
It was a servant who came in answer to the bell.
‘Tell missy to come!’ said Mr Featherstone, impatiently. ‘What business had she to go away?’ He spoke in the same tone when Mary came.
‘Why couldn’t you sit still here till I told you to go? I want my waistcoat now. I told you always to put it on the bed.’
Mary’s eyes looked rather red, as if she had been crying. It was clear that Mr Featherstone was in one of his most snappish humours this morning, and though Fred had now the prospect of receiving the much-needed present of money, he would have preferred being free to turn round on the old tyrant and tell him that Mary Garth was too good to be at his beck. Though Fred had risen as she entered the room, she had barely noticed him, and looked as if her nerves were quivering with the expectation that something would be thrown at her. But she never had anything worse than words to dread. When she went to reach the waistcoat from a peg, Fred went up to her and said, ‘Allow me.’
‘Let it alone! You bring it, missy, and lay it down here,’ said Mr Featherstone. ‘Now you go away again till I call you,’ he added, when the waistcoat was laid down by him. It was usual with