MIDDLEMARCH (Completed)

Chapter 12

"He had more tow on his distaffe

Than Gerveis knew."

--CHAUCER.

The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning,

lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows

and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty

and to spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave

each field a particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked

on them from childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses

were dank and trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing

a bare place in mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew;

the sudden slope of the old marl-pit making a red background for

the burdock; the huddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without

a traceable way of approach; the gray gate and fences against

the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovel, its old,

old thatch full of mossy hills and valleys with wondrous modulations

of light and shadow such as we travel far to see in later life,

and see larger, but not more beautiful. These are the things

that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls--the

things they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart standing

between their father's knees while he drove leisurely.

But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we

have seen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it

was into Lowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple

of miles' riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court,

and at the end of the first half, the house was already visible,

looking as if it had been arrested in its growth toward a stone

mansion by an unexpected budding of farm-buildings on its left flank,

which had hindered it from becoming anything more than the substantial

dwelling of a gentleman farmer. It was not the less agreeable

an object in the distance for the cluster of pinnacled corn-ricks

which balanced the fine row of walnuts on the right.

Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig

on the circular drive before the front door.

"Dear me," said Rosamond, "I hope none of my uncle's horrible

relations are there."

"They are, though. That is Mrs. Waule's gig--the last yellow gig left,

I should think. When I see Mrs. Waule in it, I understand how yellow

can have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal

than a hearse. But then Mrs. Waule always has black crape on.