be engaged. However, it is not my business. Shall I put up the pattern of mittens?”
After this Mrs Bulstrode drove to her niece with a mind newly weighted. She was herself handsomely dressed, but she noticed with a little more regret than usual that Rosamond, who was just come in and met her in walking-dress, was almost as expensively equipped. Mrs Bulstrode was a feminine, smaller edition of her brother, and had none of her husband’s low-toned pallor. She had a good honest glance and used no circumlocution.
“You are alone, I see, my dear,” she said, as they entered the drawing-room together, looking round gravely. Rosamond felt sure that her aunt had something particular to say, and they sat down near each other. Nevertheless, the quilling inside Rosamond’s bonnet was so charming that it was impossible not to desire the same kind of thing for Kate, and Mrs Bulstrode’s eyes, which were rather fine, rolled round that ample quilled circuit, while she spoke.
“I have just heard something about you that has surprised me very much, Rosamond.”
“What is that, aunt?” Rosamond’s eyes also were roaming over her aunt’s large embroidered collar.
“I can hardly believe it—that you should be engaged without my knowing it—without your father’s telling me.” Here Mrs Bulstrode’s eyes finally rested on Rosamond’s, who blushed deeply, and said—
“I am not engaged, aunt.”
“How is it that every one says so, then—that it is the town’s talk?”
“The town’s talk is of very little consequence, I think,” said Rosamond, inwardly gratified.
“Oh, my dear, be more thoughtful; don’t despise your neighbours so. Remember you are turned twenty-two now, and you will have no fortune: your father, I am sure, will not be able to spare you anything. Mr Lydgate is very intellectual and clever; I know there is an attraction in that. I like talking to such men myself; and your uncle finds him very useful. But the profession is a poor one here. To be sure, this life is not everything; but it is seldom a medical man has true religious views—there is too much pride of intellect. And you are not fit to marry a poor man.”
“Mr Lydgate is not a poor man, aunt. He has very high connections.”
“He told me himself he was poor.”
“That is because he is used to people who have a high style of living.”
“My dear Rosamond, you must not think of living in high style.”
Rosamond looked down and played with her reticule. She was not a fiery young lady and had no sharp answers, but she meant to live as she pleased.
“Then it is really true?” said Mrs Bulstrode, looking very earnestly at her niece. “You are thinking of Mr Lydgate: there is
