The lot was finally knocked down at a guinea to Mr. Spilkins, a young Slender of the neighborhood, who was reckless with his pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles.
"Come, Trumbull, this is too bad--you've been putting some old maid's rubbish into the sale," murmured Mr. Toller, getting close to the auctioneer. "I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon.""IMmediately, Mr. Toller. It was only an act of benevolence which your noble heart would approve. Joseph! quick with the prints--Lot 235. Now, gentlemen, you who are connoissURES, you are going to have a treat. Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by his staff on the Field of Waterloo;and notwithstanding recent events which have, as it were, enveloped our great Hero in a cloud, I will be bold to say--for a man in my line must not be blown about by political winds--that a finer subject--of the modern order, belonging to our own time and epoch--the understanding of man could hardly conceive:
angels might, perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men.""Who painted it?" said Mr. Powderell, much impressed.
"It is a proof before the letter, Mr. Powderell--the painter is not known," answered Trumbull, with a certain gaspingness in his last words, after which he pursed up his lips and stared round him.
"I'll bid a pound!" said Mr. Powderell, in a tone of resolved emotion, as of a man ready to put himself in the breach. Whether from awe or pity, nobody raised the price on him.
Next came two Dutch prints which Mr. Toller had been eager for, and after he had secured them he went away. Other prints, and afterwards some paintings, were sold to leading Middlemarchers who had come with a special desire for them, and there was a more active movement of the audience in and out; some, who had bought what they wanted, going away, others coming in either quite newly or from a temporary visit to the refreshments which were spread under the marquee on the lawn. 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 Wills 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 pride 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.
