Middlemarch, Page 54

  CHAPTER LIV.

  "Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore; Per che si fa gentil eio ch'ella mira: Ov'ella passa, ogni uom ver lei si gira, E cui saluta fa tremar lo core.

  Sicche, bassando il viso, tutto smore, E d'ogni suo difetto allor sospira: Fuggon dinanzi a lei Superbia ed Ira: Aiutatemi, donne, a farle onore.

  Ogni dolcezza, ogni pensiero umile Nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente; Ond'e beato chi prima la vide. Quel ch'ella par quand' un poco sorride, Non si puo dicer, ne tener a mente, Si e nuovo miracolo gentile." --DANTE: la Vita Nuova.

  By that delightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court werescenting the air quite impartially, as if Mr. Raffles had been a guestworthy of finest incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode atLowick Manor. After three months Freshitt had become ratheroppressive: to sit like a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturouslyat Celia's baby would not do for many hours in the day, and to remainin that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was acourse that could not have been tolerated in a childless sister.Dorothea would have been capable of carrying baby joyfully for a mileif there had been need, and of loving it the more tenderly for thatlabor; but to an aunt who does not recognize her infant nephew asBouddha, and has nothing to do for him but to admire, his behavior isapt to appear monotonous, and the interest of watching him exhaustible.This possibility was quite hidden from Celia, who felt that Dorothea'schildless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the birth of littleArthur (baby was named after Mr. Brooke).

  "Dodo is just the creature not to mind about having anything of herown--children or anything!" said Celia to her husband. "And if shehad had a baby, it never could have been such a dear as Arthur. Couldit, James?

  "Not if it had been like Casaubon," said Sir James, conscious of someindirectness in his answer, and of holding a strictly private opinionas to the perfections of his first-born.

  "No! just imagine! Really it was a mercy," said Celia; "and I think itis very nice for Dodo to be a widow. She can be just as fond of ourbaby as if it were her own, and she can have as many notions of her ownas she likes."

  "It is a pity she was not a queen," said the devout Sir James.

  "But what should we have been then? We must have been something else,"said Celia, objecting to so laborious a flight of imagination. "I likeher better as she is."

  Hence, when she found that Dorothea was making arrangements for herfinal departure to Lowick, Celia raised her eyebrows withdisappointment, and in her quiet unemphatic way shot a needle-arrow ofsarcasm.

  "What will you do at Lowick, Dodo? You say yourself there is nothingto be done there: everybody is so clean and well off, it makes youquite melancholy. And here you have been so happy going all aboutTipton with Mr. Garth into the worst backyards. And now uncle isabroad, you and Mr. Garth can have it all your own way; and I am sureJames does everything you tell him."

  "I shall often come here, and I shall see how baby grows all thebetter," said Dorothea.

  "But you will never see him washed," said Celia; "and that is quite thebest part of the day." She was almost pouting: it did seem to her veryhard in Dodo to go away from the baby when she might stay.

  "Dear Kitty, I will come and stay all night on purpose," said Dorothea;"but I want to be alone now, and in my own home. I wish to know theFarebrothers better, and to talk to Mr. Farebrother about what there isto be done in Middlemarch."

  Dorothea's native strength of will was no longer all converted intoresolute submission. She had a great yearning to be at Lowick, and wassimply determined to go, not feeling bound to tell all her reasons.But every one around her disapproved. Sir James was much pained, andoffered that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for a few monthswith the sacred ark, otherwise called a cradle: at that period a mancould hardly know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected.

  The Dowager Lady Chettam, just returned from a visit to her daughter intown, wished, at least, that Mrs. Vigo should be written to, andinvited to accept the office of companion to Mrs. Casaubon: it was notcredible that Dorothea as a young widow would think of living alone inthe house at Lowick. Mrs. Vigo had been reader and secretary to royalpersonages, and in point of knowledge and sentiments even Dorotheacould have nothing to object to her.

  Mrs. Cadwallader said, privately, "You will certainly go mad in thathouse alone, my dear. You will see visions. We have all got to exertourselves a little to keep sane, and call things by the same names asother people call them by. To be sure, for younger sons and women whohave no money, it is a sort of provision to go mad: they are taken careof then. But you must not run into that. I dare say you are a littlebored here with our good dowager; but think what a bore you mightbecome yourself to your fellow-creatures if you were always playingtragedy queen and taking things sublimely. Sitting alone in thatlibrary at Lowick you may fancy yourself ruling the weather; you mustget a few people round you who wouldn't believe you if you told them.That is a good lowering medicine."

  "I never called everything by the same name that all the people aboutme did," said Dorothea, stoutly.

  "But I suppose you have found out your mistake, my dear," said Mrs.Cadwallader, "and that is a proof of sanity."

  Dorothea was aware of the sting, but it did not hurt her. "No," shesaid, "I still think that the greater part of the world is mistakenabout many things. Surely one may be sane and yet think so, since thegreater part of the world has often had to come round from its opinion."

  Mrs. Cadwallader said no more on that point to Dorothea, but to herhusband she remarked, "It will be well for her to marry again as soonas it is proper, if one could get her among the right people. Ofcourse the Chettams would not wish it. But I see clearly a husband isthe best thing to keep her in order. If we were not so poor I wouldinvite Lord Triton. He will be marquis some day, and there is nodenying that she would make a good marchioness: she looks handsomerthan ever in her mourning."

  "My dear Elinor, do let the poor woman alone. Such contrivances are ofno use," said the easy Rector.

  "No use? How are matches made, except by bringing men and womentogether? And it is a shame that her uncle should have run away andshut up the Grange just now. There ought to be plenty of eligiblematches invited to Freshitt and the Grange. Lord Triton is preciselythe man: full of plans for making the people happy in a soft-headedsort of way. That would just suit Mrs. Casaubon."

  "Let Mrs. Casaubon choose for herself, Elinor."

  "That is the nonsense you wise men talk! How can she choose if she hasno variety to choose from? A woman's choice usually means taking theonly man she can get. Mark my words, Humphrey. If her friends don'texert themselves, there will be a worse business than the Casaubonbusiness yet."

  "For heaven's sake don't touch on that topic, Elinor! It is a very sorepoint with Sir James. He would be deeply offended if you entered on itto him unnecessarily."

  "I have never entered on it," said Mrs Cadwallader, opening her hands."Celia told me all about the will at the beginning, without any askingof mine."

  "Yes, yes; but they want the thing hushed up, and I understand that theyoung fellow is going out of the neighborhood."

  Mrs. Cadwallader said nothing, but gave her husband three significantnods, with a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes.

  Dorothea quietly persisted in spite of remonstrance and persuasion. Soby the end of June the shutters were all opened at Lowick Manor, andthe morning gazed calmly into the library, shining on the rows ofnote-books as it shines on the weary waste planted with huge stones,the mute memorial of a forgotten faith; and the evening laden withroses entered silently into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea choseoftenest to sit. At first she walked into every room, questioning theeighteen months of her married life, and carrying on her thoughts as ifthey were a speech to be heard by her husband. Then, she lingered inthe library and could not be at rest till
she had carefully ranged allthe note-books as she imagined that he would wish to see them, inorderly sequence. The pity which had been the restraining compellingmotive in her life with him still clung about his image, even while sheremonstrated with him in indignant thought and told him that he wasunjust. One little act of hers may perhaps be smiled at assuperstitious. The Synoptical Tabulation for the use of Mrs. Casaubon,she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope, "Icould not use it. Do you not see now that I could not submit my soulto yours, by working hopelessly at what I have no belief in--Dorothea?"Then she deposited the paper in her own desk.

  That silent colloquy was perhaps only the more earnest becauseunderneath and through it all there was always the deep longing whichhad really determined her to come to Lowick. The longing was to seeWill Ladislaw. She did not know any good that could come of theirmeeting: she was helpless; her hands had been tied from making up tohim for any unfairness in his lot. But her soul thirsted to see him.How could it be otherwise? If a princess in the days of enchantmenthad seen a four-footed creature from among those which live in herdscome to her once and again with a human gaze which rested upon her withchoice and beseeching, what would she think of in her journeying, whatwould she look for when the herds passed her? Surely for the gazewhich had found her, and which she would know again. Life would be nobetter than candle-light tinsel and daylight rubbish if our spiritswere not touched by what has been, to issues of longing and constancy.It was true that Dorothea wanted to know the Farebrothers better, andespecially to talk to the new rector, but also true that rememberingwhat Lydgate had told her about Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble,she counted on Will's coming to Lowick to see the Farebrother family.The very first Sunday, _before_ she entered the church, she saw him asshe had seen him the last time she was there, alone in the clergyman'spew; but _when_ she entered his figure was gone.

  In the week-days when she went to see the ladies at the Rectory, shelistened in vain for some word that they might let fall about Will; butit seemed to her that Mrs. Farebrother talked of every one else in theneighborhood and out of it.

  "Probably some of Mr. Farebrother's Middlemarch hearers may follow himto Lowick sometimes. Do you not think so?" said Dorothea, ratherdespising herself for having a secret motive in asking the question.

  "If they are wise they will, Mrs. Casaubon," said the old lady. "I seethat you set a right value on my son's preaching. His grandfather onmy side was an excellent clergyman, but his father was in the law:--mostexemplary and honest nevertheless, which is a reason for our neverbeing rich. They say Fortune is a woman and capricious. But sometimesshe is a good woman and gives to those who merit, which has been thecase with you, Mrs. Casaubon, who have given a living to my son."

  Mrs. Farebrother recurred to her knitting with a dignified satisfactionin her neat little effort at oratory, but this was not what Dorotheawanted to hear. Poor thing! she did not even know whether WillLadislaw was still at Middlemarch, and there was no one whom she daredto ask, unless it were Lydgate. But just now she could not see Lydgatewithout sending for him or going to seek him. Perhaps Will Ladislaw,having heard of that strange ban against him left by Mr. Casaubon, hadfelt it better that he and she should not meet again, and perhaps shewas wrong to wish for a meeting that others might find many goodreasons against. Still "I do wish it" came at the end of those wisereflections as naturally as a sob after holding the breath. And themeeting did happen, but in a formal way quite unexpected by her.

  One morning, about eleven, Dorothea was seated in her boudoir with amap of the land attached to the manor and other papers before her,which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself of herincome and affairs. She had not yet applied herself to her work, butwas seated with her hands folded on her lap, looking out along theavenue of limes to the distant fields. Every leaf was at rest in thesunshine, the familiar scene was changeless, and seemed to representthe prospect of her life, full of motiveless ease--motiveless, if herown energy could not seek out reasons for ardent action. The widow'scap of those times made an oval frame for the face, and had a crownstanding up; the dress was an experiment in the utmost laying on ofcrape; but this heavy solemnity of clothing made her face look all theyounger, with its recovered bloom, and the sweet, inquiring candor ofher eyes.

  Her reverie was broken by Tantripp, who came to say that Mr. Ladislawwas below, and begged permission to see Madam if it were not too early.

  "I will see him," said Dorothea, rising immediately. "Let him be showninto the drawing-room."

  The drawing-room was the most neutral room in the house to her--theone least associated with the trials of her married life: the damaskmatched the wood-work, which was all white and gold; there were twotall mirrors and tables with nothing on them--in brief, it was a roomwhere you had no reason for sitting in one place rather than inanother. It was below the boudoir, and had also a bow-window lookingout on the avenue. But when Pratt showed Will Ladislaw into it thewindow was open; and a winged visitor, buzzing in and out now and thenwithout minding the furniture, made the room look less formal anduninhabited.

  "Glad to see you here again, sir," said Pratt, lingering to adjust ablind.

  "I am only come to say good-by, Pratt," said Will, who wished even thebutler to know that he was too proud to hang about Mrs. Casaubon nowshe was a rich widow.

  "Very sorry to hear it, sir," said Pratt, retiring. Of course, as aservant who was to be told nothing, he knew the fact of which Ladislawwas still ignorant, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, had notdiffered from his betrothed Tantripp when she said, "Your master was asjealous as a fiend--and no reason. Madam would look higher than Mr.Ladislaw, else I don't know her. Mrs. Cadwallader's maid says there'sa lord coming who is to marry her when the mourning's over."

  There were not many moments for Will to walk about with his hat in hishand before Dorothea entered. The meeting was very different from thatfirst meeting in Rome when Will had been embarrassed and Dorothea calm.This time he felt miserable but determined, while she was in a state ofagitation which could not be hidden. Just outside the door she hadfelt that this longed-for meeting was after all too difficult, and whenshe saw Will advancing towards her, the deep blush which was rare inher came with painful suddenness. Neither of them knew how it was, butneither of them spoke. She gave her hand for a moment, and then theywent to sit down near the window, she on one settee and he on anotheropposite. Will was peculiarly uneasy: it seemed to him not likeDorothea that the mere fact of her being a widow should cause such achange in her manner of receiving him; and he knew of no othercondition which could have affected their previous relation to eachother--except that, as his imagination at once told him, her friendsmight have been poisoning her mind with their suspicions of him.

  "I hope I have not presumed too much in calling," said Will; "I couldnot bear to leave the neighborhood and begin a new life without seeingyou to say good-by."

  "Presumed? Surely not. I should have thought it unkind if you had notwished to see me," said Dorothea, her habit of speaking with perfectgenuineness asserting itself through all her uncertainty and agitation."Are you going away immediately?"

  "Very soon, I think. I intend to go to town and eat my dinners as abarrister, since, they say, that is the preparation for all publicbusiness. There will be a great deal of political work to be doneby-and-by, and I mean to try and do some of it. Other men have managedto win an honorable position for themselves without family or money."

  "And that will make it all the more honorable," said Dorothea,ardently. "Besides, you have so many talents. I have heard from myuncle how well you speak in public, so that every one is sorry when youleave off, and how clearly you can explain things. And you care thatjustice should be done to every one. I am so glad. When we were inRome, I thought you only cared for poetry and art, and the things thatadorn life for us who are well off. But now I know you think about therest of the world."

  While she was speaking Dor
othea had lost her personal embarrassment,and had become like her former self. She looked at Will with a directglance, full of delighted confidence.

  "You approve of my going away for years, then, and never coming hereagain till I have made myself of some mark in the world?" said Will,trying hard to reconcile the utmost pride with the utmost effort to getan expression of strong feeling from Dorothea.

  She was not aware how long it was before she answered. She had turnedher head and was looking out of the window on the rose-bushes, whichseemed to have in them the summers of all the years when Will would beaway. This was not judicious behavior. But Dorothea never thought ofstudying her manners: she thought only of bowing to a sad necessitywhich divided her from Will. Those first words of his about hisintentions had seemed to make everything clear to her: he knew, shesupposed, all about Mr. Casaubon's final conduct in relation to him,and it had come to him with the same sort of shock as to herself. Hehad never felt more than friendship for her--had never had anything inhis mind to justify what she felt to be her husband's outrage on thefeelings of both: and that friendship he still felt. Something whichmay be called an inward silent sob had gone on in Dorothea before shesaid with a pure voice, just trembling in the last words as if onlyfrom its liquid flexibility--

  "Yes, it must be right for you to do as you say. I shall be very happywhen I hear that you have made your value felt. But you must havepatience. It will perhaps be a long while."

  Will never quite knew how it was that he saved himself from fallingdown at her feet, when the "long while" came forth with its gentletremor. He used to say that the horrible hue and surface of her crapedress was most likely the sufficient controlling force. He sat still,however, and only said--

  "I shall never hear from you. And you will forget all about me."

  "No," said Dorothea, "I shall never forget you. I have never forgottenany one whom I once knew. My life has never been crowded, and seemsnot likely to be so. And I have a great deal of space for memory atLowick, haven't I?" She smiled.

  "Good God!" Will burst out passionately, rising, with his hat still inhis hand, and walking away to a marble table, where he suddenly turnedand leaned his back against it. The blood had mounted to his face andneck, and he looked almost angry. It had seemed to him as if they werelike two creatures slowly turning to marble in each other's presence,while their hearts were conscious and their eyes were yearning. Butthere was no help for it. It should never be true of him that in thismeeting to which he had come with bitter resolution he had ended by aconfession which might be interpreted into asking for her fortune.Moreover, it was actually true that he was fearful of the effect whichsuch confessions might have on Dorothea herself.

  She looked at him from that distance in some trouble, imagining thatthere might have been an offence in her words. But all the while therewas a current of thought in her about his probable want of money, andthe impossibility of her helping him. If her uncle had been at home,something might have been done through him! It was this preoccupationwith the hardship of Will's wanting money, while she had what ought tohave been his share, which led her to say, seeing that he remainedsilent and looked away from her--

  "I wonder whether you would like to have that miniature which hangsup-stairs--I mean that beautiful miniature of your grandmother. Ithink it is not right for me to keep it, if you would wish to have it.It is wonderfully like you."

  "You are very good," said Will, irritably. "No; I don't mind about it.It is not very consoling to have one's own likeness. It would be moreconsoling if others wanted to have it."

  "I thought you would like to cherish her memory--I thought--" Dorotheabroke off an instant, her imagination suddenly warning her away fromAunt Julia's history--"you would surely like to have the miniature as afamily memorial."

  "Why should I have that, when I have nothing else! A man with only aportmanteau for his stowage must keep his memorials in his head."

  Will spoke at random: he was merely venting his petulance; it was alittle too exasperating to have his grandmother's portrait offered himat that moment. But to Dorothea's feeling his words had a peculiarsting. She rose and said with a touch of indignation as well ashauteur--

  "You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Ladislaw, to have nothing."

  Will was startled. Whatever the words might be, the tone seemed like adismissal; and quitting his leaning posture, he walked a little waytowards her. Their eyes met, but with a strange questioning gravity.Something was keeping their minds aloof, and each was left toconjecture what was in the other. Will had really never thought ofhimself as having a claim of inheritance on the property which was heldby Dorothea, and would have required a narrative to make him understandher present feeling.

  "I never felt it a misfortune to have nothing till now," he said. "Butpoverty may be as bad as leprosy, if it divides us from what we mostcare for."

  The words cut Dorothea to the heart, and made her relent. She answeredin a tone of sad fellowship.

  "Sorrow comes in so many ways. Two years ago I had no notion ofthat--I mean of the unexpected way in which trouble comes, and ties ourhands, and makes us silent when we long to speak. I used to despisewomen a little for not shaping their lives more, and doing betterthings. I was very fond of doing as I liked, but I have almost givenit up," she ended, smiling playfully.

  "I have not given up doing as I like, but I can very seldom do it,"said Will. He was standing two yards from her with his mind full ofcontradictory desires and resolves--desiring some unmistakable proofthat she loved him, and yet dreading the position into which such aproof might bring him. "The thing one most longs for may be surroundedwith conditions that would be intolerable."

  At this moment Pratt entered and said, "Sir James Chettam is in thelibrary, madam."

  "Ask Sir James to come in here," said Dorothea, immediately. It was asif the same electric shock had passed through her and Will. Each ofthem felt proudly resistant, and neither looked at the other, whilethey awaited Sir James's entrance.

  After shaking hands with Dorothea, he bowed as slightly as possible toLadislaw, who repaid the slightness exactly, and then going towardsDorothea, said--

  "I must say good-by, Mrs. Casaubon; and probably for a long while."

  Dorothea put out her hand and said her good-by cordially. The sensethat Sir James was depreciating Will, and behaving rudely to him,roused her resolution and dignity: there was no touch of confusion inher manner. And when Will had left the room, she looked with such calmself-possession at Sir James, saying, "How is Celia?" that he wasobliged to behave as if nothing had annoyed him. And what would be theuse of behaving otherwise? Indeed, Sir James shrank with so muchdislike from the association even in thought of Dorothea with Ladislawas her possible lover, that he would himself have wished to avoid anoutward show of displeasure which would have recognized thedisagreeable possibility. If any one had asked him why he shrank inthat way, I am not sure that he would at first have said anythingfuller or more precise than "_That_ Ladislaw!"--though on reflectionhe might have urged that Mr. Casaubon's codicil, barring Dorothea'smarriage with Will, except under a penalty, was enough to castunfitness over any relation at all between them. His aversion was allthe stronger because he felt himself unable to interfere.

  But Sir James was a power in a way unguessed by himself. Entering atthat moment, he was an incorporation of the strongest reasons throughwhich Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder fromDorothea.