"On the contrary, dear," said Dorothea, "I never could do anythingthat I liked. I have never carried out any plan yet."
"Because you always wanted things that wouldn't do. But other planswould have come. And how can you marry Mr. Ladislaw, that we noneof us ever thought you could marry? It shocks James so dreadfully. Andthen it is all so different from what you have always been. You wouldhave Mr. Casaubon because he had such a great soul, and was so anddismal and learned; and now, to think of marrying Mr. Ladislaw, whohas got no estate or anything. I suppose it is because you must bemaking yourself uncomfortable in some way or other."
Dorothea laughed.
"Well, it is very serious, Dodo," said Celia, becoming moreimpressive. "How will you live? and you will go away among queerpeople. And I shall never see you—and you won't mind about littleArthur—and I thought you always would—"
Celia's rare tears had got into her eyes, and the corners of her mouthwere agitated.
"Dear Celia," said Dorothea, with tender gravity, "if you don't eversee me, it will not be my fault."
"Yes, it will," said Celia, with the same touching distortion of hersmall features. "How can I come to you or have you with me when Jamescan't bear it?—that is because he thinks it is not right—he thinks you areso wrong, Dodo. But you always were wrong: only I can't help lovingyou. And nobody can think where you will live: where can you go?"
"I am going to London," said Dorothea.
"How can you always live in a street? And you will be so poor. Icould give you half my things, only how can I, when I never see you?"
"Bless you, Kitty," said Dorothea, with gentle warmth. "Take comfort:perhaps James will forgive me some time."
"But it would be much better if you would not be married," saidCelia, drying her eyes, and returning to her argument; "then there wouldbe nothing uncomfortable. And you would not do what nobody thoughtyou could do. James always said you ought to be a queen; but this is notat all being like a queen. You know what mistakes you have always beenmaking, Dodo, and this is another. Nobody thinks Mr. Ladislaw a properhusband for you. And you said you would never be married again."
"It is quite true that I might be a wiser person, Celia," said Dorothea,"and that I might have done something better, if I had been better. Butthis is what I am going to do. I have promised to marry Mr. Ladislaw;and I am going to marry him."
The tone in which Dorothea said this was a note that Celia had longlearned to recognize. She was silent a few moments, and then said, as ifshe had dismissed all contest, "Is he very fond of you, Dodo?"
"I hope so. I am very fond of him."
"That is nice," said Celia, comfortably. "Only I rather you had such asort of husband as James is, with a place very near, that I could driveto."
Dorothea smiled, and Celia looked rather meditative. Presently shesaid, "I cannot think how it all came about." Celia thought it would bepleasant to hear the story.
"I dare say not," said-Dorothea, pinching her sister's chin. "If youknew how it came about, it would not seem wonderful to you."
"Can't you tell me?" said Celia, settling her arms cozily.
"No, dear, you would have to feel with me, else you would neverknow."
CHAPTER LIXXV.
"Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-
good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-
mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr.
Implacable, who every one gave in his private verdict against him
among themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to bring
him in guilty before the judge. And first among themselves, Mr.
Blindman, the foreman, said, I see clearly that this man is a heretic.
Then said Mr. No-good, Away with such a fellow from the earth! Ay,
said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-
lust, I could never endure him. Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would
be always condemning my way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady.
A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said
Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him,
said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way said Mr. Hate-
light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might I have all the world given me, I
could not be reconciled to him; therefore let us forthwith bring him in
guilty of death."—Pilgrim's Progress.
When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passionsbringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful? That is a rare andblessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to knowourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd—to be sure that what weare denounced for is solely the good in us. The pitiable lot is that of theman who could not call himself a martyr even though he were topersuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passionsincarnate—who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right,but for not being the man he professed to be.
This was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under whilehe made his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going toend his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces. Theduteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from onedread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunalbefore which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy. Hisequivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained theconception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terrorupon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a fullconfession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted withinward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparativelyeasy to win invisible pardon—what name would she call them by? Thatshe should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear.He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the sensethat she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worstcondemnation on him. Some time, perhaps—when he was dying—hewould tell her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held hishand in the gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling fromhis touch. Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, andthe impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeperhumiliation.
He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecatedany harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distressat the sight of her suffering. She had sent her daughters away to board ata school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from them as faras possible. Set free by their absence from the intolerable necessity ofaccounting for her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, shecould live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that was every day streakingher hair with whiteness and making her eyelids languid.
"Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet,"Bulstrode had said to her; "I mean with regard to arrangements ofproperty. It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in thisneighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision. If you have anywish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me."
A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to herbrother's, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had forsome time been in her mind.
"I should like to do something for my brother's family, Nicholas; andI think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and herhusband. Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practiceis almost good for nothing, and they have very little left to settleanywhere with. I would rather do without something for ourselves, tomake some amends to my poor brother's family."
Mrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in thephrase "make some amends;" knowing that her husband must understandher. He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for wincingunder her suggestion. He hesitated before he said—
"It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, mydear. Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me. Hehas returned the thousand pounds which I lent him. Mrs. Casaubonadvanced him the sum for that purpose. Here is his letter."
The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely. The mention ofMrs. Casaubon's loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling whichheld it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection withher husband. She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one afterthe other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away. Bulstrode, sittingopposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face, which twomonths before had been bright and blooming. It had aged to keep sadcompany with his own withered features. Urged into some effort atcomforting her, he said—
"There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service toyour brother's family, if you like to act in it. And it would, I think, bebeneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the landwhich I mean to be yours."
She looked attentive.
"Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Courtin order to place your nephew Fred there. The stock was to remain as itis, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of anordinary rent. That would be a desirable beginning for the young man, inconjunction with his employment under Garth. Would it be a satisfactionto you?"
"Yes, it would," said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy."Poor Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to dohim some good before I go away. We have always been brother andsister."
"You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet," said Mr.Bulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had inview, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife. "You muststate to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need have notransactions with me. Communications can be made through Standish. Imention this, because Garth gave up being my agent. I can put into yourhands a paper which he himself drew up, stating conditions; and you canpropose his renewed acceptance of them. I think it is not unlikely that hewill accept when you propose the thing for the sake of your nephew."
CHAPTER LXXXVI.
"Le coeur se sature d'amour comme d'un sel divin qui le conserve; de la
l'incorruptible adherence de ceux qui se sont aimes des l'aube de la vie,
et la fraicheur des vielles amours prolonges. Il existe un embaumement
d'amour. C'est de Daphnis et Chloe que sont faits Philemon et Baucis.
Cette vieillesse la, ressemblance du soir avec l'aurore."—VICTOR
HUGO: L'homme qui rit.
Mrs. Garth, hearing Caleb enter the passage about tea-time, openedthe parlor-door and said, "There you are, Caleb. Have you had yourdinner?" (Mr. Garth's meals were much subordinated to "business.")
"Oh yes, a good dinner—cold mutton and I don't know what. Whereis Mary?"
"In the garden with Letty, I think."
"Fred is not come yet?"
"No. Are you going out again without taking tea, Caleb?" said Mrs.Garth, seeing that her absent-minded husband was putting on again thehat which he had just taken off.
"No, no; I'm only going to Mary a minute."
Mary was in a grassy corner of the garden, where there was a swingloftily hung between two pear-trees. She had a pink kerchief tied overher head, making a little poke to shade her eyes from the levelsunbeams, while she was giving a glorious swing to Letty, who laughedand screamed wildly.
Seeing her father, Mary left the swing and went to meet him,pushing back the pink kerchief and smiling afar off at him with theinvoluntary smile of loving pleasure.
"I came to look for you, Mary," said Mr. Garth. "Let us walk about abit."
Mary knew quite well that her father had something particular tosay: his eyebrows made their pathetic angle, and there was a tendergravity in his voice: these things had been signs to her when she wasLetty's age. She put her arm within his, and they turned by the row ofnut-trees.
"It will be a sad while before you can be married, Mary," said herfather, not looking at her, but at the end of the stick which he held in hisother hand.
"Not a sad while, father—I mean to be merry," said Mary, laughingly."I have been single and merry for four-and-twenty years and more: Isuppose it will not be quite as long again as that." Then, after a littlepause, she said, more gravely, bending her face before her father's, "Ifyou are contented with Fred?"
Caleb screwed up his mouth and turned his head aside wisely.
"Now, father, you did praise him last Wednesday. You said he hadan uncommon notion of stock, and a good eye for things."
"Did I?" said Caleb, rather slyly.
"Yes, I put it all down, and the date, anno Domini, and everything,"said Mary. "You like things to be neatly booked. And then his behaviorto you, father, is really good; he has a deep respect for you; and it isimpossible to have a better temper than Fred has."
"Ay, ay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match."
"No, indeed, father. I don't love him because he is a fine match."
"What for, then?"
"Oh, dear, because I have always loved him. I should never likescolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought of in ahusband."
"Your mind is quite settled, then, Mary?" said Caleb, returning to hisfirst tone. "There's no other wish come into it since things have beengoing on as they have been of late?" (Caleb meant a great deal in thatvague phrase;) "because, better late than never. A woman must not forceher heart—she'll do a man no good by that."
"My feelings have not changed, father," said Mary, calmly. "I shall beconstant to Fred as long as he is constant to me. I don't think either of uscould spare the other, or like any one else better, however much wemight admire them. It would make too great a difference to us—likeseeing all the old places altered, and changing the name for everything.We must wait for each other a long while; but Fred knows that."
