To this mental estate mapped out a quarter of a century before, tosensibilities thus fenced in, Mr. Casaubon had thought of annexinghappiness with a lovely young bride; but even before marriage, as wehave seen, he found himself under a new depression in the consciousnessthat the new bliss was not blissful to him. Inclination yearned back to itsold, easier custom. And the deeper he went in domesticity the more didthe sense of acquitting himself and acting with propriety predominateover any other satisfaction. Marriage, like religion and erudition, nay,like authorship itself, was fated to become an outward requirement, andEdward Casaubon was bent on fulfilling unimpeachably all requirements.Even drawing Dorothea into use in his study, according to his ownintention before marriage, was an effort which he was always tempted todefer, and but for her pleading insistence it might never have begun. Butshe had succeeded in making it a matter of course that she should takeher place at an early hour in the library and have work either of readingaloud or copying assigned her. The work had been easier to definebecause Mr. Casaubon had adopted an immediate intention: there was tobe a new Parergon, a small monograph on some lately traced indicationsconcerning the Egyptian mysteries whereby certain assertions ofWarburton's could be corrected. References were extensive even here, butnot altogether shoreless; and sentences were actually to be written in theshape wherein they would be scanned by Brasenose and a lessformidable posterity. These minor monumental productions were alwaysexciting to Mr. Casaubon; digestion was made difficult by theinterference of citations, or by the rivalry of dialectical phrases ringingagainst each other in his brain. And from the first there was to be a Latindedication about which everything was uncertain except that it was notto be addressed to Carp: it was a poisonous regret to Mr. Casaubon thathe had once addressed a dedication to Carp in which he had numberedthat member of the animal kingdom among the viros nullo aevoperituros, a mistake which would infallibly lay the dedicator open toridicule in the next age, and might even be chuckled over by Pike andTench in the present.
Thus Mr. Casaubon was in one of his busiest epochs, and as I beganto say a little while ago, Dorothea joined him early in the library wherehe had breakfasted alone. Celia at this time was on a second visit toLowick, probably the last before her marriage, and was in the drawing-room expecting Sir James.
Dorothea had learned to read the signs of her husband's mood, andshe saw that the morning had become more foggy there during the lasthour. She was going silently to her desk when he said, in that distanttone which implied that he was discharging a disagreeable duty—
"Dorothea, here is a letter for you, which was enclosed in oneaddressed to me."
It was a letter of two pages, and she immediately looked at thesignature.
"Mr. Ladislaw! What can he have to say to me?" she exclaimed, in atone of pleased surprise. "But," she added, looking at Mr. Casaubon, "Ican imagine what he has written to you about."
"You can, if you please, read the letter," said Mr. Casaubon, severelypointing to it with his pen, and not looking at her. "But I may as well saybeforehand, that I must decline the proposal it contains to pay a visithere. I trust I may be excused for desiring an interval of completefreedom from such distractions as have been hitherto inevitable, andespecially from guests whose desultory vivacity makes their presence afatigue."
There had been no clashing of temper between Dorothea and herhusband since that little explosion in Rome, which had left such strongtraces in her mind that it had been easier ever since to quell emotionthan to incur the consequence of venting it. But this ill-temperedanticipation that she could desire visits which might be disagreeable toher husband, this gratuitous defence of himself against selfish complainton her part, was too sharp a sting to be meditated on until after it hadbeen resented. Dorothea had thought that she could have been patientwith John Milton, but she had never imagined him behaving in this way;and for a moment Mr. Casaubon seemed to be stupidly undiscerning andodiously unjust. Pity, that "new-born babe" which was by-and-by to rulemany a storm within her, did not "stride the blast" on this occasion. Withher first words, uttered in a tone that shook him, she startled Mr.Casaubon into looking at her, and meeting the flash of her eyes.
"Why do you attribute to me a wish for anything that would annoyyou? You speak to me as if I were something you had to contend against.Wait at least till I appear to consult my own pleasure apart from yours."
"Dorothea, you are hasty," answered Mr. Casaubon, nervously.
Decidedly, this woman was too young to be on the formidable levelof wifehood—unless she had been pale and feature less and takeneverything for granted.
"I think it was you who were first hasty in your false suppositionsabout my feeling," said Dorothea, in the same tone. The fire was notdissipated yet, and she thought it was ignoble in her husband not toapologize to her.
"We will, if you please, say no more on this subject, Dorothea. I haveneither leisure nor energy for this kind of debate."
Here Mr. Casaubon dipped his pen and made as if he would returnto his writing, though his hand trembled so much that the words seemedto be written in an unknown character. There are answers which, inturning away wrath, only send it to the other end of the room, and tohave a discussion coolly waived when you feel that justice is all on yourown side is even more exasperating in marriage than in philosophy.
Dorothea left Ladislaw's two letters unread on her husband's writing-table and went to her own place, the scorn and indignation within herrejecting the reading of these letters, just as we hurl away any trashtowards which we seem to have been suspected of mean cupidity. Shedid not in the least divine the subtle sources of her husband's bad temperabout these letters: she only knew that they had caused him to offendher. She began to work at once, and her hand did not tremble; on thecontrary, in writing out the quotations which had been given to her theday before, she felt that she was forming her letters beautifully, and itseemed to her that she saw the construction of the Latin she wascopying, and which she was beginning to understand, more clearly thanusual. In her indignation there was a sense of superiority, but it went outfor the present in firmness of stroke, and did not compress itself into aninward articulate voice pronouncing the once "affable archangel" a poorcreature.
There had been this apparent quiet for half an hour, and Dorotheahad not looked away from her own table, when she heard the loud bangof a book on the floor, and turning quickly saw Mr. Casaubon on thelibrary steps clinging forward as if he were in some bodily distress. Shestarted up and bounded towards him in an instant: he was evidently ingreat straits for breath. Jumping on a stool she got close to his elbow andsaid with her whole soul melted into tender alarm—
"Can you lean on me, dear?"
He was still for two or three minutes, which seemed endless to her,unable to speak or move, gasping for breath. When at last he descendedthe three steps and fell backward in the large chair which Dorothea haddrawn close to the foot of the ladder, he no longer gasped but seemedhelpless and about to faint. Dorothea rang the bell violently, andpresently Mr. Casaubon was helped to the couch: he did not faint, andwas gradually reviving, when Sir James Chettam came in, having beenmet in the hall with the news that Mr. Casaubon had "had a fit in thelibrary."
"Good God! this is just what might have been expected," was hisimmediate thought. If his prophetic soul had been urged to particularize,it seemed to him that "fits" would have been the definite expressionalighted upon. He asked his informant, the butler, whether the doctorhad been sent for. The butler never knew his master want the doctorbefore; but would it not be right to send for a physician?
When Sir James entered the library, however, Mr. Casaubon couldmake some signs of his usual politeness, and Dorothea, who in thereaction from her first terror had been kneeling and sobbing by his sidenow rose and herself proposed that some one should ride off for amedical man.
"I recommend you to send for Lydgate," said Sir James. "My motherhas called him in, and she has found him uncommonly clever. She hashad a poor opinion of the physicians since my father's death."
Dorothea appealed to her husband, and he made a silent sign ofapproval. So Mr. Lydgate was sent for and he came wonderfully soon,for the messenger, who was Sir James Chettam's man and knew Mr.Lydgate, met him leading his horse along the Lowick road and giving hisarm to Miss Vincy.
Celia, in the drawing-room, had known nothing of the trouble till SirJames told her of it. After Dorothea's account, he no longer consideredthe illness a fit, but still something "of that nature."
"Poor dear Dodo—how dreadful!" said Celia, feeling as much grievedas her own perfect happiness would allow. Her little hands were clasped,and enclosed by Sir James's as a bud is enfolded by a liberal calyx. "It isvery shocking that Mr. Casaubon should be ill; but I never did like him.And I think he is not half fond enough of Dorothea; and he ought to be,for I am sure no one else would have had him—do you think theywould?"
"I always thought it a horrible sacrifice of your sister," said Sir James.
"Yes. But poor Dodo never did do what other people do, and I thinkshe never will."
"She is a noble creature," said the loyal-hearted Sir James. He hadjust had a fresh impression of this kind, as he had seen Dorotheastretching her tender arm under her husband's neck and looking at himwith unspeakable sorrow. He did not know how much penitence therewas in the sorrow.
"Yes," said Celia, thinking it was very well for Sir James to say so,but he would not have been comfortable with Dodo. "Shall I go to her?Could I help her, do you think?"
"I think it would be well for you just to go and see her beforeLydgate comes," said Sir James, magnanimously. "Only don't stay long." While Celia was gone he walked up and down remembering what hehad originally felt about Dorothea's engagement, and feeling a revival ofhis disgust at Mr. Brooke's indifference. If Cadwallader—if every oneelse had regarded the affair as he, Sir James, had done, the marriagemight have been hindered. It was wicked to let a young girl blindlydecide her fate in that way, without any effort to save her. Sir James hadlong ceased to have any regrets on his own account: his heart wassatisfied with his engagement to Celia. But he had a chivalrous nature(was not the disinterested service of woman among the ideal glories ofold chivalry?): his disregarded love had not turned to bitterness; itsdeath had made sweet odors—floating memories that clung with aconsecrating effect to Dorothea. He could remain her brotherly friend,interpreting her actions with generous trustfulness.
CHAPTER XXX.
"Qui veut delasser hors de propos, lasse."—PASCAL.
Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first,and in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgateseemed to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not onlyused his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course inpractice at that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. ToMr. Casaubon's questions about himself, he replied that the source of theillness was the common error of intellectual men—a too eager andmonotonous application: the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderatework, and to seek variety of relaxation. Mr. Brooke, who sat by on oneoccasion, suggested that Mr. Casaubon should go fishing, as Cadwalladerdid, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind ofthing.
"In short, you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my secondchildhood," said poor Mr. Casaubon, with some bitterness. "Thesethings," he added, looking at Lydgate, "would be to me such relaxation astow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction."
"I confess," said Lydgate, smiling, "amusement is rather anunsatisfactory prescription. It is something like telling people to keep uptheir spirits. Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit to be mildlybored rather than to go on working."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Brooke. "Get Dorothea to play backgammon withyou in the evenings. And shuttlecock, now—I don't know a finer gamethan shuttlecock for the daytime. I remember it all the fashion. To besure, your eyes might not stand that, Casaubon. But you must unbend,you know. Why, you might take to some light study: conchology, now: italways think that must be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read youlight things, Smollett—'Roderick Random,' 'Humphrey Clinker:' they are alittle broad, but she may read anything now she's married, you know. Iremember they made me laugh uncommonly—there's a droll bit about apostilion's breeches. We have no such humor now. I have gone throughall these things, but they might be rather new to you."
"As new as eating thistles," would have been an answer to representMr. Casaubon's feelings. But he only bowed resignedly, with due respectto his wife's uncle, and observed that doubtless the works he mentionedhad "served as a resource to a certain order of minds."
"You see," said the able magistrate to Lydgate, when they wereoutside the door, "Casaubon has been a little narrow: it leaves him ratherat a loss when you forbid him his particular work, which I believe issomething very deep indeed—in the line of research, you know. I wouldnever give way to that; I was always versatile. But a clergyman is tied alittle tight. If they would make him a bishop, now!—he did a very goodpamphlet for Peel. He would have more movement then, more show; hemight get a little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs. Casaubon.She is clever enough for anything, is my niece. Tell her, her husbandwants liveliness, diversion: put her on amusing tactics."
Without Mr. Brooke's advice, Lydgate had determined on speaking toDorothea. She had not been present while her uncle was throwing outhis pleasant suggestions as to the mode in which life at Lowick might beenlivened, but she was usually by her husband's side, and the unaffectedsigns of intense anxiety in her face and voice about whatever touched hismind or health, made a drama which Lydgate was inclined to watch. Hesaid to himself that he was only doing right in telling her the truth abouther husband's probable future, but he certainly thought also that itwould be interesting to talk confidentially with her. A medical man likesto make psychological observations, and sometimes in the pursuit ofsuch studies is too easily tempted into momentous prophecy which lifeand death easily set at nought. Lydgate had often been satirical on thisgratuitous prediction, and he meant now to be guarded.
