Mr. Casaubon kept his hands behind him and allowed her pliant armto cling with difficulty against his rigid arm.
There was something horrible to Dorothea in the sensation whichthis unresponsive hardness inflicted on her. That is a strong word, butnot too strong: it is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of joyare forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard facesat the devastation their own waste has made, and say, the earth bears noharvest of sweetness—calling their denial knowledge. You may ask why,in the name of manliness, Mr. Casaubon should have behaved in thatway. Consider that his was a mind which shrank from pity: have youever watched in such a mind the effect of a suspicion that what ispressing it as a grief may be really a source of contentment, either actualor future, to the being who already offends by pitying? Besides, he knewlittle of Dorothea's sensations, and had not reflected that on such anoccasion as the present they were comparable in strength to his ownsensibilities about Carp's criticisms.
Dorothea did not withdraw her arm, but she could not venture tospeak. Mr. Casaubon did not say, "I wish to be alone," but he directedhis steps in silence towards the house, and as they entered by the glassdoor on this eastern side, Dorothea withdrew her arm and lingered onthe matting, that she might leave her husband quite free. He entered thelibrary and shut himself in, alone with his sorrow.
She went up to her boudoir. The open bow-window let in the sereneglory of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast longshadows. But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threw herself ona chair, not heeding that she was in the dazzling sun-rays: if there werediscomfort in that, how could she tell that it was not part of her inwardmisery?
She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any shehad felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words:—
"What have I done—what am I—that he should treat me so? Henever knows what is in my mind—he never cares. What is the use ofanything I do? He wishes he had never married me."
She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness. Like onewho has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance allthe paths of her young hope which she should never find again. And justas clearly in the miserable light she saw her own and her husband'ssolitude—how they walked apart so that she was obliged to survey him.If he had drawn her towards him, she would never have surveyed him—never have said, "Is he worth living for?" but would have felt him simplya part of her own life. Now she said bitterly, "It is his fault, not mine." Inthe jar of her whole being, Pity was overthrown. Was it her fault that shehad believed in him—had believed in his worthiness?—And what,exactly, was he?— She was able enough to estimate him—she whowaited on his glances with trembling, and shut her best soul in prison,paying it only hidden visits, that she might be petty enough to pleasehim. In such a crisis as this, some women begin to hate.
The sun was low when Dorothea was thinking that she would not godown again, but would send a message to her husband saying that shewas not well and preferred remaining up-stairs. She had neverdeliberately allowed her resentment to govern her in this way before, butshe believed now that she could not see him again without telling himthe truth about her feeling, and she must wait till she could do it withoutinterruption. He might wonder and be hurt at her message. It was goodthat he should wonder and be hurt. Her anger said, as anger is apt tosay, that God was with her—that all heaven, though it were crowdedwith spirits watching them, must be on her side. She had determined toring her bell, when there came a rap at the door.
Mr. Casaubon had sent to say that he would have his dinner in thelibrary. He wished to be quite alone this evening, being much occupied.
"I shall not dine, then, Tantripp."
"Oh, madam, let me bring you a little something?"
"No; I am not well. Get everything ready in my dressing room, butpray do not disturb me again."
Dorothea sat almost motionless in her meditative struggle, while theevening slowly deepened into night. But the struggle changedcontinually, as that of a man who begins with a movement towardsstriking and ends with conquering his desire to strike. The energy thatwould animate a crime is not more than is wanted to inspire a resolvedsubmission, when the noble habit of the soul reasserts itself. Thatthought with which Dorothea had gone out to meet her husband—herconviction that he had been asking about the possible arrest of all hiswork, and that the answer must have wrung his heart, could not be longwithout rising beside the image of him, like a shadowy monitor lookingat her anger with sad remonstrance. It cost her a litany of picturedsorrows and of silent cries that she might be the mercy for thosesorrows—but the resolved submission did come; and when the housewas still, and she knew that it was near the time when Mr. Casaubonhabitually went to rest, she opened her door gently and stood outside inthe darkness waiting for his coming up-stairs with a light in his hand. Ifhe did not come soon she thought that she would go down and even riskincurring another pang. She would never again expect anything else. Butshe did hear the library door open, and slowly the light advanced up thestaircase without noise from the footsteps on the carpet. When herhusband stood opposite to her, she saw that his face was more haggard.He started slightly on seeing her, and she looked up at him beseechingly,without speaking.
"Dorothea!" he said, with a gentle surprise in his tone. "Were youwaiting for me?"
"Yes, I did not like to disturb you."
"Come, my dear, come. You are young, and need not to extend yourlife by watching."
When the kind quiet melancholy of that speech fell on Dorothea'sears, she felt something like the thankfulness that might well up in us ifwe had narrowly escaped hurting a lamed creature. She put her handinto her husband's, and they went along the broad corridor together.
BOOK V.THE DEAD HAND.
CHAPTER XLIII.
This figure hath high price: 't was wrought with love
Ages ago in finest ivory;
Nought modish in it, pure and noble lines
Of generous womanhood that fits all time
That too is costly ware; majolica
Of deft design, to please a lordly eye:
The smile, you see, is perfect—wonderful
As mere Faience! a table ornament
To suit the richest mounting."
Dorothea seldom left home without her husband, but she didoccasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on little errands of shoppingor charity such as occur to every lady of any wealth when she liveswithin three miles of a town. Two days after that scene in the Yew-treeWalk, she determined to use such an opportunity in order if possible tosee Lydgate, and learn from him whether her husband had really felt anydepressing change of symptoms which he was concealing from her, andwhether he had insisted on knowing the utmost about himself. She feltalmost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but thedread of being without it—the dread of that ignorance which wouldmake her unjust or hard—overcame every scruple. That there had beensome crisis in her husband's mind she was certain: he had the very nextday begun a new method of arranging his notes, and had associated herquite newly in carrying out his plan. Poor Dorothea needed to lay upstores of patience.
It was about four o'clock when she drove to Lydgate's house inLowick Gate, wishing, in her immediate doubt of finding him at home,that she had written beforehand. And he was not at home.
"Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorothea, who had never, that sheknew of, seen Rosamond, but now remembered the fact of the marriage.Yes, Mrs. Lydgate was at home.
"I will go in and speak to her, if she will allow me. Will you ask her ifshe can see me—see Mrs. Casaubon, for a few minutes?"
When the servant had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea couldhear sounds of music through an open window—a few notes from aman's voice and then a piano bursting into roulades. But the rouladesbroke off suddenly, and then the servant came back saying that Mrs.Lydgate would be happy to see Mrs. Casaubon.
When the drawing-room door opened and Dorothea entered, therewas a sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the habits ofthe different ranks were less blent than now. Let those who know, tell usexactly what stuff it was that Dorothea wore in those days of mildautumn—that thin white woollen stuff soft to the touch and soft to theeye. It always seemed to have been lately washed, and to smell of thesweet hedges—was always in the shape of a pelisse with sleeves hangingall out of the fashion. Yet if she had entered before a still audience asImogene or Cato's daughter, the dress might have seemed right enough:the grace and dignity were in her limbs and neck; and about her simplyparted hair and candid eyes the large round poke which was then in thefate of women, seemed no more odd as a head-dress than the goldtrencher we call a halo. By the present audience of two persons, nodramatic heroine could have been expected with more interest than Mrs.Casaubon. To Rosamond she was one of those county divinities notmixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose slightest marks of manner orappearance were worthy of her study; moreover, Rosamond was notwithout satisfaction that Mrs. Casaubon should have an opportunity ofstudying her. What is the use of being exquisite if you are not seen bythe best judges? and since Rosamond had received the highestcompliments at Sir Godwin Lydgate's, she felt quite confident of theimpression she must make on people of good birth. Dorothea put out herhand with her usual simple kindness, and looked admiringly at Lydgate'slovely bride—aware that there was a gentleman standing at a distance,but seeing him merely as a coated figure at a wide angle. The gentlemanwas too much occupied with the presence of the one woman to reflect onthe contrast between the two—a contrast that would certainly have beenstriking to a calm observer. They were both tall, and their eyes were on alevel; but imagine Rosamond's infantine blondness and wondrous crownof hair-plaits, with her pale-blue dress of a fit and fashion so perfect thatno dressmaker could look at it without emotion, a large embroideredcollar which it was to be hoped all beholders would know the price of,her small hands duly set off with rings, and that controlled self-consciousness of manner which is the expensive substitute for simplicity.
"Thank you very much for allowing me to interrupt you," saidDorothea, immediately. "I am anxious to see Mr. Lydgate, if possible,before I go home, and I hoped that you might possibly tell me where Icould find him, or even allow me to wait for him, if you expect himsoon."
"He is at the New Hospital," said Rosamond; "I am not sure how soonhe will come home. But I can send for him."
"Will you let me go and fetch him?" said Will Ladislaw, comingforward. He had already taken up his hat before Dorothea entered. Shecolored with surprise, but put out her hand with a smile of unmistakablepleasure, saying—
"I did not know it was you: I had no thought of seeing you here."
"May I go to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate that you wish to seehim?" said Will.
"It would be quicker to send the carriage for him," said Dorothea, "ifyou will be kind enough to give the message to the coachman."
Will was moving to the door when Dorothea, whose mind hadflashed in an instant over many connected memories, turned quickly andsaid, "I will go myself, thank you. I wish to lose no time before gettinghome again. I will drive to the Hospital and see Mr. Lydgate there. Prayexcuse me, Mrs. Lydgate. I am very much obliged to you."
Her mind was evidently arrested by some sudden thought, and sheleft the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her—hardly conscious that Will opened the door for her and offered her hisarm to lead her to the carriage. She took the arm but said nothing. Willwas feeling rather vexed and miserable, and found nothing to say on hisside. He handed her into the carriage in silence, they said good-by, andDorothea drove away.
In the five minutes' drive to the Hospital she had time for somereflections that were quite new to her. Her decision to go, and herpreoccupation in leaving the room, had come from the sudden sense thatthere would be a sort of deception in her voluntarily allowing any furtherintercourse between herself and Will which she was unable to mention toher husband, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was a matter ofconcealment. That was all that had been explicitly in her mind; but shehad been urged also by a vague discomfort. Now that she was alone inher drive, she heard the notes of the man's voice and the accompanyingpiano, which she had not noted much at the time, returning on herinward sense; and she found herself thinking with some wonder that WillLadislaw was passing his time with Mrs. Lydgate in her husband'sabsence. And then she could not help remembering that he had passedsome time with her under like circumstances, so why should there beany unfitness in the fact? But Will was Mr. Casaubon's relative, and onetowards whom she was bound to show kindness. Still there had beensigns which perhaps she ought to have understood as implying that Mr.Casaubon did not like his cousin's visits during his own absence."Perhaps I have been mistaken in many things," said poor Dorothea toherself, while the tears came rolling and she had to dry them quickly.She felt confusedly unhappy, and the image of Will which had been soclear to her before was mysteriously spoiled. But the carriage stopped atthe gate of the Hospital. She was soon walking round the grass plotswith Lydgate, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which had madeher seek for this interview.
Will Ladislaw, meanwhile, was mortified, and knew the reason of itclearly enough. His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and here forthe first time there had come a chance which had set him at adisadvantage. It was not only, as it had been hitherto, that she was notsupremely occupied with him, but that she had seen him undercircumstances in which he might appear not to be supremely occupiedwith her. He felt thrust to a new distance from her, amongst the circlesof Middlemarchers who made no part of her life. But that was not hisfault: of course, since he had taken his lodgings in the town, he had beenmaking as many acquaintances as he could, his position requiring that heshould know everybody and everything. Lydgate was really better worthknowing than any one else in the neighborhood, and he happened tohave a wife who was musical and altogether worth calling upon. Herewas the whole history of the situation in which Diana had descended toounexpectedly on her worshipper. It was mortifying. Will was consciousthat he should not have been at Middlemarch but for Dorothea; and yethis position there was threatening to divide him from her with thosebarriers of habitual sentiment which are more fatal to the persistence ofmutual interest than all the distance between Rome and Britain.Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to defy in the form ofa tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but prejudices, like odorousbodies, have a double existence both solid and subtle—solid as thepyramids, subtle as the twentieth echo of an echo, or as the memory ofhyacinths which once scented the darkness. And Will was of atemperament to feel keenly the presence of subtleties: a man of clumsierperceptions would not have felt, as he did, that for the first time somesense of unfitness in perfect freedom with him had sprung up inDorothea's mind, and that their silence, as he conducted her to thecarriage, had had a chill in it. Perhaps Casaubon, in his hatred andjealousy, had been insisting to Dorothea that Will had slid below hersocially. Confound Casaubon!
