"Queens hereafter might be glad to live
Upon the alms of her superfluous praise."
But this result was questionable. And what else could he do forDorothea? What was his devotion worth to her? It was impossible to tell.He would not go out of her reach. He saw no creature among her friendsto whom he could believe that she spoke with the same simpleconfidence as to him. She had once said that she would like him to stay;and stay he would, whatever fire-breathing dragons might hiss aroundher.
This had always been the conclusion of Will's hesitations. But he wasnot without contradictoriness and rebellion even towards his ownresolve. He had often got irritated, as he was on this particular night, bysome outside demonstration that his public exertions with Mr. Brooke asa chief could not seem as heroic as he would like them to be, and thiswas always associated with the other ground of irritation—thatnotwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's sake, he couldhardly ever see her. Whereupon, not being able to contradict theseunpleasant facts, he contradicted his own strongest bias and said, "I ama fool."
Nevertheless, since the inward debate necessarily turned onDorothea, he ended, as he had done before, only by getting a liveliersense of what her presence would be to him; and suddenly reflecting thatthe morrow would be Sunday, he determined to go to Lowick Churchand see her. He slept upon that idea, but when he was dressing in therational morning light, Objection said—
"That will be a virtual defiance of Mr. Casaubon's prohibition to visitLowick, and Dorothea will be displeased."
"Nonsense!" argued Inclination, "it would be too monstrous for himto hinder me from going out to a pretty country church on a springmorning. And Dorothea will be glad."
"It will be clear to Mr. Casaubon that you have come either to annoyhim or to see Dorothea."
"It is not true that I go to annoy him, and why should I not go to seeDorothea? Is he to have everything to himself and be alwayscomfortable? Let him smart a little, as other people are obliged to do. Ihave always liked the quaintness of the church and congregation;besides, I know the Tuckers: I shall go into their pew."
Having silenced Objection by force of unreason, Will walked toLowick as if he had been on the way to Paradise, crossing HalsellCommon and skirting the wood, where the sunlight fell broadly underthe budding boughs, bringing out the beauties of moss and lichen, andfresh green growths piercing the brown. Everything seemed to know thatit was Sunday, and to approve of his going to Lowick Church. Will easilyfelt happy when nothing crossed his humor, and by this time the thoughtof vexing Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to him, making hisface break into its merry smile, pleasant to see as the breaking ofsunshine on the water—though the occasion was not exemplary. Butmost of us are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks ourway is odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust whichhis personality excites in ourselves. Will went along with a small bookunder his arm and a hand in each side-pocket, never reading, butchanting a little, as he made scenes of what would happen in church andcoming out. He was experimenting in tunes to suit some words of hisown, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes improvising.The words were not exactly a hymn, but they certainly fitted his Sundayexperience:—
"O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!
A touch, a ray, that is not here,
A shadow that is gone:
"A dream of breath that might be near,
An inly-echoed tone,
The thought that one may think me dear,
The place where one was known,
"The tremor of a banished fear,
An ill that was not done—
O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!"
Sometimes, when he took off his hat, shaking his head backward,and showing his delicate throat as he sang, he looked like an incarnationof the spring whose spirit filled the air—a bright creature, abundant inuncertain promises.
The bells were still ringing when he got to Lowick, and he went intothe curate's pew before any one else arrived there. But he was still leftalone in it when the congregation had assembled. The curate's pew wasopposite the rector's at the entrance of the small chancel, and Will hadtime to fear that Dorothea might not come while he looked round at thegroup of rural faces which made the congregation from year to yearwithin the white-washed walls and dark old pews, hardly with morechange than we see in the boughs of a tree which breaks here and therewith age, but yet has young shoots. Mr. Rigg's frog-face was somethingalien and unaccountable, but notwithstanding this shock to the order ofthings, there were still the Waules and the rural stock of the Powderellsin their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had the same purpleround as ever, and the three generations of decent cottagers came as ofold with a sense of duty to their betters generally—the smaller childrenregarding Mr. Casaubon, who wore the black gown and mounted to thehighest box, as probably the chief of all betters, and the one most awfulif offended. Even in 1831 Lowick was at peace, not more agitated byReform than by the solemn tenor of the Sunday sermon. Thecongregation had been used to seeing Will at church in former days, andno one took much note of him except the choir, who expected him tomake a figure in the singing.
Dorothea did at last appear on this quaint background, walking upthe short aisle in her white beaver bonnet and gray cloak—the same shehad worn in the Vatican. Her face being, from her entrance, towards thechancel, even her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Will, but there wasno outward show of her feeling except a slight paleness and a grave bowas she passed him. To his own surprise Will felt suddenly uncomfortable,and dared not look at her after they had bowed to each other. Twominutes later, when Mr. Casaubon came out of the vestry, and, enteringthe pew, seated himself in face of Dorothea, Will felt his paralysis morecomplete. He could look nowhere except at the choir in the little galleryover the vestry-door: Dorothea was perhaps pained, and he had made awretched blunder. It was no longer amusing to vex Mr. Casaubon, whohad the advantage probably of watching him and seeing that he darednot turn his head. Why had he not imagined this beforehand?—but hecould not expect that he should sit in that square pew alone, unrelievedby any Tuckers, who had apparently departed from Lowick altogether,for a new clergyman was in the desk. Still he called himself stupid nowfor not foreseeing that it would be impossible for him to look towardsDorothea—nay, that she might feel his coming an impertinence. Therewas no delivering himself from his cage, however; and Will found hisplaces and looked at his book as if he had been a school-mistress, feelingthat the morning service had never been so immeasurably long before,that he was utterly ridiculous, out of temper, and miserable. This waswhat a man got by worshipping the sight of a woman! The clerk observedwith surprise that Mr. Ladislaw did not join in the tune of Hanover, andreflected that he might have a cold.
Mr. Casaubon did not preach that morning, and there was no changein Will's situation until the blessing had been pronounced and every onerose. It was the fashion at Lowick for "the betters" to go out first. With asudden determination to break the spell that was upon him, Will lookedstraight at Mr. Casaubon. But that gentleman's eyes were on the buttonof the pew-door, which he opened, allowing Dorothea to pass, andfollowing her immediately without raising his eyelids. Will's glance hadcaught Dorothea's as she turned out of the pew, and again she bowed,but this time with a look of agitation, as if she were repressing tears.Will walked out after them, but they went on towards the little gateleading out of the churchyard into the shrubbery, never looking round.
It was impossible for him to follow them, and he could only walkback sadly at mid-day along the same road which he had troddenhopefully in the morning. The lights were all changed for him bothwithout and within.
CHAPTER XLVIII
Surely the golden hours are turning gray
And dance no more, and vainly strive to run:
I see their white locks streaming in the wind—
Each face is haggard as it looks at me,
Slow turning in the constant clasping round
Storm-driven.
Dorothea's distress when she was leaving the church came chieflyfrom the perception that Mr. Casaubon was determined not to speak tohis cousin, and that Will's presence at church had served to mark morestrongly the alienation between them. Will's coming seemed to her quiteexcusable, nay, she thought it an amiable movement in him towards areconciliation which she herself had been constantly wishing for. He hadprobably imagined, as she had, that if Mr. Casaubon and he could meeteasily, they would shake hands and friendly intercourse might return.But now Dorothea felt quite robbed of that hope. Will was banishedfurther than ever, for Mr. Casaubon must have been newly embittered bythis thrusting upon him of a presence which he refused to recognize.
He had not been very well that morning, suffering from somedifficulty in breathing, and had not preached in consequence; she wasnot surprised, therefore, that he was nearly silent at luncheon, still lessthat he made no allusion to Will Ladislaw. For her own part she felt thatshe could never again introduce that subject. They usually spent apartthe hours between luncheon and dinner on a Sunday; Mr. Casaubon inthe library dozing chiefly, and Dorothea in her boudoir, where she waswont to occupy herself with some of her favorite books. There was alittle heap of them on the table in the bow-window—of various sorts,from Herodotus, which she was learning to read with Mr. Casaubon, toher old companion Pascal, and Keble's "Christian Year." But to-dayopened one after another, and could read none of them. Everythingseemed dreary: the portents before the birth of Cyrus—Jewishantiquities—oh dear!—devout epigrams—the sacred chime of favoritehymns—all alike were as flat as tunes beaten on wood: even the springflowers and the grass had a dull shiver in them under the afternoonclouds that hid the sun fitfully; even the sustaining thoughts which hadbecome habits seemed to have in them the weariness of long future daysin which she would still live with them for her sole companions. It wasanother or rather a fuller sort of companionship that poor Dorothea washungering for, and the hunger had grown from the perpetual effortdemanded by her married life. She was always trying to be what herhusband wished, and never able to repose on his delight in what shewas. The thing that she liked, that she spontaneously cared to have,seemed to be always excluded from her life; for if it was only grantedand not shared by her husband it might as well have been denied. AboutWill Ladislaw there had been a difference between them from the first,and it had ended, since Mr. Casaubon had so severely repulsedDorothea's strong feeling about his claims on the family property, by herbeing convinced that she was in the right and her husband in the wrong,but that she was helpless. This afternoon the helplessness was morewretchedly benumbing than ever: she longed for objects who could bedear to her, and to whom she could be dear. She longed for work whichwould be directly beneficent like the sunshine and the rain, and now itappeared that she was to live more and more in a virtual tomb, wherethere was the apparatus of a ghastly labor producing what would neversee the light. Today she had stood at the door of the tomb and seen WillLadislaw receding into the distant world of warm activity andfellowship—turning his face towards her as he went.
Books were of no use. Thinking was of no use. It was Sunday, andshe could not have the carriage to go to Celia, who had lately had ababy. There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness and discontent,and Dorothea had to bear her bad mood, as she would have borne aheadache.
After dinner, at the hour when she usually began to read aloud, Mr.Casaubon proposed that they should go into the library, where, he said,he had ordered a fire and lights. He seemed to have revived, and to bethinking intently.
In the library Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a rowof his note-books on a table, and now he took up and put into her handa well-known volume, which was a table of contents to all the others.
"You will oblige me, my dear," he said, seating himself, "if instead ofother reading this evening, you will go through this aloud, pencil inhand, and at each point where I say 'mark,' will make a cross with yourpencil. This is the first step in a sifting process which I have long had inview, and as we go on I shall be able to indicate to you certain principlesof selection whereby you will, I trust, have an intelligent participation inmy purpose."
This proposal was only one more sign added to many since hismemorable interview with Lydgate, that Mr. Casaubon's originalreluctance to let Dorothea work with him had given place to the contrarydisposition, namely, to demand much interest and labor from her.
After she had read and marked for two hours, he said, "We will takethe volume up-stairs—and the pencil, if you please—and in case ofreading in the night, we can pursue this task. It is not wearisome to you,I trust, Dorothea?"
"I prefer always reading what you like best to hear," said Dorothea,who told the simple truth; for what she dreaded was to exert herself inreading or anything else which left him as joyless as ever.
It was a proof of the force with which certain characteristics inDorothea impressed those around her, that her husband, with all hisjealousy and suspicion, had gathered implicit trust in the integrity of herpromises, and her power of devoting herself to her idea of the right andbest. Of late he had begun to feel that these qualities were a peculiarpossession for himself, and he wanted to engross them.
The reading in the night did come. Dorothea in her young wearinesshad slept soon and fast: she was awakened by a sense of light, whichseemed to her at first like a sudden vision of sunset after she hadclimbed a steep hill: she opened her eyes and saw her husband wrappedin his warm gown seating himself in the arm-chair near the fire-placewhere the embers were still glowing. He had lit two candles, expectingthat Dorothea would awake, but not liking to rouse her by more directmeans.
"Are you ill, Edward?" she said, rising immediately.
"I felt some uneasiness in a reclining posture. I will sit here for atime." She threw wood on the fire, wrapped herself up, and said, "Youwould like me to read to you?"
