"You would oblige me greatly by doing so, Dorothea," said Mr.Casaubon, with a shade more meekness than usual in his polite manner."I am wakeful: my mind is remarkably lucid."
"I fear that the excitement may be too great for you," said Dorothea,remembering Lydgate's cautions.
"No, I am not conscious of undue excitement. Thought is easy."Dorothea dared not insist, and she read for an hour or more on the sameplan as she had done in the evening, but getting over the pages withmore quickness. Mr. Casaubon's mind was more alert, and he seemed toanticipate what was coming after a very slight verbal indication, saying,"That will do—mark that"—or "Pass on to the next head—I omit thesecond excursus on Crete." Dorothea was amazed to think of the bird-likespeed with which his mind was surveying the ground where it had beencreeping for years. At last he said—
"Close the book now, my dear. We will resume our work to-morrow.I have deferred it too long, and would gladly see it completed. But youobserve that the principle on which my selection is made, is to giveadequate, and not disproportionate illustration to each of the thesesenumerated in my introduction, as at present sketched. You haveperceived that distinctly, Dorothea?"
"Yes," said Dorothea, rather tremulously. She felt sick at heart.
"And now I think that I can take some repose," said Mr. Casaubon.He laid down again and begged her to put out the lights. When she hadlain down too, and there was a darkness only broken by a dull glow onthe hearth, he said—
"Before I sleep, I have a request to make, Dorothea."
"What is it?" said Dorothea, with dread in her mind.
"It is that you will let me know, deliberately, whether, in case of mydeath, you will carry out my wishes: whether you will avoid doing what Ishould deprecate, and apply yourself to do what I should desire."
Dorothea was not taken by surprise: many incidents had beenleading her to the conjecture of some intention on her husband's partwhich might make a new yoke for her. She did not answer immediately.
"You refuse?" said Mr. Casaubon, with more edge in his tone.
"No, I do not yet refuse," said Dorothea, in a clear voice, the need offreedom asserting itself within her; "but it is too solemn—I think it is notright—to make a promise when I am ignorant what it will bind me to.Whatever affection prompted I would do without promising."
"But you would use your own judgment: I ask you to obey mine; yourefuse."
"No, dear, no!" said Dorothea, beseechingly, crushed by opposingfears. "But may I wait and reflect a little while? I desire with my wholesoul to do what will comfort you; but I cannot give any pledgesuddenly—still less a pledge to do I know not what."
"You cannot then confide in the nature of my wishes?"
"Grant me till to-morrow," said Dorothea, beseechingly.
"Till to-morrow then," said Mr. Casaubon.
Soon she could hear that he was sleeping, but there was no moresleep for her. While she constrained herself to lie still lest she shoulddisturb him, her mind was carrying on a conflict in which imaginationranged its forces first on one side and then on the other. She had nopresentiment that the power which her husband wished to establish overher future action had relation to anything else than his work. But it wasclear enough to her that he would expect her to devote herself to siftingthose mixed heaps of material, which were to be the doubtful illustrationof principles still more doubtful. The poor child had become altogetherunbelieving as to the trustworthiness of that Key which had made theambition and the labor of her husband's life. It was not wonderful that,in spite of her small instruction, her judgment in this matter was truerthan his: for she looked with unbiassed comparison and healthy sense atprobabilities on which he had risked all his egoism. And now shepictured to herself the days, and months, and years which she mustspend in sorting what might be called shattered mummies, and fragmentsof a tradition which was itself a mosaic wrought from crushed ruins—sorting them as food for a theory which was already withered in the birthlike an elfin child. Doubtless a vigorous error vigorously pursued haskept the embryos of truth a-breathing: the quest of gold being at thesame time a questioning of substances, the body of chemistry is preparedfor its soul, and Lavoisier is born. But Mr. Casaubon's theory of theelements which made the seed of all tradition was not likely to bruiseitself unawares against discoveries: it floated among flexible conjecturesno more solid than those etymologies which seemed strong because oflikeness in sound until it was shown that likeness in sound made themimpossible: it was a method of interpretation which was not tested bythe necessity of forming anything which had sharper collisions than anelaborate notion of Gog and Magog: it was as free from interruption as aplan for threading the stars together. And Dorothea had so often had tocheck her weariness and impatience over this questionable riddle-guessing, as it revealed itself to her instead of the fellowship in highknowledge which was to make life worthier! She could understand wellenough now why her husband had come to cling to her, as possibly theonly hope left that his labors would ever take a shape in which theycould be given to the world. At first it had seemed that he wished tokeep even her aloof from any close knowledge of what he was doing; butgradually the terrible stringency of human need—the prospect of a toospeedy death—
And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own future to herhusband's past—nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which hadgrown out of that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathing hardlyunder the pressure of self-distrust; the goal receding, and the heavierlimbs; and now at last the sword visibly trembling above him! And hadshe not wished to marry him that she might help him in his life'slabor?—But she had thought the work was to be something greater,which she could serve in devoutly for its own sake. Was it right, even tosoothe his grief—would it be possible, even if she promised—to work asin a treadmill fruitlessly?
And yet, could she deny him? Could she say, "I refuse to content thispining hunger?" It would be refusing to do for him dead, what she wasalmost sure to do for him living. If he lived as Lydgate had said hemight, for fifteen years or more, her life would certainly be spent inhelping him and obeying him.
Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to the livingand that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead. While he lived, hecould claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrateagainst, and even to refuse. But—the thought passed through her mindmore than once, though she could not believe in it—might he not meanto demand something more from her than she had been able to imagine,since he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes without telling herexactly what they were? No; his heart was bound up in his work only:that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked out by hers.
And now, if she were to say, "No! if you die, I will put no finger toyour work"—it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised heart.
For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt ill andbewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely. Helpless as a child whichhas sobbed and sought too long, she fell into a late morning sleep, andwhen she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up. Tantripp told her that hehad read prayers, breakfasted, and was in the library.
"I never saw you look so pale, madam," said Tantripp, a solid-figuredwoman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne.
"Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?" said Dorothea, smiling faintly.
"Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose.But always smelling those leather books, what can be expected? Do resta little this morning, madam. Let me say you are ill and not able to gointo that close library."
"Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea. "Mr. Casaubon wantsme particularly."
When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfilhis wishes; but that would be later in the day—not yet.
As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round fromthe table where he had been placing some books, and said—
"I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hoped to set towork at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition,probably from too much excitement yesterday. I am going now to take aturn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder."
"I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea. "Your mind, I feared, was tooactive last night."
"I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke of,Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer."
"May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea,winning a little breathing space in that way.
"I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour," said Mr.Casaubon, and then he left her.
Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bring hersome wraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutes, but not in anyrenewal of the former conflict: she simply felt that she was going to say"Yes" to her own doom: she was too weak, too full of dread at thethought of inflicting a keen-edged blow on her husband, to do anythingbut submit completely. She sat still and let Tantripp put on her bonnetand shawl, a passivity which was unusual with her, for she liked to waiton herself.
"God bless you, madam!" said Tantripp, with an irrepressiblemovement of love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom shefelt unable to do anything more, now that she had finished tying thebonnet.
This was too much for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, and sheburst into tears, sobbing against Tantripp's arm. But soon she checkedherself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass door into theshrubbery.
"I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom for yourmaster," said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in the breakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities, as we know;and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but "yourmaster," when speaking to the other servants.
Pratt laughed. He liked his master very well, but he liked Tantrippbetter.
When Dorothea was out on the gravel walks, she lingered among thenearer clumps of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before, thoughfrom a different cause. Then she had feared lest her effort at fellowshipshould be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spot where sheforesaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship from which sheshrank. Neither law nor the world's opinion compelled her to this—onlyher husband's nature and her own compassion, only the ideal and not thereal yoke of marriage. She saw clearly enough the whole situation, yetshe was fettered: she could not smite the stricken soul that entreatedhers. If that were weakness, Dorothea was weak. But the half-hour waspassing, and she must not delay longer. When she entered the Yew-treeWalk she could not see her husband; but the walk had bends, and shewent, expecting to catch sight of his figure wrapped in a blue cloak,which, with a warm velvet cap, was his outer garment on chill days forthe garden. It occurred to her that he might be resting in the summer-house, towards which the path diverged a little. Turning the angle, shecould see him seated on the bench, close to a stone table. His arms wereresting on the table, and his brow was bowed down on them, the bluecloak being dragged forward and screening his face on each side.
"He exhausted himself last night," Dorothea said to herself, thinkingat first that he was asleep, and that the summer-house was too damp aplace to rest in. But then she remembered that of late she had seen himtake that attitude when she was reading to him, as if he found it easierthan any other; and that he would sometimes speak, as well as listen,with his face down in that way. She went into the summerhouse andsaid, "I am come, Edward; I am ready."
He took no notice, and she thought that he must be fast asleep. Shelaid her hand on his shoulder, and repeated, "I am ready!" Still he wasmotionless; and with a sudden confused fear, she leaned down to him,took off his velvet cap, and leaned her cheek close to his head, crying ina distressed tone—
"Wake, dear, wake! Listen to me. I am come to answer." ButDorothea never gave her answer.
Later in the day, Lydgate was seated by her bedside, and she wastalking deliriously, thinking aloud, and recalling what had gone throughher mind the night before. She knew him, and called him by his name,but appeared to think it right that she should explain everything to him;and again, and again, begged him to explain everything to her husband.
"Tell him I shall go to him soon: I am ready to promise. Only,thinking about it was so dreadful—it has made me ill. Not very ill. I shallsoon be better. Go and tell him."
But the silence in her husband's ear was never more to be broken.
CHAPTER XLIX.
A task too strong for wizard spells
This squire had brought about;
'T is easy dropping stones in wells,
But who shall get them out?"
"I wish to God we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this," saidSir James Chettam, with a little frown on his brow, and an expression ofintense disgust about his mouth.
He was standing on the hearth-rug in the library at Lowick Grange,and speaking to Mr. Brooke. It was the day after Mr. Casaubon had beenburied, and Dorothea was not yet able to leave her room.
"That would be difficult, you know, Chettam, as she is an executrix,and she likes to go into these things—property, land, that kind of thing.She has her notions, you know," said Mr. Brooke, sticking his eye-glasseson nervously, and exploring the edges of a folded paper which he held inhis hand; "and she would like to act—depend upon it, as an executrixDorothea would want to act. And she was twenty-one last December,you know. I can hinder nothing."
Sir James looked at the carpet for a minute in silence, and thenlifting his eyes suddenly fixed them on Mr. Brooke, saying, "I will tellyou what we can do. Until Dorothea is well, all business must be keptfrom her, and as soon as she is able to be moved she must come to us.Being with Celia and the baby will be the best thing in the world for her,and will pass away the time. And meanwhile you must get rid ofLadislaw: you must send him out of the country." Here Sir James's lookof disgust returned in all its intensity.
