He was satisfied with his present success, and by three o'clock thatday he had taken up his portmanteau at the turnpike and mounted thecoach, relieving Mr. Bulstrode's eyes of an ugly black spot on thelandscape at Stone Court, but not relieving him of the dread that theblack spot might reappear and become inseparable even from the visionof his hearth.
BOOK VI.THE WIDOW AND THE WIFE.
CHAPTER LIV.
"Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore;
Per che si fa gentil eio ch'ella mira:
Ov'ella passa, ogni uom ver lei si gira,
E cui saluta fa tremar lo core.
Sicche, bassando il viso, tutto smore,
E d'ogni suo difetto allor sospira:
Fuggon dinanzi a lei Superbia ed Ira:
Aiutatemi, donne, a farle onore.
Ogni dolcezza, ogni pensiero umile
Nasee nel core a chi parlar la sente;
Ond' e beato chi prima la vide.
Quel ch'ella par quand' un poco sorride,
Non si pub dicer, ne tener a mente,
Si e nuovo miracolo gentile."
—DANTE: la Vita Nuova.
By that delightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court werescenting the air quite impartially, as if Mr. Raffles had been a guestworthy of finest incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode atLowick Manor. After three months Freshitt had become ratheroppressive: to sit like a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously atCelia's baby would not do for many hours in the day, and to remain inthat momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a coursethat could not have been tolerated in a childless sister. Dorothea wouldhave been capable of carrying baby joyfully for a mile if there had beenneed, and of loving it the more tenderly for that labor; but to an auntwho does not recognize her infant nephew as Bouddha, and has nothingto do for him but to admire, his behavior is apt to appear monotonous,and the interest of watching him exhaustible. This possibility was quitehidden from Celia, who felt that Dorothea's childless widowhood fell inquite prettily with the birth of little Arthur (baby was named after Mr.Brooke).
"Dodo is just the creature not to mind about having anything of herown—children or anything!" said Celia to her husband. "And if she hadhad a baby, it never could have been such a dear as Arthur. Could it,James?
"Not if it had been like Casaubon," said Sir James, conscious of someindirectness in his answer, and of holding a strictly private opinion as tothe perfections of his first-born.
"No! just imagine! Really it was a mercy," said Celia; "and I think it isvery nice for Dodo to be a widow. She can be just as fond of our baby asif it were her own, and she can have as many notions of her own as shelikes."
"It is a pity she was not a queen," said the devout Sir James.
"But what should we have been then? We must have been somethingelse," said Celia, objecting to so laborious a flight of imagination. "I likeher better as she is."
Hence, when she found that Dorothea was making arrangements forher final departure to Lowick, Celia raised her eyebrows withdisappointment, and in her quiet unemphatic way shot a needle-arrow ofsarcasm.
"What will you do at Lowick, Dodo? You say yourself there isnothing to be done there: everybody is so clean and well off, it makesyou quite melancholy. And here you have been so happy going all aboutTipton with Mr. Garth into the worst backyards. And now uncle isabroad, you and Mr. Garth can have it all your own way; and I am sureJames does everything you tell him."
"I shall often come here, and I shall see how baby grows all thebetter," said Dorothea.
"But you will never see him washed," said Celia; "and that is quitethe best part of the day." She was almost pouting: it did seem to her veryhard in Dodo to go away from the baby when she might stay.
"Dear Kitty, I will come and stay all night on purpose," saidDorothea; "but I want to be alone now, and in my own home. I wish toknow the Farebrothers better, and to talk to Mr. Farebrother about whatthere is to be done in Middlemarch."
Dorothea's native strength of will was no longer all converted intoresolute submission. She had a great yearning to be at Lowick, and wassimply determined to go, not feeling bound to tell all her reasons. Butevery one around her disapproved. Sir James was much pained, andoffered that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for a few months withthe sacred ark, otherwise called a cradle: at that period a man couldhardly know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected.
The Dowager Lady Chettam, just returned from a visit to herdaughter in town, wished, at least, that Mrs. Vigo should be written to,and invited to accept the office of companion to Mrs. Casaubon: it wasnot credible that Dorothea as a young widow would think of living alonein the house at Lowick. Mrs. Vigo had been reader and secretary to royalpersonages, and in point of knowledge and sentiments even Dorotheacould have nothing to object to her.
Mrs. Cadwallader said, privately, "You will certainly go mad in thathouse alone, my dear. You will see visions. We have all got to exertourselves a little to keep sane, and call things by the same names asother people call them by. To be sure, for younger sons and women whohave no money, it is a sort of provision to go mad: they are taken care ofthen. But you must not run into that. I dare say you are a little boredhere with our good dowager; but think what a bore you might becomeyourself to your fellow-creatures if you were always playing tragedyqueen and taking things sublimely. Sitting alone in that library at Lowickyou may fancy yourself ruling the weather; you must get a few peopleround you who wouldn't believe you if you told them. That is a goodlowering medicine."
"I never called everything by the same name that all the people aboutme did," said Dorothea, stoutly.
"But I suppose you have found out your mistake, my dear," said Mrs.Cadwallader, "and that is a proof of sanity."
Dorothea was aware of the sting, but it did not hurt her. "No," shesaid, "I still think that the greater part of the world is mistaken aboutmany things. Surely one may be sane and yet think so, since the greaterpart of the world has often had to come round from its opinion."
Mrs. Cadwallader said no more on that point to Dorothea, but to herhusband she remarked, "It will be well for her to marry again as soon asit is proper, if one could get her among the right people. Of course theChettams would not wish it. But I see clearly a husband is the best thingto keep her in order. If we were not so poor I would invite Lord Triton.He will be marquis some day, and there is no denying that she wouldmake a good marchioness: she looks handsomer than ever in hermourning."
"My dear Elinor, do let the poor woman alone. Such contrivances areof no use," said the easy Rector.
"No use? How are matches made, except by bringing men andwomen together? And it is a shame that her uncle should have run awayand shut up the Grange just now. There ought to be plenty of eligiblematches invited to Freshitt and the Grange. Lord Triton is precisely theman: full of plans for making the people happy in a soft-headed sort ofway. That would just suit Mrs. Casaubon."
"Let Mrs. Casaubon choose for herself, Elinor."
"That is the nonsense you wise men talk! How can she choose if shehas no variety to choose from? A woman's choice usually means takingthe only man she can get. Mark my words, Humphrey. If her friendsdon't exert themselves, there will be a worse business than the Casaubonbusiness yet."
"For heaven's sake don't touch on that topic, Elinor! It is a very sorepoint with Sir James He would be deeply offended if you entered on it tohim unnecessarily."
"I have never entered on it," said Mrs Cadwallader, opening herhands. "Celia told me all about the will at the beginning, without anyasking of mine."
"Yes, yes; but they want the thing hushed up, and I understand thatthe young fellow is going out of the neighborhood."
Mrs. Cadwallader said nothing, but gave her husband threesignificant nods, with a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes.
Dorothea quietly persisted in spite of remonstrance and persuasion.So by the end of June the shutters were all opened at Lowick Manor, andthe morning gazed calmly into the library, shining on the rows of note-books as it shines on the weary waste planted with huge stones, themute memorial of a forgotten faith; and the evening laden with rosesentered silently into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea choseoftenest to sit. At first she walked into every room, questioning theeighteen months of her married life, and carrying on her thoughts as ifthey were a speech to be heard by her husband. Then, she lingered in thelibrary and could not be at rest till she had carefully ranged all the note-books as she imagined that he would wish to see them, in orderlysequence. The pity which had been the restraining compelling motive inher life with him still clung about his image, even while she remonstratedwith him in indignant thought and told him that he was unjust. Onelittle act of hers may perhaps be smiled at as superstitious. TheSynoptical Tabulation for the use of Mrs. Casaubon, she carefullyenclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope, "I could not use it. Doyou not see now that I could not submit my soul to yours, by workinghopelessly at what I have no belief in—Dorothea?" Then she depositedthe paper in her own desk.
That silent colloquy was perhaps only the more earnest becauseunderneath and through it all there was always the deep longing whichhad really determined her to come to Lowick. The longing was to see WillLadislaw. She did not know any good that could come of their meeting:she was helpless; her hands had been tied from making up to him forany unfairness in his lot. But her soul thirsted to see him. How could itbe otherwise? If a princess in the days of enchantment had seen a four-footed creature from among those which live in herds come to her onceand again with a human gaze which rested upon her with choice andbeseeching, what would she think of in her journeying, what would shelook for when the herds passed her? Surely for the gaze which had foundher, and which she would know again. Life would be no better thancandle-light tinsel and daylight rubbish if our spirits were not touched bywhat has been, to issues of longing and constancy. It was true thatDorothea wanted to know the Farebrothers better, and especially to talkto the new rector, but also true that remembering what Lydgate had toldher about Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble, she counted on Will'scoming to Lowick to see the Farebrother family. The very first Sunday,before she entered the church, she saw him as she had seen him the lasttime she was there, alone in the clergyman's pew; but when she enteredhis figure was gone.
In the week-days when she went to see the ladies at the Rectory, shelistened in vain for some word that they might let fall about Will; but itseemed to her that Mrs. Farebrother talked of every one else in theneighborhood and out of it.
"Probably some of Mr. Farebrother's Middlemarch hearers mayfollow him to Lowick sometimes. Do you not think so?" said Dorothea,rather despising herself for having a secret motive in asking the question.
"If they are wise they will, Mrs. Casaubon," said the old lady. "I seethat you set a right value on my son's preaching. His grandfather on myside was an excellent clergyman, but his father was in the law:—mostexemplary and honest nevertheless, which is a reason for our never beingrich. They say Fortune is a woman and capricious. But sometimes she isa good woman and gives to those who merit, which has been the casewith you, Mrs. Casaubon, who have given a living to my son."
Mrs. Farebrother recurred to her knitting with a dignifiedsatisfaction in her neat little effort at oratory, but this was not whatDorothea wanted to hear. Poor thing! she did not even know whetherWill Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and there was no one whom shedared to ask, unless it were Lydgate. But just now she could not seeLydgate without sending for him or going to seek him. Perhaps WillLadislaw, having heard of that strange ban against him left by Mr.Casaubon, had felt it better that he and she should not meet again, andperhaps she was wrong to wish for a meeting that others might findmany good reasons against. Still "I do wish it" came at the end of thosewise reflections as naturally as a sob after holding the breath. And themeeting did happen, but in a formal way quite unexpected by her.
One morning, about eleven, Dorothea was seated in her boudoir witha map of the land attached to the manor and other papers before her,which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself of herincome and affairs. She had not yet applied herself to her work, but wasseated with her hands folded on her lap, looking out along the avenue oflimes to the distant fields. Every leaf was at rest in the sunshine, thefamiliar scene was changeless, and seemed to represent the prospect ofher life, full of motiveless ease—motiveless, if her own energy could notseek out reasons for ardent action. The widow's cap of those times madean oval frame for the face, and had a crown standing up; the dress wasan experiment in the utmost laying on of crape; but this heavy solemnityof clothing made her face look all the younger, with its recovered bloom,and the sweet, inquiring candor of her eyes.
Her reverie was broken by Tantripp, who came to say that Mr.Ladislaw was below, and begged permission to see Madam if it were nottoo early.
"I will see him," said Dorothea, rising immediately. "Let him beshown into the drawing-room."
The drawing-room was the most neutral room in the house to her—the one least associated with the trials of her married life: the damaskmatched the wood-work, which was all white and gold; there were twotall mirrors and tables with nothing on them—in brief, it was a roomwhere you had no reason for sitting in one place rather than in another.It was below the boudoir, and had also a bow-window looking out on theavenue. But when Pratt showed Will Ladislaw into it the window wasopen; and a winged visitor, buzzing in and out now and then withoutminding the furniture, made the room look less formal and uninhabited.
"Glad to see you here again, sir," said Pratt, lingering to adjust ablind.
"I am only come to say good-by, Pratt," said Will, who wished eventhe butler to know that he was too proud to hang about Mrs. Casaubonnow she was a rich widow.
