Middlemarch

CHAPTER L.

“This Loller here wol precilen us somewhat. / Nay by my father’s soule! that schal he nat.” Dorothea had been safe at Freshitt Hall nearly a week before she asked any dangerous questions. Every morning she sat with Celia in the prettiest upstairs sitting-room, watching the remarkable acts of the baby. Dorothea sat in widow’s dress, with an expression that provoked Celia by being too sad; baby was quite well, after all, and Sir James had told Celia everything with a strong representation how important it was that Dorothea should not know.

But Mr. Brooke had been right in predicting that Dorothea would not remain passive where action had been assigned to her; her mind, once she was conscious of her position, was silently occupied with what she ought to do as the owner of Lowick Manor. One morning, when her uncle paid his usual visit, Dorothea said: “Uncle, it is right now that I should consider who is to have the living at Lowick. I think I ought to have the keys and go to Lowick to examine all my husband’s papers.”

“No hurry, my dear. By-and-by, you can go. I cast my eyes over things in the desks and drawers—there was nothing but deep subjects. As to the living, I have had an application already. Mr. Tyke has been strongly recommended—an apostolic man.”

“I should like to have fuller knowledge about him, uncle, and judge for myself. He has perhaps made some addition to his will—there may be some instructions for me.”

“Nothing about the rectory, my dear—nothing. Nor about his researches.”

Dorothea’s lip quivered. “I am quite well now, uncle; I wish to exert myself.”

“I must run away now—it’s a political crisis, you know. And here is Celia and her little man—you are an aunt, you know, now.” He was placid and hurried, anxious to tell Chettam it would not be his fault if Dorothea insisted on looking into everything.

Dorothea sank back and meditatively cast her eyes on her crossed hands. “Look, Dodo! look at him!” cried Celia. “Did you ever see anything like that? His upper lip—see how he is drawing it down.” A large tear rolled down Dorothea’s cheek. “Don’t be sad, Dodo; kiss baby.”

“I wonder if Sir James would drive me to Lowick. I want to look over everything—to see if there were any words written for me.”

“You are not to go till Mr. Lydgate says you may go. You have got a wrong notion in your head as usual, Dodo—I can see that.”

“Where am I wrong, Kitty?”

“You are wanting to find out if there is anything uncomfortable for you to do now, only because Mr. Casaubon wished it. He has behaved very badly. James is as angry with him as can be.”

“Celia, you distress me. Tell me at once what you mean.”

“Why, he has made a codicil to his will, to say the property was all to go away from you if you married—I mean—”

“That is of no consequence.”

“But if you married Mr. Ladislaw, not anybody else. Of course that is of no consequence in one way—you never would marry Mr. Ladislaw; but that only makes it worse of Mr. Casaubon.”

The blood rushed painfully to Dorothea’s face and neck. Celia continued in her neutral tone: “James says it is abominable. As if Mr. Casaubon wanted to make people believe that you would wish to marry Mr. Ladislaw. Mrs. Cadwallader said you might as well marry an Italian with white mice!”

Dorothea threw herself back helplessly. Her world was in a state of convulsive change; her husband’s hidden thoughts had perhaps perverted everything, and there was a sudden strange yearning of heart toward Will Ladislaw. “I must wait and think anew,” she told herself.

Lydgate was announced. “I fear you are not so well as you were, Mrs. Casaubon; have you been agitated?” Her hand was of marble coldness. “She wants to go to Lowick,” said Celia. “She ought not, ought she?”

Lydgate said, “I hardly know. In my opinion Mrs. Casaubon should do what would give her the most repose of mind.” Later, to Sir James: “Let Mrs. Casaubon do as she likes. She wants perfect freedom.”

The next day Sir James drove her to Lowick. She searched every place for private writing, but found no paper addressed especially to her, except the “Synoptical Tabulation.” Bound by a pledge from the depths of her pity, she would have been capable of undertaking a toil her judgment whispered was vain; but now her judgment was made active by the bitter discovery that in her past union there had lurked the hidden alienation of secrecy and suspicion. Even with indignation in her heart, any act that seemed a triumphant eluding of his purpose revolted her.

Lydgate reopened the subject of the living. “I should like to speak of another man—Mr. Farebrother. His living is a poor one. He has never married because of his mother, aunt, and sister depending on him. I think him a remarkable fellow.”

“I wonder whether he suffers in his conscience because of that habit,” said Dorothea.

“I don’t pretend to say that Farebrother is apostolic. Practically I find that being apostolic now is an impatience of everything in which the parson doesn’t cut the principal figure. I see something of that in Mr. Tyke.”

“I should like to see Mr. Farebrother and hear him preach.”