Middlemarch

BOOK VI.

THE WIDOW AND THE WIFE.

CHAPTER LIV.

“Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore; / Per che si fa gentil ciò ch’ella mira.” By that delightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air quite impartially, Dorothea had again taken up her abode at Lowick Manor. After three months Freshitt had become oppressive: to sit like a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously at Celia’s baby would not do for many hours, and Dorothea’s childless widowhood fell in prettily with the birth of little Arthur.

“Dodo is just the creature not to mind about having anything of her own,” said Celia to her husband. “And if she had had a baby, it never could have been such a dear as Arthur.” “Not if it had been like Casaubon,” said Sir James, conscious of indirectness. “No! just imagine! Really it was a mercy,” said Celia. “I think it is very nice for Dodo to be a widow. She can be just as fond of our baby.”

Hence, when she found Dorothea making arrangements for her final departure to Lowick, Celia raised her eyebrows with disappointment. “What will you do at Lowick, Dodo? You say yourself there is nothing to be done there.” “I want to be alone now, and in my own home. I wish to know the Farebrothers better.”

Mrs. Cadwallader said privately, “You will certainly go mad in that house alone, my dear. You must get a few people round you.” Dorothea replied stoutly, “I still think that the greater part of the world is mistaken about many things.”

By the end of June, the morning gazed calmly into the library at Lowick, and the evening laden with roses entered the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea chose oftenest to sit. She lingered in the library, ranging all the note-books as she imagined he would wish. One little act of hers may perhaps be smiled at as superstitious. The Synoptical Tabulation for the use of Mrs. Casaubon, she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope: “I could not use it. Do you not see now that I could not submit my soul to yours, by working hopelessly at what I have no belief in—Dorothea?”

That silent colloquy was perhaps only the more earnest because underneath there was always the deep longing which had determined her to come to Lowick. Life would be no better than candle-light tinsel if our spirits were not touched by what has been to issues of longing and constancy. She counted on Will’s coming to see the Farebrother family. The very first Sunday, before she entered the church, she saw him as she had seen him the last time, alone in the clergyman’s pew.

One morning about eleven, Dorothea was seated in her boudoir when Tantripp came to say Mr. Ladislaw was below. “I will see him,” said Dorothea, rising immediately.

The drawing-room was the most neutral room in the house. Will wished even the butler to know he was too proud to hang about Mrs. Casaubon now she was a rich widow. “Glad to see you here again, sir,” said Pratt. “I am only come to say good-by, Pratt.”

When Dorothea entered, the meeting was very different from that first meeting in Rome. Will felt miserable but determined, while she was in a state of agitation she could not hide. Neither spoke at first. She gave her hand for a moment.

“I hope I have not presumed too much in calling,” said Will. “I could not bear to leave the neighborhood without seeing you to say good-by.”

“Presumed? Surely not. Are you going away immediately?” “Very soon. I intend to go to town and eat my dinners as a barrister. Other men have managed to win an honorable position without family or money.”

“And that will make it all the more honorable,” said Dorothea, ardently. “You have so many talents. I am so glad. I know you think about the rest of the world now.”

“You approve of my going away for years, then, and never coming here again till I have made myself of some mark in the world?”

She turned her head and looked out of the window on the rose-bushes. “Yes, it must be right for you to do as you say. I shall be very happy when I hear that you have made your value felt. But you must have patience. It will perhaps be a long while.”

“I shall never hear from you. And you will forget all about me.” “No,” said Dorothea, smiling. “I have a great deal of space for memory at Lowick, haven’t I?”

“Good God!” Will burst out passionately, rising and walking away. The blood had mounted to his face and neck. She looked at him from that distance in some trouble, and led by a current of thought about his probable want of money, she said: “I wonder whether you would like to have that miniature which hangs up-stairs—I mean that beautiful miniature of your grandmother. I think it is not right for me to keep it.”

“You are very good. No; I don’t mind about it.” “You would surely like to have the miniature as a family memorial.”

“Why should I have that, when I have nothing else!” Dorothea rose with a touch of hauteur: “You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Ladislaw, to have nothing.”

Will was startled. “I never felt it a misfortune to have nothing till now. But poverty may be as bad as leprosy, if it divides us from what we most care for.”

“Sorrow comes in so many ways,” she answered. “I have almost given up doing as I liked.” “The thing one most longs for may be surrounded with conditions that would be intolerable.”

At this moment Pratt entered: “Sir James Chettam is in the library, madam.” The same electric shock passed through her and Will. Sir James bowed as slightly as possible to Ladislaw, who repaid the slightness exactly.

“I must say good-by, Mrs. Casaubon; and probably for a long while.” Dorothea put out her hand and said her good-by cordially, her resolution and dignity roused by Sir James’s depreciation of Will. When Will had left, Sir James shrank with dislike from the association of Dorothea with Ladislaw as her possible lover. His aversion was the stronger because he felt himself unable to interfere. Entering at that moment, he was an incorporation of the strongest reasons through which Will’s pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from Dorothea.