Middlemarch
her husband. “She said she _never would_ marry again—not anybody at
all.”
“I heard her say the same thing myself,” said Lady Chettam,
majestically, as if this were royal evidence.
“Oh, there is usually a silent exception in such cases,” said Mrs.
Cadwallader. “The only wonder to me is, that any of you are surprised.
You did nothing to hinder it. If you would have had Lord Triton down
here to woo her with his philanthropy, he might have carried her off
before the year was over. There was no safety in anything else. Mr.
Casaubon had prepared all this as beautifully as possible. He made
himself disagreeable—or it pleased God to make him so—and then he dared
her to contradict him. It’s the way to make any trumpery tempting, to
ticket it at a high price in that way.”
“I don’t know what you mean by wrong, Cadwallader,” said Sir James,
still feeling a little stung, and turning round in his chair towards
the Rector. “He’s not a man we can take into the family. At least, I
must speak for myself,” he continued, carefully keeping his eyes off
Mr. Brooke. “I suppose others will find his society too pleasant to
care about the propriety of the thing.”
“Well, you know, Chettam,” said Mr. Brooke, good-humoredly, nursing his
leg, “I can’t turn my back on Dorothea. I must be a father to her up to
a certain point. I said, ‘My dear, I won’t refuse to give you away.’ I
had spoken strongly before. But I can cut off the entail, you know. It
will cost money and be troublesome; but I can do it, you know.”
Mr. Brooke nodded at Sir James, and felt that he was both showing his
own force of resolution and propitiating what was just in the Baronet’s
vexation. He had hit on a more ingenious mode of parrying than he was
aware of. He had touched a motive of which Sir James was ashamed. The
mass of his feeling about Dorothea’s marriage to Ladislaw was due
partly to excusable prejudice, or even justifiable opinion, partly to a
jealous repugnance hardly less in Ladislaw’s case than in Casaubon’s.
He was convinced that the marriage was a fatal one for Dorothea. But
amid that mass ran a vein of which he was too good and honorable a man
to like the avowal even to himself: it was undeniable that the union of
the two estates—Tipton and Freshitt—lying charmingly within a
ring-fence, was a prospect that flattered him for his son and heir.
Hence when Mr. Brooke noddingly appealed to that motive, Sir James felt
a sudden embarrassment; there was a stoppage in his throat; he even
blushed. He had found more words than usual in the first jet of his
anger, but Mr. Brooke’s propitiation was more clogging to his tongue
than Mr. Cadwallader’s caustic hint.
But Celia was glad to have room for speech after her uncle’s suggestion
of the marriage ceremony, and she said, though with as little eagerness
of manner as if the question had turned on an invitation to dinner, “Do
you mean that Dodo is going to be married directly, uncle?”
“In three weeks, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, helplessly. “I can do
nothing to hinder it, Cadwallader,” he added, turning for a little
countenance toward the Rector, who said—
“_I_ should not make any fuss about it. If she likes to be poor, that
is her affair. Nobody would have said anything if she had married the
young fellow because he was rich. Plenty of beneficed clergy are poorer
than they will be. Here is Elinor,” continued the provoking husband;
“she vexed her friends by me: I had hardly a thousand a-year—I was a
lout—nobody could see anything in me—my shoes were not the right
cut—all the men wondered how a woman could like me. Upon my word, I
must take Ladislaw’s part until I hear more harm of him.”
“Humphrey, that is all sophistry, and you know it,” said his wife.
“Everything is all one—that is the beginning and end with you. As if
you had not been a Cadwallader! Does any one suppose that I would have
taken such a monster as you by any other name?”
“And a clergyman too,” observed Lady Chettam with approbation. “Elinor
cannot be said to have descended below her rank. It is difficult to say
what Mr. Ladislaw is, eh, James?”
Sir James gave a small grunt, which was less respectful than his usual
mode of answering his mother. Celia looked up at him like a thoughtful
kitten.
“It must be admitted that his blood is a frightful mixture!” said Mrs.
Cadwallader. “The Casaubon cuttle-fish fluid to begin with, and then a
rebellious Polish fiddler or dancing-master, was it?—and then an old
clo—”
“Nonsense, Elinor,” said the Rector, rising. “It is time for us to go.”
“After all, he is a pretty sprig,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, rising too,
and wishing to make amends. “He is like the fine old Crichley portraits
before the idiots came in.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Brooke, starting up with alacrity. “You
must all come and dine with me to-morrow, you know—eh, Celia, my dear?”
“You will, James—won’t you?” said Celia, taking her husband’s hand.
“Oh, of course, if you like,” said Sir James, pulling down his
waistcoat, but unable yet to adjust his face good-humoredly. “That is
to say, if it is not to meet anybody else.”
“No, no, no,” said Mr. Brooke, understanding the condition. “Dorothea
would not come, you know, unless you had been to see her.”
When Sir James and Celia were alone, she said, “Do you mind about my
having the carriage to go to Lowick, James?”
“What, now, directly?” he answered, with some surprise.
“Yes, it is very important,” said Celia.
“Remember, Celia, I cannot see her,” said Sir James.
“Not if she gave up marrying?”
“What is the use of saying that?—however, I’m going to the stables.
I’ll tell Briggs to bring the carriage round.”
Celia thought it was of great use, if not to say that, at least to take
a journey to Lowick in order to influence Dorothea’s mind. All through
their girlhood she had felt that she could act on her sister by a word
judiciously placed—by opening a little window for the daylight of her
own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps by which
Dodo habitually saw. And Celia the matron naturally felt more able to
advise her childless sister. How could any one understand Dodo so well
as Celia did or love her so tenderly?
Dorothea, busy in her boudoir, felt a glow of pleasure at the sight of
her sister so soon after the revelation of her intended marriage. She
had prefigured to herself, even with exaggeration, the disgust of her
friends, and she had even feared that Celia might be kept aloof from
her.
“O Kitty, I am delighted to see you!” said Dorothea, putting her hands
on Celia’s shoulders, and beaming on her. “I almost thought you would
not come to me.”
“I have not brought Arthur, because I was in a hurry,” said Celia, and
they sat down on two small chairs opposite each other, with their knees
touching.
“You know, Dodo, it is very bad,” said Celia, in her placid guttural,
looking as prettily free from humors as possible. “You have
disappointed us all so. And I can’t think that it ever _will_ be—you
never can go and live in that way. And then there are all your plans!
You never can have thought of that. James would have taken any trouble
for you, and you might have gone on all your life doing what you
liked.”
“On the contrary, dear,” said Dorothea, “I never could do anything that
I liked. I have never carried out any plan yet.”
“Because you always wanted things that wouldn’t do. But other plans
would have come. And how _can_ you marry Mr. Ladislaw, that we none of
us ever thought you _could_ marry? It shocks James so dreadfully. And
then it is all so different from what you have always been. You would
have Mr. Casaubon because he had such a great soul, and was so old and
dismal and learned; and now, to think of marrying Mr. Ladislaw, who has
got no estate or anything. I suppose it is because you must be making
yourself uncomfortable in some way or other.”
Dorothea laughed.
“Well, it is very serious, Dodo,” said Celia, becoming more impressive.
“How will you live? and you will go away among queer people. And I
shall never see you—and you won’t mind about little Arthur—and I
thought you always would—”
Celia’s rare tears had got into her eyes, and the corners of her mouth
were agitated.
“Dear Celia,” said Dorothea, with tender gravity, “if you don’t ever
see me, it will not be my fault.”
“Yes, it will,” said Celia, with the same touching distortion of her
small features. “How can I come to you or have you with me when James
can’t bear it?—that is because he thinks it is not right—he thinks you
are so wrong, Dodo. But you always were wrong: only I can’t help loving
you. And nobody can think where you will live: where can you go?”
“I am going to London,” said Dorothea.
“How can you always live in a street? And you will be so poor. I could
give you half my things, only how can I, when I never see you?”
“Bless you, Kitty,” said Dorothea, with gentle warmth. “Take comfort:
perhaps James will forgive me some time.”
“But it would be much better if you would not be married,” said Celia,
drying her eyes, and returning to her argument; “then there would be
nothing uncomfortable. And you would not do what nobody thought you
could do. James always said you ought to be a queen; but this is not at
all being like a queen. You know what mistakes you have always been
making, Dodo, and this is another. Nobody thinks Mr. Ladislaw a proper
husband for you. And you _said_ you would never be married again.”
“It is quite true that I might be a wiser person, Celia,” said
Dorothea, “and that I might have done something better, if I had been
better. But this is what I am going to do. I have promised to marry Mr.
Ladislaw; and I am going to marry him.”
The tone in which Dorothea said this was a note that Celia had long
learned to recognize. She was silent a few moments, and then said, as
if she had dismissed all contest, “Is he very fond of you, Dodo?”
“I hope so. I am very fond of him.”
“That is nice,” said Celia, comfortably. “Only I would rather you had
such a sort of husband as James is, with a place very near, that I
could drive to.”
Dorothea smiled, and Celia looked rather meditative. Presently she
said, “I cannot think how it all came about.” Celia thought it would be
pleasant to hear the story.
“I dare say not,” said Dorothea, pinching her sister’s chin. “If you
knew how it came about, it would not seem wonderful to you.”
“Can’t you tell me?” said Celia, settling her arms cozily.
“No, dear, you would have to feel with me, else you would never know.”
CHAPTER LXXXV.
“Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr.
Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr.
Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who
every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and
afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the
judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the foreman, said, I
see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away
with such a fellow from the earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the
very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him.
Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my way.
Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind.
My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr.
Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch
him out of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might
I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him;
therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death.”—_Pilgrim’s
Progress_.
When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions