Middlemarch
too good a fellow to be easy under the sense of being ungrateful. And
when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many ways of
escaping from its bonds.
“No,” answered Dorothea; “Mr. Casaubon has always avoided dwelling on
his own honorable actions.” She did not feel that her husband’s conduct
was depreciated; but this notion of what justice had required in his
relations with Will Ladislaw took strong hold on her mind. After a
moment’s pause, she added, “He had never told me that he supported your
mother. Is she still living?”
“No; she died by an accident—a fall—four years ago. It is curious that
my mother, too, ran away from her family, but not for the sake of her
husband. She never would tell me anything about her family, except that
she forsook them to get her own living—went on the stage, in fact. She
was a dark-eyed creature, with crisp ringlets, and never seemed to be
getting old. You see I come of rebellious blood on both sides,” Will
ended, smiling brightly at Dorothea, while she was still looking with
serious intentness before her, like a child seeing a drama for the
first time.
But her face, too, broke into a smile as she said, “That is your
apology, I suppose, for having yourself been rather rebellious; I mean,
to Mr. Casaubon’s wishes. You must remember that you have not done what
he thought best for you. And if he dislikes you—you were speaking of
dislike a little while ago—but I should rather say, if he has shown any
painful feelings towards you, you must consider how sensitive he has
become from the wearing effect of study. Perhaps,” she continued,
getting into a pleading tone, “my uncle has not told you how serious
Mr. Casaubon’s illness was. It would be very petty of us who are well
and can bear things, to think much of small offences from those who
carry a weight of trial.”
“You teach me better,” said Will. “I will never grumble on that subject
again.” There was a gentleness in his tone which came from the
unutterable contentment of perceiving—what Dorothea was hardly
conscious of—that she was travelling into the remoteness of pure pity
and loyalty towards her husband. Will was ready to adore her pity and
loyalty, if she would associate himself with her in manifesting them.
“I have really sometimes been a perverse fellow,” he went on, “but I
will never again, if I can help it, do or say what you would
disapprove.”
“That is very good of you,” said Dorothea, with another open smile. “I
shall have a little kingdom then, where I shall give laws. But you will
soon go away, out of my rule, I imagine. You will soon be tired of
staying at the Grange.”
“That is a point I wanted to mention to you—one of the reasons why I
wished to speak to you alone. Mr. Brooke proposes that I should stay in
this neighborhood. He has bought one of the Middlemarch newspapers, and
he wishes me to conduct that, and also to help him in other ways.”
“Would not that be a sacrifice of higher prospects for you?” said
Dorothea.
“Perhaps; but I have always been blamed for thinking of prospects, and
not settling to anything. And here is something offered to me. If you
would not like me to accept it, I will give it up. Otherwise I would
rather stay in this part of the country than go away. I belong to
nobody anywhere else.”
“I should like you to stay very much,” said Dorothea, at once, as
simply and readily as she had spoken at Rome. There was not the shadow
of a reason in her mind at the moment why she should not say so.
“Then I _will_ stay,” said Ladislaw, shaking his head backward, rising
and going towards the window, as if to see whether the rain had ceased.
But the next moment, Dorothea, according to a habit which was getting
continually stronger, began to reflect that her husband felt
differently from herself, and she colored deeply under the double
embarrassment of having expressed what might be in opposition to her
husband’s feeling, and of having to suggest this opposition to Will.
His face was not turned towards her, and this made it easier to say—
“But my opinion is of little consequence on such a subject. I think you
should be guided by Mr. Casaubon. I spoke without thinking of anything
else than my own feeling, which has nothing to do with the real
question. But it now occurs to me—perhaps Mr. Casaubon might see that
the proposal was not wise. Can you not wait now and mention it to him?”
“I can’t wait to-day,” said Will, inwardly seared by the possibility
that Mr. Casaubon would enter. “The rain is quite over now. I told Mr.
Brooke not to call for me: I would rather walk the five miles. I shall
strike across Halsell Common, and see the gleams on the wet grass. I
like that.”
He approached her to shake hands quite hurriedly, longing but not
daring to say, “Don’t mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon.” No, he
dared not, could not say it. To ask her to be less simple and direct
would be like breathing on the crystal that you want to see the light
through. And there was always the other great dread—of himself becoming
dimmed and forever ray-shorn in her eyes.
“I wish you could have stayed,” said Dorothea, with a touch of
mournfulness, as she rose and put out her hand. She also had her
thought which she did not like to express:—Will certainly ought to lose
no time in consulting Mr. Casaubon’s wishes, but for her to urge this
might seem an undue dictation.
So they only said “Good-by,” and Will quitted the house, striking
across the fields so as not to run any risk of encountering Mr.
Casaubon’s carriage, which, however, did not appear at the gate until
four o’clock. That was an unpropitious hour for coming home: it was too
early to gain the moral support under ennui of dressing his person for
dinner, and too late to undress his mind of the day’s frivolous
ceremony and affairs, so as to be prepared for a good plunge into the
serious business of study. On such occasions he usually threw into an
easy-chair in the library, and allowed Dorothea to read the London
papers to him, closing his eyes the while. To-day, however, he declined
that relief, observing that he had already had too many public details
urged upon him; but he spoke more cheerfully than usual, when Dorothea
asked about his fatigue, and added with that air of formal effort which
never forsook him even when he spoke without his waistcoat and cravat—
“I have had the gratification of meeting my former acquaintance, Dr.
Spanning, to-day, and of being praised by one who is himself a worthy
recipient of praise. He spoke very handsomely of my late tractate on
the Egyptian Mysteries,—using, in fact, terms which it would not become
me to repeat.” In uttering the last clause, Mr. Casaubon leaned over
the elbow of his chair, and swayed his head up and down, apparently as
a muscular outlet instead of that recapitulation which would not have
been becoming.
“I am very glad you have had that pleasure,” said Dorothea, delighted
to see her husband less weary than usual at this hour. “Before you came
I had been regretting that you happened to be out to-day.”
“Why so, my dear?” said Mr. Casaubon, throwing himself backward again.
“Because Mr. Ladislaw has been here; and he has mentioned a proposal of
my uncle’s which I should like to know your opinion of.” Her husband
she felt was really concerned in this question. Even with her ignorance
of the world she had a vague impression that the position offered to
Will was out of keeping with his family connections, and certainly Mr.
Casaubon had a claim to be consulted. He did not speak, but merely
bowed.
“Dear uncle, you know, has many projects. It appears that he has bought
one of the Middlemarch newspapers, and he has asked Mr. Ladislaw to
stay in this neighborhood and conduct the paper for him, besides
helping him in other ways.”
Dorothea looked at her husband while she spoke, but he had at first
blinked and finally closed his eyes, as if to save them; while his lips
became more tense. “What is your opinion?” she added, rather timidly,
after a slight pause.
“Did Mr. Ladislaw come on purpose to ask my opinion?” said Mr.
Casaubon, opening his eyes narrowly with a knife-edged look at
Dorothea. She was really uncomfortable on the point he inquired about,
but she only became a little more serious, and her eyes did not swerve.
“No,” she answered immediately, “he did not say that he came to ask
your opinion. But when he mentioned the proposal, he of course expected
me to tell you of it.”
Mr. Casaubon was silent.
“I feared that you might feel some objection. But certainly a young man
with so much talent might be very useful to my uncle—might help him to
do good in a better way. And Mr. Ladislaw wishes to have some fixed
occupation. He has been blamed, he says, for not seeking something of
that kind, and he would like to stay in this neighborhood because no
one cares for him elsewhere.”
Dorothea felt that this was a consideration to soften her husband.
However, he did not speak, and she presently recurred to Dr. Spanning
and the Archdeacon’s breakfast. But there was no longer sunshine on
these subjects.
The next morning, without Dorothea’s knowledge, Mr. Casaubon despatched
the following letter, beginning “Dear Mr. Ladislaw” (he had always
before addressed him as “Will”):—
“Mrs. Casaubon informs me that a proposal has been made to you, and
(according to an inference by no means stretched) has on your part been
in some degree entertained, which involves your residence in this
neighborhood in a capacity which I am justified in saying touches my
own position in such a way as renders it not only natural and
warrantable in me when that effect is viewed under the influence of
legitimate feeling, but incumbent on me when the same effect is
considered in the light of my responsibilities, to state at once that
your acceptance of the proposal above indicated would be highly
offensive to me. That I have some claim to the exercise of a veto here,
would not, I believe, be denied by any reasonable person cognizant of
the relations between us: relations which, though thrown into the past
by your recent procedure, are not thereby annulled in their character
of determining antecedents. I will not here make reflections on any
person’s judgment. It is enough for me to point out to yourself that
there are certain social fitnesses and proprieties which should hinder
a somewhat near relative of mine from becoming any wise conspicuous in
this vicinity in a status not only much beneath my own, but associated
at best with the sciolism of literary or political adventurers. At any
rate, the contrary issue must exclude you from further reception at my
house.
Yours faithfully,
“EDWARD CASAUBON.”
Meanwhile Dorothea’s mind was innocently at work towards the further
embitterment of her husband; dwelling, with a sympathy that grew to
agitation, on what Will had told her about his parents and
grandparents. Any private hours in her day were usually spent in her
blue-green boudoir, and she had come to be very fond of its pallid
quaintness. Nothing had been outwardly altered there; but while the
summer had gradually advanced over the western fields beyond the avenue
of elms, the bare room had gathered within it those memories of an
inward life which fill the air as with a cloud of good or bad angels,
the invisible yet active forms of our spiritual triumphs or our
spiritual falls. She had been so used to struggle for and to find
resolve in looking along the avenue towards the arch of western light
that the vision itself had gained a communicating power. Even the pale
stag seemed to have reminding glances and to mean mutely, “Yes, we
know.” And the group of delicately touched miniatures had made an
audience as of beings no longer disturbed about their own earthly lot,