CHAPTER LXXXIII. "And now good-morrow to our waking souls interrupted by the opening of the door and the announcement of Miss Noble. The little old lady, whose bonnet hardly reached Dorothea's shoulder, was warmly welcomed, but while her hand was being pressed she made many of her beaver-like noises, as if she had something difficult to say. "Do sit down," said Dorothea, rolling a chair forward. "Am I wanted for any thing? I shall be so glad if I can do any thing." 66 "I will not stay," said Miss Noble, putting her hand into her small basket, and holding some article inside it nervously; "I have left a friend in the church-yard." She lapsed into her inarticulate sounds, and unconsciously drew forth the article which she was fingering. It was the tortoise-shell lozenge-box, and Dorothea felt the color mounting to her cheeks. "Mr. Ladislaw," continued the timid little woman. "He fears he has offended you, and has begged me to ask if you will see him for a few minutes." Dorothea did not answer on the instant: it was crossing her mind that she could not receive him in this library, where her husband's prohibition seemed to dwell. She looked toward the window. Could she go out and meet him in the grounds? The sky was heavy, and the trees had begun to shiver as at a coming storm. Besides, she shrank from going out to him. "Do see him, Mrs. Casaubon," said Miss Noble, pathetically; "else I must go back and say No, and that will hurt him." 66 'Yes, I will see him," said Dorothea. "Pray tell him to come." On the second morning after Dorothea's visit to Rosamond she had had two nights of sound sleep, and had not only lost all traces of fatigue, but felt as if she had a great deal of superfluous strength-that is to say, more strength than she could manage to concentrate on any occupation. The day before, she had taken long walks outside the grounds, and had paid two visits to the parsonage; but she never in her life told any one the reason why she spent her time in that fruitless manner, and this morning she was rather angry with herself for her childish restlessness. To-day was to be spent quite differently. What was there to be done in the village? Oh dear! nothing. Every body was well and had flannel; nobody's pig had died; and it was Saturday morning, when there was a general scrubbing of floors and door-stones, and when it was useless to go into the school. But there were various subjects that Dorothea was trying to get clear upon, and she resolved to throw herself energetically into the gravest of all. She sat down in the library before her particular little heap of books on political economy and kindred matters, out of which she was trying to get light as to the best way of spending money so as not to injure one's neighbors, or what comes to the same thing-so as to do them the most good. Here was a weighty subject which, if she could but lay hold of it, would certainly keep her mind steady. Unhappily her mind slipped off it for a whole hour; and at the end she found herself reading sentences twice over with an intense consciousness of many things, but not of any one thing contained in the text. This was hopeless. Should she order the carriage and drive to Tipton? No; for some reason or other she preferred staying at Lowick. When the little lady had trotted away on her But her vagrant mind must be reduced to order: mission, Dorothea stood in the middle of the lithere was an art in self-discipline; and she walk-brary with her hands falling clasped before her, ed round and round the brown library consider-making no attempt to compose herself in an attiing by what sort of manoeuvre she could arrest her wandering thoughts. Perhaps a mere task was the best means-something to which she must go doggedly. Was there not the geography of Asia Minor, in which her slackness had often been rebuked by Mr. Casaubon ? She went to the cabinet of maps and unrolled one: this morning she might make herself finally sure that Paphlagonia was not on the Levantine coast, and fix her total darkness about the Chalybes firmly on the shores of the Euxine. A map was a fine thing to study when you were disposed to think of something else, being made up of names that would turn into a chime if you went back upon them. Dorothea set earnestly to work, bending close to her map, and uttering the names in an audible, subdued tone, which often got into a chime. She looked amusingly girlish after all her deep experience - nodding her head and marking the names off on her fingers, with a little pursing of her lip, and now and then breaking off to put her hands on each side of her face and say, "Oh dear! oh dear!" There was no reason why this should end any more than a merry-go-round; but it was at last What else was there to be done? There was nothing that she longed for at that moment except to see Will: the possibility of seeing him had thrust itself insistently between her and every other object; and yet she had a throbbing excitement like an alarm upon her-a sense that she was doing something daringly defiant for his sake. tude of dignified unconsciousness. What she was least conscious of just then was her own body: she was thinking of what was likely to be in Will's mind, and of the hard feelings that others had had about him. How could any duty bind her to hardness? Resistance to unjust dispraise had mingled with her feeling for him from the very first, and now in the rebound of her heart after her anguish the resistance was stronger than ever. "If I love him too much it is because he has been used so ill:"-there was a voice within her saying that to some imagined audience in the library, when the door was opened, and she saw Will before her. She did not move, and he came toward her with more doubt and timidity in his face than she had ever seen before. He was in a state of uncertainty, which made him afraid lest some look or word of his should condemn him to a new distance from her; and Dorothea was afraid of her own emotion. She looked as if there were a spell upon her, keeping her motionless, and hindering her from unclasping her hands, while some intense, grave yearning was imprisoned within her eyes. Seeing that she did not put out her hand as usual, Will paused a yard from her, and | thea, putting out her hand— "I wanted to see you," said Dorothea, having no other words at command. It did not occur to her to sit down, and Will did not give a cheerful interpretation to this queenly way of receiving him; but he went on to say what he had made up his mind to say. "I fear you think me foolish and perhaps wrong for coming back so soon. I have been punished for my impatience. You know every one knows now-a painful story about my parentage. I knew of it before I went away, and I always meant to tell you of it if—if we ever met again.' There was a slight movement in Dorothea, and she unclasped her hands, but immediately folded them over each other. —a vague fear for him He took her hand and raised it to his lips, with something like a sob. But he stood with his hat and gloves in the other hand, and might have done for the portrait of a Royalist. Still, it was difficult to loose the hand, and Dorothea, withdrawing it in a confusion that distressed her, looked and moved away. "See how dark the clouds have become, and how the trees are tossed," she said, walking toward the window, yet speaking and moving with only a dim sense of what she was doing. Will followed her at a little distance, and leaned against the tall back of a leather chair, on which he ventured now to lay his hat and gloves, and free himself from the intolerable durance of formality to which he had been for the first time condemned in Dorothea's presence. It must be confessed that he felt very happy at that moment leaning on the chair. He was not much afraid of any thing that she might feel now. They stood silent, not looking at each other, but looking at the evergreens which were being tossed, and were showing the pale under side of their leaves against the blackening sky. Will "But the affair is matter of gossip now," Will continued. "I wished you to know that something connected with it-something which happened before I went away, helped to bring me down here again. At least, I thought it excused my coming. It was the idea of getting Bulstrode to apply some money to a public purpose-some money which he had thought of giv-never enjoyed the prospect of a storm so much: ing me. Perhaps it is rather to Bulstrode's it delivered him from the necessity of going away. credit that he privately offered me compensation Leaves and little branches were hurled about, and for an old injury: he offered to give me a good the thunder was getting nearer. The light was income to make amends; but I suppose you more and more sombre, but there came a flash of know the disagreeable story?" lightning which made them start and look at each other, and then smile. Dorothea began to say what she had been thinking of. Will looked doubtfully at Dorothea, but his manner was gathering some of the defiant courage with which he always thought of this fact in his destiny. He added, "You know that it must be altogether painful to me." "Yes-yes-I know," said Dorothea, hastily. "I did not choose to accept an income from such a source. I was sure that you would not think well of me if I did so," said Will. Why should he mind saying any thing of that sort to her now? She knew that he had avowed his love for her. "I felt that " He broke off, nevertheless. "You acted as I should have expected you to act," said Dorothea, her face brightening, and her head becoming a little more erect on its beautiful stem. "I did not believe that you would let any circumstance of my birth create a prejudice in you against me, though it was sure to do so in others," said Will, shaking his head backward in his old way, and looking with a grave appeal into her "That was a wrong thing for you to say, that you would have had nothing to try for. If we had lost our own chief good, other people's good would remain, and that is worth trying for. Some can be happy. I seemed to see that more clearly than ever when I was the most wretched. I can hardly think how I could have borne the trouble, if that feeling had not come to me to make strength." "You have never felt the sort of misery I felt,' said Will," the misery of knowing that you must despise me." "But I have felt worse-it was worse to think ill-" Dorothea had begun impetuously, but broke off. Will colored. He had the sense that whatever she said was uttered in the vision of a fatality that kept them apart. He was silent a moment, and then said, passionately, "We may at least have the comfort of speaking to each other without disguise. Since I must go away-since we must always be divided—you may think of me as one on the brink of the grave.' While he was speaking there came a vivid flash of lightning which lit each of them up for the other-and the light seemed to be the terror of a hopeless love. Dorothea darted instantaneously from the window; Will followed her, seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; and so they stood, with their hands clasped, like two children, looking out on the storm, while the thunder gave a tremendous crack and roll above them, and the rain began to pour down. Then they turned their faces toward each other, with the memory of his last words in them, and they did not loose each other's hands. "There is no hope for me," said Will. "Even if you loved me as well as I love you-even if I were every thing to you-I shall most likely always be very poor-on a sober calculation, one can count on nothing but a creeping lot. It is impossible for us ever to belong to each other. It is perhaps base of me to have asked for a word from you. I meant to go away into silence, but I have not been able to do what I meant." "Don't be sorry," said Dorothea, in her clear, tender tones. "I would rather share all the trouble of our parting." his hat, said, with a sort of exasperation, "Goodby.' 66 Oh, I can not bear it-my heart will break," said Dorothea, starting from her seat, the flood of her young passion bearing down all the obstructions which had kept her silent-the great tears rising and falling in an instant: "I don't mind about poverty-I hate my wealth." In an instant Will was close to her and had his arms round her; but she drew her head back and held his away gently, that she might go on speakHer lips trembled, and so did his. It was nev-ing, her large tear-filled eyes looking at his very er known which lips were the first to move toward the other lips; but they kissed tremblingly, and then they moved apart. The rain was dashing against the windowpanes as if an angry spirit were within it, and behind it was the great swoop of the wind; it was one of those moments in which both the busy and the idle pause with a certain awe. Dorothea sat down on the seat nearest to her, a long, low ottoman in the middle of the room, and, with her hands folded over each other on her lap, looked at the drear outer world. Will stood still an instant looking at her, then seated himself beside her, and laid his hand on hers, which turned itself upward to be clasped. They sat in that way without looking at each other, until the rain abated and began to fall in stillness. Each had been full of thoughts which neither of them could begin to utter. But when the rain was quiet, Dorothea turned to look at Will. With passionate exclamation, as if some torture-screw were threatening him, he started up, and said, "It is impossible!" He went and leaned on the back of the chair again, and seemed to be battling with his own anger, while she looked toward him sadly. "It is as fatal as a murder or any other horror that divides people," he burst out again; "it is more intolerable to have our life maimed by petty accidents." "No-don't say that-your life need not be maimed," said Dorothea, gently. "Yes, it must," said Will, angrily. "It is cruel of you to speak in that way-as if there were any comfort. You may see beyond the misery of it, but I don't. It is unkind-it is throwing back my love for you as if it were a trifle, to speak in that way in the face of the fact. We can never be married." "Some time-we might," said Dorothea, in a trembling voice. "When ?" said Will, bitterly. "What is the use of counting on any success of mine? It is a mere toss-up whether I shall ever do more than keep myself decently, unless I choose to sell myself as a mere pen and a mouth-piece. I can see that clearly enough. I could not offer myself to any woman, even if she had no luxuries to re nounce. There was silence. Dorothea's heart was full of something that she wanted to say, and yet the words were too difficult. She was wholly possessed by them: at that moment debate was mute within her. And it was very hard that she could not say what she wanted to say. Will was looking out of the window angrily. If he would have looked at her and not gone away from her side, she thought every thing would have been easier. At last he turned, still resting against the chair, and, stretching his hand automatically toward simply, while she said, in a sobbing, child-like way, "We could live quite well on my own fortune--it is too much-seven hundred a year-I want so little-no new clothes-and I will learn what every thing costs." CHAPTER LXXXIV. "Though it be songe of old and yonge, It was just after the Lords had thrown out the Reform Bill: that explains how Mr. Cadwallader came to be walking on the slope of the lawn near the great conservatory at Freshitt Hall, holding the Times in his hands behind him, while he talked with a trout-fisher's dispassionateness about the prospects of the country to Sir James Chettam. Mrs. Cadwallader, the Dowager Lady Chettam, and Celia were sometimes seated on garden-chairs, sometimes walking to meet little Arthur, who was being drawn in his chariot, and, as became the infantine Bouddha, was sheltered by his sacred umbrella with handsome silken fringe. The ladies also talked politics, though more fitfully. Mrs. Cadwallader was strong on the intended creation of peers: she had it for certain from her cousin that Truberry had gone over to the other side entirely at the instigation of his wife, who had scented peerages in the air from the very first introduction of the Reform question, and would sign her soul away to take precedence of her younger sister, who had married a baronet. Lady Chettam thought that such conduct was very reprehensible, and remembered that Mrs. Truberry's mother was a Miss Walsingham of Melspring. Celia confessed it was nicer to be 66 Lady" than "Mrs.," and that Dodo never minded about precedence if she could have her own way. Mrs. Cadwallader held that it was a poor satisfaction to take precedence when every body about you knew that you had not a drop of good blood in your veins; and Celia again, stopping to look at Arthur, said, "It would be very nice, though, if he were a viscount-and his lordship's little tooth coming through! He might have been, if James had been an earl." "My dear Celia," said the Dowager, "James's title is worth far more than any new earldom. I never wished his father to be any thing else than Sir James." "Oh, I only meant about Arthur's little tooth," said Celia, comfortably. "But see, here is my uncle coming." She tripped off to meet her uncle, while Sir James and Mr. Cadwallader came forward to knee. Sir James was almost white with anger, but he did not speak. make one group with the ladies. Celia had a frightened glance, and put her hand on his slipped her arm through her uncle's, and he patted her hand with a rather melancholy "Well, my dear!" As they approached, it was evident Mr. Brooke was looking dejected, but this was fully accounted for by the state of politics; and as he was shaking hands all round without more greeting than a "Well, you're all here, you know," the rector said, laughingly, "Don't take the throwing out of the bill so much to heart, Brooke; you've got all the riffraff of the country on your side. "The bill, eh? Ah!" said Mr. Brooke, with a mild distractedness of manner. "Thrown out, you know, eh? The Lords are going too far, though. They'll have to pull up. Sad news, you know. I mean, here at home-sad news. But you must not blame me, Chettam." "What is the matter ?" said Sir James. "Not another gamekeeper shot, I hope? It's what I should expect when a fellow like Trapping Bass is let off so easily." 66 Gamekeeper? No. Let us go in; I can tell you all in the house, you know," said Mr. Brooke, nodding at the Cadwalladers, to show that he included them in his confidence. "As to poachers like Trapping Bass, you know, Chettam," he continued, as they were entering, "when you are a magistrate, you'll not find it so easy to commit. Severity is all very well, but it's a great deal easier when you've got somebody to do it for you. You have a soft place in your heart yourself, you know-you're not a Draco, a Jeffreys, that sort of thing." Mr. Brooke was evidently in a state of nervous perturbation. When he had something painful to tell, it was usually his way to introduce it among a number of disjointed particulars as if it were a medicine that would get a milder flavor by mixing. He continued his chat with Sir James about the poachers until they were all seated; and Mrs. Cadwallader, impatient of this driveling, said, "I am dying to know the sad news. gamekeeper is not shot: that is settled. is it, then ?" The What "Well, it is a very trying thing, you know," said Mr. Brooke. "I'm glad you and the rector are here; it's a family matter-but you will help us all to bear it, Cadwallader. I've got to break it to you, my dear." Here Mr. Brooke looked at Celia. "You've no notion what it is, you know. And, Chettam, it will annoy you uncommonly: but, you see, you have not been able to hinder it any more than I have. There's something singular in things: they come round, you know." It must be about Dodo," said Celia, who had been used to think of her sister as the dangerous part of the family machinery. She had seated herself on a low stool against her husband's knee. "For God's sake, let us hear what it is!" said Sir James. "Well, you know, Chettam, I couldn't help Casaubon's will; it was a sort of will to make things worse." 66 "Exactly," said Sir James, hastily. "But what is worse?" "Dorothea is going to be married again, you know," said Mr. Brooke, nodding toward Celia, who immediately looked up at her husband with "Merciful Heaven!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Not to young Ladislaw?" Mr. Brooke nodded, saying, "Yes, to Ladislaw," and then fell into a prudential silence. "You see, Humphrey !" said Mrs. Cadwallader, waving her arm toward her husband. "Another time you will admit that I have some foresight; or rather you will contradict me, and be just as blind as ever. You supposed that the young gentleman had gone out of the country." "So he might be, and yet come back," said the rector, quietly. "When did you learn this?" said Sir James, not liking to hear any one else speak, though finding it difficult to speak himself. 66 Yesterday," said Mr. Brooke, meekly. "I went to Lowick. Dorothea sent for me, you know. It had come about quite suddenly— neither of them had any idea two days ago—not any idea, you know. There's something singular in things. But Dorothea is quite determined it is no use opposing. I put it strongly to her. I did my duty, Chettam. But she can act as she likes, you know." "It would have been better if I had called him out and shot him a year ago," said Sir James; not from bloody-mindedness, but because he needed something strong to say. "Really, James, that would have been very disagreeable," said Celia. "Be reasonable, Chettam. Look at the affair more quietly," said Mr. Cadwallader, sorry to see his good-natured friend so overmastered by anger. "That is not very easy for a man of any dignity-with any sense of right-when the affair happens to be in his own family," said Sir James, still in his white indignation. "It is perfectly scandalous. If Ladislaw had had a spark of honor he would have gone out of the country at once, and never shown his face in it again. However, I am not surprised. The day after Casaubon's funeral I said what ought to be done. But I was not listened to." "You wanted what was impossible, you know, Chettam," said Mr. Brooke. "You wanted him shipped off. I told you Ladislaw was not to be done as we liked with; he had his ideas. He was a remarkable fellow-I always said he was a remarkable fellow." "Yes," said Sir James, unable to repress a retort, "it is rather a pity you formed that high opinion of him. We are indebted to that for his being lodged in this neighborhood. We are indebted to that for seeing a woman like Dorothea degrading herself by marrying him." Sir James made little stoppages between his clauses, the words not coming easily. "A man so marked out by her husband's will that delicacy ought to have forbidden her from seeing him again-who takes her out of her proper rank-into povertyhas the meanness to accept such a sacrifice-has always had an objectionable position-a bad origin-and, I believe, is a man of little principle and light character. That is my opinion," Sir James ended, emphatically, turning aside and crossing his leg. "I pointed every thing out to her," said Mr. Brooke, apologetically-"I mean the poverty, | he was both showing his own force of resolution and abandoning her position. I said, 'My dear, and propitiating what was just in the baronet's you don't know what it is to live on seven hun- vexation. He had hit on a more ingenious mode dred a year, and have no carriage, and that kind of parrying than he was aware of. He had touched of thing, and go among people who don't know a motive of which Sir James was ashamed. The who you are.' I put it strongly to her. But I mass of his feeling about Dorothea's marriage to advise you to talk to Dorothea herself. The fact Ladislaw was due partly to excusable prejudice, is, she has a dislike to Casaubon's property. You or even justifiable opinion, partly to a jealous rewill hear what she says, you know. pugnance hardly less in Ladislaw's case than in "No-excuse me-Ishall: not, "said Sir James, Casaubon's. He was convinced that the marriage with more coolness. "I can not bear to see her was a fatal one for Dorothea. But amidst that again; it is too painful. It hurts me too much mass ran a vein of which he was too good and that a woman like Dorothea should have done honorable a man to like the avowal even to himwhat is wrong." self: 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. "Be just, Chettam," said the easy, large-lipped rector, who objected to all this unnecessary discomfort. "Mrs. Casaubon may be acting imprudently she is giving up a fortune for the sake of a man, and we men have so poor an opinion of each other that we can hardly call a woman wise who does that. But I think you should not condemn it as a wrong action, in the strict sense of the word. "Yes, I do," answered Sir James. "I think that Dorothea commits a wrong action in marrying Ladislaw." "My dear fellow, we are rather apt to consider an act wrong because it is unpleasant to us,' said the rector, quietly. Like many men who take life easily, he had the knack of saying a home truth occasionally to those who felt themselves virtuously out of temper. Sir James took out his handkerchief and began to bite the cor 66 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 any thing 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 marrying me: I had hardly a thousand a year-I was a lout-nobody could see any thing 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." 66 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 "Humphrey, that is all sophistry, and you year was over. There was no safety in any thing know it," said his wife. 'Every thing is all one else. Mr. Casaubon had prepared all this as beau--that is the beginning and end with you. As if tifully as possible. He made himself disagreea- you had not been a Cadwallader! Does any one ble-or it pleased God to make him so-and then suppose that I would have taken such a monster he dared her to contradict him. It's the way to as you by any other name?" 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 toward 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 "And a clergyman too," observed Lady Chettam, with approbation. "Elinor can not 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 Crichely por traits before the idiots came in." "I'll go with you," said Mr. Brooke, starting |