Middlemarch

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER IV.

  1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves. 2d Gent. Ay, truly: but I think it is the world That brings the iron.

  "Sir James seems determined to do everything you wish," said Celia, asthey were driving home from an inspection of the new building-site.

  "He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one would imagine,"said Dorothea, inconsiderately.

  "You mean that he appears silly."

  "No, no," said Dorothea, recollecting herself, and laying her hand onher sister's a moment, "but he does not talk equally well on allsubjects."

  "I should think none but disagreeable people do," said Celia, in herusual purring way. "They must be very dreadful to live with. Onlythink! at breakfast, and always."

  Dorothea laughed. "O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!" She pinchedCelia's chin, being in the mood now to think her very winning andlovely--fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were notdoctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than asquirrel. "Of course people need not be always talking well. Only onetells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well."

  "You mean that Sir James tries and fails."

  "I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise me about Sir James?It is not the object of his life to please me."

  "Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?"

  "Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister--that is all." Dorotheahad never hinted this before, waiting, from a certain shyness on suchsubjects which was mutual between the sisters, until it should beintroduced by some decisive event. Celia blushed, but said at once--

  "Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantripp wasbrushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James's man knew fromMrs. Cadwallader's maid that Sir James was to marry the eldest MissBrooke."

  "How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?" saidDorothea, indignantly, not the less angry because details asleep in hermemory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation. "Youmust have asked her questions. It is degrading."

  "I see no harm at all in Tantripp's talking to me. It is better tohear what people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking upnotions. I am quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer;and he believes that you will accept him, especially since you havebeen so pleased with him about the plans. And uncle too--I know heexpects it. Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love withyou."

  The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that thetears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans wereembittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceiving thatshe recognized him as her lover. There was vexation too on account ofCelia.

  "How could he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuous manner."I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I wasbarely polite to him before."

  "But you have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun to feelquite sure that you are fond of him."

  "Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?" saidDorothea, passionately.

  "Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of aman whom you accepted for a husband."

  "It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond ofhim. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must havetowards the man I would accept as a husband."

  "Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you,because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are,and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees;it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain.That's your way, Dodo." Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage;and she was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe.Who can tell what just criticisms Murr the Cat may be passing on usbeings of wider speculation?

  "It is very painful," said Dorothea, feeling scourged. "I can have nomore to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tellhim I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyesfilled again with tears.

  "Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a dayor two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood."Celia could not help relenting. "Poor Dodo," she went on, in anamiable staccato. "It is very hard: it is your favorite _fad_ to drawplans."

  "_Fad_ to draw plans! Do you think I only care about myfellow-creatures' houses in that childish way? I may well makemistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living amongpeople with such petty thoughts?"

  No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temperand behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. Shewas disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and thepurblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longerthe eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-whitenullifidian, worse than any discouraging presence in the "Pilgrim'sProgress." The _fad_ of drawing plans! What was life worth--what greatfaith was possible when the whole effect of one's actions could bewithered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of thecarriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an imageof sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have beenalarmed, if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty andcomposed, that he at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have theirorigin in her excessive religiousness. He had returned, during theirabsence, from a journey to the county town, about a petition for thepardon of some criminal.

  "Well, my dears," he said, kindly, as they went up to kiss him, "I hopenothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away."

  "No, uncle," said Celia, "we have been to Freshitt to look at thecottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch."

  "I came by Lowick to lunch--you didn't know I came by Lowick. And Ihave brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea--in the library,you know; they lie on the table in the library."

  It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, thrilling herfrom despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the earlyChurch. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shakenoff, and she walked straight to the library. Celia went up-stairs. Mr.Brooke was detained by a message, but when he re-entered the library,he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphlets whichhad some marginal manuscript of Mr. Casaubon's,--taking it in aseagerly as she might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after adry, hot, dreary walk.

  She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sadliability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem.

  Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm-chair, stretched his legs towards thewood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dicebetween the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very mildlytowards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he hadnothing particular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon asshe was aware of her uncle's presence, and rose as if to go. Usuallyshe would have been interested about her uncle's merciful errand onbehalf of the criminal, but her late agitation had made herabsent-minded.

  "I came back by Lowick, you know," said Mr. Brooke, not as if with anyintention to arrest her departure, but apparently from his usualtendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle ofhuman speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. "I lunched thereand saw Casaubon's library, and that kind of thing. There's a sharpair, driving. Won't you sit down, my dear? You look cold."

  Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Some times,when her uncle's easy way of taking things did not happen to beexasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle andbonnet, and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifting upher beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or smallhands; but powerful, feminine, maternal hands. She seemed to beholding them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know andto think, which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Fr
eshitt hadissued in crying and red eyelids.

  She bethought herself now of the condemned criminal. "What news haveyou brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?"

  "What, poor Bunch?--well, it seems we can't get him off--he is to behanged."

  Dorothea's brow took an expression of reprobation and pity.

  "Hanged, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with a quiet nod. "Poor Romilly!he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn't knowRomilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is."

  "When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must ofcourse give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about makingacquaintances?"

  "That's true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been abachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped;it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I nevermoped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants acompanion--a companion, you know."

  "It would be a great honor to any one to be his companion," saidDorothea, energetically.

  "You like him, eh?" said Mr. Brooke, without showing any surprise, orother emotion. "Well, now, I've known Casaubon ten years, ever sincehe came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of him--any ideas, youknow. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop--that kind ofthing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion ofyou, my dear."

  Dorothea could not speak.

  "The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaksuncommonly well--does Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not beingof age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him Ithought there was not much chance. I was bound to tell him that. Isaid, my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn'tthink it necessary to go into everything. However, the long and theshort of it is, that he has asked my permission to make you an offer ofmarriage--of marriage, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with his explanatorynod. "I thought it better to tell you, my dear."

  No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooke's manner, but hedid really wish to know something of his niece's mind, that, if therewere any need for advice, he might give it in time. What feeling he,as a magistrate who had taken in so many ideas, could make room for,was unmixedly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak immediately, herepeated, "I thought it better to tell you, my dear."

  "Thank you, uncle," said Dorothea, in a clear unwavering tone. "I amvery grateful to Mr. Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accepthim. I admire and honor him more than any man I ever saw."

  Mr. Brooke paused a little, and then said in a lingering low tone, "Ah?. . . Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam isa good match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfereagainst your wishes, my dear. People should have their own way inmarriage, and that sort of thing--up to a certain point, you know. Ihave always said that, up to a certain point. I wish you to marrywell; and I have good reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marryyou. I mention it, you know."

  "It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam," saidDorothea. "If he thinks of marrying me, he has made a great mistake."

  "That is it, you see. One never knows. I should have thought Chettamwas just the sort of man a woman would like, now."

  "Pray do not mention him in that light again, uncle," said Dorothea,feeling some of her late irritation revive.

  Mr. Brooke wondered, and felt that women were an inexhaustible subjectof study, since even he at his age was not in a perfect state ofscientific prediction about them. Here was a fellow like Chettam withno chance at all.

  "Well, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry--I mean for you. It'strue, every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, youknow. I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. Tobe sure,--if you like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, wecan't have everything. And his income is good--he has a handsomeproperty independent of the Church--his income is good. Still he isnot young, and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think hishealth is not over-strong. I know nothing else against him."

  "I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age," saidDorothea, with grave decision. "I should wish to have a husband whowas above me in judgment and in all knowledge."

  Mr. Brooke repeated his subdued, "Ah?--I thought you had more of yourown opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your ownopinion--liked it, you know."

  "I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, but I shouldwish to have good reasons for them, and a wise man could help me to seewhich opinions had the best foundation, and would help me to liveaccording to them."

  "Very true. You couldn't put the thing better--couldn't put it better,beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things," continued Mr.Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do the best he could forhis niece on this occasion. "Life isn't cast in a mould--not cut outby rule and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, andit will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never lovedany one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It _is_ anoose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likesto be master."

  "I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state ofhigher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease," said poorDorothea.

  "Well, you are not fond of show, a great establishment, balls, dinners,that kind of thing. I can see that Casaubon's ways might suit youbetter than Chettam's. And you shall do as you like, my dear. I wouldnot hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no knowing howanything may turn out. You have not the same tastes as every younglady; and a clergyman and scholar--who may be a bishop--that kind ofthing--may suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, agood sound-hearted fellow, you know; but he doesn't go much into ideas.I did, when I was his age. But Casaubon's eyes, now. I think he hashurt them a little with too much reading."

  "I should be all the happier, uncle, the more room there was for me tohelp him," said Dorothea, ardently.

  "You have quite made up your mind, I see. Well, my dear, the fact is,I have a letter for you in my pocket." Mr. Brooke handed the letter toDorothea, but as she rose to go away, he added, "There is not too muchhurry, my dear. Think about it, you know."

  When Dorothea had left him, he reflected that he had certainly spokenstrongly: he had put the risks of marriage before her in a strikingmanner. It was his duty to do so. But as to pretending to be wise foryoung people,--no uncle, however much he had travelled in his youth,absorbed the new ideas, and dined with celebrities now deceased, couldpretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn out well for a younggirl who preferred Casaubon to Chettam. In short, woman was a problemwhich, since Mr. Brooke's mind felt blank before it, could be hardlyless complicated than the revolutions of an irregular solid.