Middlemarch

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  "If, as I have, you also doe, Vertue attired in woman see, And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She;

  And if this love, though placed so, From prophane men you hide, Which will no faith on this bestow, Or, if they doe, deride:

  Then you have done a braver thing Than all the Worthies did, And a braver thence will spring, Which is, to keep that hid." --DR. DONNE.

  Sir James Chettam's mind was not fruitful in devices, but his growinganxiety to "act on Brooke," once brought close to his constant beliefin Dorothea's capacity for influence, became formative, and issued in alittle plan; namely, to plead Celia's indisposition as a reason forfetching Dorothea by herself to the Hall, and to leave her at theGrange with the carriage on the way, after making her fully aware ofthe situation concerning the management of the estate.

  In this way it happened that one day near four o'clock, when Mr. Brookeand Ladislaw were seated in the library, the door opened and Mrs.Casaubon was announced.

  Will, the moment before, had been low in the depths of boredom, and,obliged to help Mr. Brooke in arranging "documents" about hangingsheep-stealers, was exemplifying the power our minds have of ridingseveral horses at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting alodging for himself in Middlemarch and cutting short his constantresidence at the Grange; while there flitted through all these steadierimages a tickling vision of a sheep-stealing epic written with Homericparticularity. When Mrs. Casaubon was announced he started up as froman electric shock, and felt a tingling at his finger-ends. Any oneobserving him would have seen a change in his complexion, in theadjustment of his facial muscles, in the vividness of his glance, whichmight have made them imagine that every molecule in his body had passedthe message of a magic touch. And so it had. For effective magic istranscendent nature; and who shall measure the subtlety of thosetouches which convey the quality of soul as well as body, and make aman's passion for one woman differ from his passion for another as joyin the morning light over valley and river and white mountain-topdiffers from joy among Chinese lanterns and glass panels? Will, too,was made of very impressible stuff. The bow of a violin drawn near himcleverly, would at one stroke change the aspect of the world for him,and his point of view shifted--as easily as his mood. Dorothea'sentrance was the freshness of morning.

  "Well, my dear, this is pleasant, now," said Mr. Brooke, meeting andkissing her. "You have left Casaubon with his books, I suppose.That's right. We must not have you getting too learned for a woman,you know."

  "There is no fear of that, uncle," said Dorothea, turning to Will andshaking hands with open cheerfulness, while she made no other form ofgreeting, but went on answering her uncle. "I am very slow. When Iwant to be busy with books, I am often playing truant among mythoughts. I find it is not so easy to be learned as to plan cottages."

  She seated herself beside her uncle opposite to Will, and was evidentlypreoccupied with something that made her almost unmindful of him. Hewas ridiculously disappointed, as if he had imagined that her cominghad anything to do with him.

  "Why, yes, my dear, it was quite your hobby to draw plans. But it wasgood to break that off a little. Hobbies are apt to ran away with us,you know; it doesn't do to be run away with. We must keep the reins.I have never let myself be run away with; I always pulled up. That iswhat I tell Ladislaw. He and I are alike, you know: he likes to gointo everything. We are working at capital punishment. We shall do agreat deal together, Ladislaw and I."

  "Yes," said Dorothea, with characteristic directness, "Sir James hasbeen telling me that he is in hope of seeing a great change made soonin your management of the estate--that you are thinking of having thefarms valued, and repairs made, and the cottages improved, so thatTipton may look quite another place. Oh, how happy!"--she went on,clasping her hands, with a return to that more childlike impetuousmanner, which had been subdued since her marriage. "If I were at homestill, I should take to riding again, that I might go about with youand see all that! And you are going to engage Mr. Garth, who praisedmy cottages, Sir James says."

  "Chettam is a little hasty, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, coloringslightly; "a little hasty, you know. I never said I should do anythingof the kind. I never said I should _not_ do it, you know."

  "He only feels confident that you will do it," said Dorothea, in avoice as clear and unhesitating as that of a young chorister chanting acredo, "because you mean to enter Parliament as a member who cares forthe improvement of the people, and one of the first things to be madebetter is the state of the land and the laborers. Think of Kit Downes,uncle, who lives with his wife and seven children in a house with onesitting room and one bedroom hardly larger than this table!--and thosepoor Dagleys, in their tumble-down farmhouse, where they live in theback kitchen and leave the other rooms to the rats! That is one reasonwhy I did not like the pictures here, dear uncle--which you think mestupid about. I used to come from the village with all that dirt andcoarse ugliness like a pain within me, and the simpering pictures inthe drawing-room seemed to me like a wicked attempt to find delight inwhat is false, while we don't mind how hard the truth is for theneighbors outside our walls. I think we have no right to come forwardand urge wider changes for good, until we have tried to alter the evilswhich lie under our own hands."

  Dorothea had gathered emotion as she went on, and had forgotteneverything except the relief of pouring forth her feelings, unchecked:an experience once habitual with her, but hardly ever present since hermarriage, which had been a perpetual struggle of energy with fear. Forthe moment, Will's admiration was accompanied with a chilling sense ofremoteness. A man is seldom ashamed of feeling that he cannot love awoman so well when he sees a certain greatness in her: nature havingintended greatness for men. But nature has sometimes made sadoversights in carrying out her intention; as in the case of good Mr.Brooke, whose masculine consciousness was at this moment in rather astammering condition under the eloquence of his niece. He could notimmediately find any other mode of expressing himself than that ofrising, fixing his eye-glass, and fingering the papers before him. Atlast he said--

  "There is something in what you say, my dear, something in what yousay--but not everything--eh, Ladislaw? You and I don't like ourpictures and statues being found fault with. Young ladies are a littleardent, you know--a little one-sided, my dear. Fine art, poetry, thatkind of thing, elevates a nation--emollit mores--you understand alittle Latin now. But--eh? what?"

  These interrogatives were addressed to the footman who had come in tosay that the keeper had found one of Dagley's boys with a leveret inhis hand just killed.

  "I'll come, I'll come. I shall let him off easily, you know," said Mr.Brooke aside to Dorothea, shuffling away very cheerfully.

  "I hope you feel how right this change is that I--that Sir James wishesfor," said Dorothea to Will, as soon as her uncle was gone.

  "I do, now I have heard you speak about it. I shall not forget whatyou have said. But can you think of something else at this moment? Imay not have another opportunity of speaking to you about what hasoccurred," said Will, rising with a movement of impatience, and holdingthe back of his chair with both hands.

  "Pray tell me what it is," said Dorothea, anxiously, also rising andgoing to the open window, where Monk was looking in, panting andwagging his tail. She leaned her back against the window-frame, andlaid her hand on the dog's head; for though, as we know, she was notfond of pets that must be held in the hands or trodden on, she wasalways attentive to the feelings of dogs, and very polite if she had todecline their advances.

  Will followed her only with his eyes and said, "I presume you know thatMr. Casaubon has forbidden me to go to his house."

  "No, I did not," said Dorothea, after a moment's pause. She wasevidently much moved. "I am very, very sorry," she added, mournfully.She was thinking of what Will had no knowledge of--the conversationbetween he
r and her husband in the darkness; and she was anew smittenwith hopelessness that she could influence Mr. Casaubon's action. Butthe marked expression of her sorrow convinced Will that it was not allgiven to him personally, and that Dorothea had not been visited by theidea that Mr. Casaubon's dislike and jealousy of him turned uponherself. He felt an odd mixture of delight and vexation: of delightthat he could dwell and be cherished in her thought as in a pure home,without suspicion and without stint--of vexation because he was of toolittle account with her, was not formidable enough, was treated with anunhesitating benevolence which did not flatter him. But his dread ofany change in Dorothea was stronger than his discontent, and he beganto speak again in a tone of mere explanation.

  "Mr. Casaubon's reason is, his displeasure at my taking a position herewhich he considers unsuited to my rank as his cousin. I have told himthat I cannot give way on this point. It is a little too hard on me toexpect that my course in life is to be hampered by prejudices which Ithink ridiculous. Obligation may be stretched till it is no betterthan a brand of slavery stamped on us when we were too young to knowits meaning. I would not have accepted the position if I had not meantto make it useful and honorable. I am not bound to regard familydignity in any other light."

  Dorothea felt wretched. She thought her husband altogether in thewrong, on more grounds than Will had mentioned.

  "It is better for us not to speak on the subject," she said, with atremulousness not common in her voice, "since you and Mr. Casaubondisagree. You intend to remain?" She was looking out on the lawn,with melancholy meditation.

  "Yes; but I shall hardly ever see you now," said Will, in a tone ofalmost boyish complaint.

  "No," said Dorothea, turning her eyes full upon him, "hardly ever. ButI shall hear of you. I shall know what you are doing for my uncle."

  "I shall know hardly anything about you," said Will. "No one will tellme anything."

  "Oh, my life is very simple," said Dorothea, her lips curling with anexquisite smile, which irradiated her melancholy. "I am always atLowick."

  "That is a dreadful imprisonment," said Will, impetuously.

  "No, don't think that," said Dorothea. "I have no longings."

  He did not speak, but she replied to some change in his expression. "Imean, for myself. Except that I should like not to have so much morethan my share without doing anything for others. But I have a beliefof my own, and it comforts me."

  "What is that?" said Will, rather jealous of the belief.

  "That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don't quite knowwhat it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine poweragainst evil--widening the skirts of light and making the struggle withdarkness narrower."

  "That is a beautiful mysticism--it is a--"

  "Please not to call it by any name," said Dorothea, putting out herhands entreatingly. "You will say it is Persian, or something elsegeographical. It is my life. I have found it out, and cannot partwith it. I have always been finding out my religion since I was alittle girl. I used to pray so much--now I hardly ever pray. I trynot to have desires merely for myself, because they may not be good forothers, and I have too much already. I only told you, that you mightknow quite well how my days go at Lowick."

  "God bless you for telling me!" said Will, ardently, and ratherwondering at himself. They were looking at each other like two fondchildren who were talking confidentially of birds.

  "What is _your_ religion?" said Dorothea. "I mean--not what you knowabout religion, but the belief that helps you most?"

  "To love what is good and beautiful when I see it," said Will. "But Iam a rebel: I don't feel bound, as you do, to submit to what I don'tlike."

  "But if you like what is good, that comes to the same thing," saidDorothea, smiling.

  "Now you are subtle," said Will.

  "Yes; Mr. Casaubon often says I am too subtle. I don't feel as if Iwere subtle," said Dorothea, playfully. "But how long my uncle is! Imust go and look for him. I must really go on to the Hall. Celia isexpecting me."

  Will offered to tell Mr. Brooke, who presently came and said that hewould step into the carriage and go with Dorothea as far as Dagley's,to speak about the small delinquent who had been caught with theleveret. Dorothea renewed the subject of the estate as they drovealong, but Mr. Brooke, not being taken unawares, got the talk under hisown control.

  "Chettam, now," he replied; "he finds fault with me, my dear; but Ishould not preserve my game if it were not for Chettam, and he can'tsay that that expense is for the sake of the tenants, you know. It's alittle against my feeling:--poaching, now, if you come to look intoit--I have often thought of getting up the subject. Not long ago,Flavell, the Methodist preacher, was brought up for knocking down ahare that came across his path when he and his wife were walking outtogether. He was pretty quick, and knocked it on the neck."

  "That was very brutal, I think," said Dorothea

  "Well, now, it seemed rather black to me, I confess, in a Methodistpreacher, you know. And Johnson said, 'You may judge what a_hypocrite_ he is.' And upon my word, I thought Flavell looked verylittle like 'the highest style of man'--as somebody calls theChristian--Young, the poet Young, I think--you know Young? Well, now,Flavell in his shabby black gaiters, pleading that he thought the Lordhad sent him and his wife a good dinner, and he had a right to knock itdown, though not a mighty hunter before the Lord, as Nimrod was--Iassure you it was rather comic: Fielding would have made something ofit--or Scott, now--Scott might have worked it up. But really, when Icame to think of it, I couldn't help liking that the fellow should havea bit of hare to say grace over. It's all a matter ofprejudice--prejudice with the law on its side, you know--about thestick and the gaiters, and so on. However, it doesn't do to reasonabout things; and law is law. But I got Johnson to be quiet, and Ihushed the matter up. I doubt whether Chettam would not have been moresevere, and yet he comes down on me as if I were the hardest man in thecounty. But here we are at Dagley's."

  Mr. Brooke got down at a farmyard-gate, and Dorothea drove on. It iswonderful how much uglier things will look when we only suspect that weare blamed for them. Even our own persons in the glass are apt tochange their aspect for us after we have heard some frank remark ontheir less admirable points; and on the other hand it is astonishinghow pleasantly conscience takes our encroachments on those who nevercomplain or have nobody to complain for them. Dagley's homestead neverbefore looked so dismal to Mr. Brooke as it did today, with his mindthus sore about the fault-finding of the "Trumpet," echoed by Sir James.

  It is true that an observer, under that softening influence of the finearts which makes other people's hardships picturesque, might have beendelighted with this homestead called Freeman's End: the old house haddormer-windows in the dark red roof, two of the chimneys were chokedwith ivy, the large porch was blocked up with bundles of sticks, andhalf the windows were closed with gray worm-eaten shutters about whichthe jasmine-boughs grew in wild luxuriance; the mouldering garden wallwith hollyhocks peeping over it was a perfect study of highly mingledsubdued color, and there was an aged goat (kept doubtless oninteresting superstitious grounds) lying against the open back-kitchendoor. The mossy thatch of the cow-shed, the broken gray barn-doors,the pauper laborers in ragged breeches who had nearly finishedunloading a wagon of corn into the barn ready for early thrashing; thescanty dairy of cows being tethered for milking and leaving one half ofthe shed in brown emptiness; the very pigs and white ducks seeming towander about the uneven neglected yard as if in low spirits fromfeeding on a too meagre quality of rinsings,--all these objects underthe quiet light of a sky marbled with high clouds would have made asort of picture which we have all paused over as a "charming bit,"touching other sensibilities than those which are stirred by thedepression of the agricultural interest, with the sad lack of farmingcapital, as seen constantly in the newspapers of that time. But thesetroublesome associations were just now strongly present to Mr. Brooke,and spoiled the scene for him
. Mr. Dagley himself made a figure in thelandscape, carrying a pitchfork and wearing his milking-hat--a very oldbeaver flattened in front. His coat and breeches were the best he had,and he would not have been wearing them on this weekday occasion if hehad not been to market and returned later than usual, having givenhimself the rare treat of dining at the public table of the Blue Bull.How he came to fall into this extravagance would perhaps be matter ofwonderment to himself on the morrow; but before dinner something in thestate of the country, a slight pause in the harvest before the Far Dipswere cut, the stories about the new King and the numerous handbills onthe walls, had seemed to warrant a little recklessness. It was a maximabout Middlemarch, and regarded as self-evident, that good meat shouldhave good drink, which last Dagley interpreted as plenty of table alewell followed up by rum-and-water. These liquors have so far truth inthem that they were not false enough to make poor Dagley seem merry:they only made his discontent less tongue-tied than usual. He had alsotaken too much in the shape of muddy political talk, a stimulantdangerously disturbing to his farming conservatism, which consisted inholding that whatever is, is bad, and any change is likely to be worse.He was flushed, and his eyes had a decidedly quarrelsome stare as hestood still grasping his pitchfork, while the landlord approached withhis easy shuffling walk, one hand in his trouser-pocket and the otherswinging round a thin walking-stick.

  "Dagley, my good fellow," began Mr. Brooke, conscious that he was goingto be very friendly about the boy.

  "Oh, ay, I'm a good feller, am I? Thank ye, sir, thank ye," saidDagley, with a loud snarling irony which made Fag the sheep-dog stirfrom his seat and prick his ears; but seeing Monk enter the yard aftersome outside loitering, Fag seated himself again in an attitude ofobservation. "I'm glad to hear I'm a good feller."

  Mr. Brooke reflected that it was market-day, and that his worthy tenanthad probably been dining, but saw no reason why he should not go on,since he could take the precaution of repeating what he had to say toMrs. Dagley.

  "Your little lad Jacob has been caught killing a leveret, Dagley: Ihave told Johnson to lock him up in the empty stable an hour or two,just to frighten him, you know. But he will be brought home by-and-by,before night: and you'll just look after him, will you, and give him areprimand, you know?"

  "No, I woon't: I'll be dee'd if I'll leather my boy to please you oranybody else, not if you was twenty landlords istid o' one, and that abad un."

  Dagley's words were loud enough to summon his wife to the back-kitchendoor--the only entrance ever used, and one always open except in badweather--and Mr. Brooke, saying soothingly, "Well, well, I'll speak toyour wife--I didn't mean beating, you know," turned to walk to thehouse. But Dagley, only the more inclined to "have his say" with agentleman who walked away from him, followed at once, with Fagslouching at his heels and sullenly evading some small and probablycharitable advances on the part of Monk.

  "How do you do, Mrs. Dagley?" said Mr. Brooke, making some haste. "Icame to tell you about your boy: I don't want you to give him thestick, you know." He was careful to speak quite plainly this time.

  Overworked Mrs. Dagley--a thin, worn woman, from whose life pleasurehad so entirely vanished that she had not even any Sunday clothes whichcould give her satisfaction in preparing for church--had already had amisunderstanding with her husband since he had come home, and was inlow spirits, expecting the worst. But her husband was beforehand inanswering.

  "No, nor he woon't hev the stick, whether you want it or no," pursuedDagley, throwing out his voice, as if he wanted it to hit hard."You've got no call to come an' talk about sticks o' these primises, asyou woon't give a stick tow'rt mending. Go to Middlemarch to ax for_your_ charrickter."

  "You'd far better hold your tongue, Dagley," said the wife, "and notkick your own trough over. When a man as is father of a family hasbeen an' spent money at market and made himself the worse for liquor,he's done enough mischief for one day. But I should like to know whatmy boy's done, sir."

  "Niver do you mind what he's done," said Dagley, more fiercely, "it'smy business to speak, an' not yourn. An' I wull speak, too. I'll hevmy say--supper or no. An' what I say is, as I've lived upo' yourground from my father and grandfather afore me, an' hev dropped ourmoney into't, an' me an' my children might lie an' rot on the groundfor top-dressin' as we can't find the money to buy, if the King wasn'tto put a stop."

  "My good fellow, you're drunk, you know," said Mr. Brooke,confidentially but not judiciously. "Another day, another day," headded, turning as if to go.

  But Dagley immediately fronted him, and Fag at his heels growled low,as his master's voice grew louder and more insulting, while Monk alsodrew close in silent dignified watch. The laborers on the wagon werepausing to listen, and it seemed wiser to be quite passive than toattempt a ridiculous flight pursued by a bawling man.

  "I'm no more drunk nor you are, nor so much," said Dagley. "I cancarry my liquor, an' I know what I meean. An' I meean as the King 'ullput a stop to 't, for them say it as knows it, as there's to be aRinform, and them landlords as never done the right thing by theirtenants 'ull be treated i' that way as they'll hev to scuttle off. An'there's them i' Middlemarch knows what the Rinform is--an' as knowswho'll hev to scuttle. Says they, 'I know who _your_ landlord is.'An' says I, 'I hope you're the better for knowin' him, I arn't.' Saysthey, 'He's a close-fisted un.' 'Ay ay,' says I. 'He's a man for theRinform,' says they. That's what they says. An' I made out what theRinform were--an' it were to send you an' your likes a-scuttlin' an'wi' pretty strong-smellin' things too. An' you may do as you like now,for I'm none afeard on you. An' you'd better let my boy aloan, an'look to yoursen, afore the Rinform has got upo' your back. That's whatI'n got to say," concluded Mr. Dagley, striking his fork into theground with a firmness which proved inconvenient as he tried to draw itup again.

  At this last action Monk began to bark loudly, and it was a moment forMr. Brooke to escape. He walked out of the yard as quickly as hecould, in some amazement at the novelty of his situation. He had neverbeen insulted on his own land before, and had been inclined to regardhimself as a general favorite (we are all apt to do so, when we thinkof our own amiability more than of what other people are likely to wantof us). When he had quarrelled with Caleb Garth twelve years before hehad thought that the tenants would be pleased at the landlord's takingeverything into his own hands.

  Some who follow the narrative of his experience may wonder at themidnight darkness of Mr. Dagley; but nothing was easier in those timesthan for an hereditary farmer of his grade to be ignorant, in spitesomehow of having a rector in the twin parish who was a gentleman tothe backbone, a curate nearer at hand who preached more learnedly thanthe rector, a landlord who had gone into everything, especially fineart and social improvement, and all the lights of Middlemarch onlythree miles off. As to the facility with which mortals escapeknowledge, try an average acquaintance in the intellectual blaze ofLondon, and consider what that eligible person for a dinner-party wouldhave been if he had learned scant skill in "summing" from theparish-clerk of Tipton, and read a chapter in the Bible with immensedifficulty, because such names as Isaiah or Apollos remainedunmanageable after twice spelling. Poor Dagley read a few versessometimes on a Sunday evening, and the world was at least not darker tohim than it had been before. Some things he knew thoroughly, namely,the slovenly habits of farming, and the awkwardness of weather, stockand crops, at Freeman's End--so called apparently by way of sarcasm,to imply that a man was free to quit it if he chose, but that there wasno earthly "beyond" open to him.