If you mean me, sir, I call you and every one else to the inspection of my professional life. As to Christian or unchristian, I repudiate your canting palavering Christianity; and as to the way in which I spend my income, it is not my principle to maintain thieves and cheat offspring of their due inheritance in order to support religion and set myself up as a saintly Killjoy. I affect no niceness of conscience—I have not found any nice standards necessary yet to measure your actions by, sir. And I again call upon you to enter into satisfactory explanations concerning the scandals against you, or else to withdraw from posts in which we at any rate decline you as a colleague. I say, sir, we decline to co-operate with a man whose character is not cleared from infamous lights cast upon it, not only by reports but by recent actions.


Allow me, Mr. Hawley,


Mr. Bulstrode, it is not desirable, I think, to prolong the present discussion. I must so far concur with what has fallen from Mr. Hawley in expression of a general feeling, as to think it due to your Christian profession that you should clear yourself, if possible, from unhappy aspersions. I for my part should be willing to give you full opportunity and hearing. But I must say that your present attitude is painfully inconsistent with those principles which you have sought to identify yourself with, and for the honor of which I am bound to care. I recommend you at present, as your clergyman, and one who hopes for your reinstatement in respect, to quit the room, and avoid further hindrance to business.


Step into my carriage. I am going round to see Mrs. Casaubon. She was to come back from Yorkshire last night. She will like to see me, you know.


Well, my dear, we have just come from a meeting—a sanitary meeting, you know.


Was Mr. Lydgate there? I want to see him and have a great consultation with him about the Hospital. I have engaged with Mr. Bulstrode to do so.


Oh, my dear, we have been hearing bad news—bad news, you know.


You don’t believe that Mr. Lydgate is guilty of anything base? I will not believe it. Let us find out the truth and clear him!


It is a delicate matter to touch. How can we begin to inquire into it? It must be either publicly by setting the magistrate and coroner to work, or privately by questioning Lydgate. As to the first proceeding there is no solid ground to go upon, else Hawley would have adopted it; and as to opening the subject with Lydgate, I confess I should shrink from it. He would probably take it as a deadly insult. I have more than once experienced the difficulty of speaking to him on personal matters. And—one should know the truth about his conduct beforehand, to feel very confident of a good result.


I feel convinced that his conduct has not been guilty: I believe that people are almost always better than their neighbors think they are,


Mr. Lydgate would understand that if his friends hear a calumny about him their first wish must be to justify him. What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult to each other? I cannot be indifferent to the troubles of a man who advised me in my trouble, and attended me in my illness.


Exactly But, Dorothea, you can’t undertake to manage a man’s life for him in that way. Lydgate must know—at least he will soon come to know how he stands. If he can clear himself, he will. He must act for himself.


I think his friends must wait till they find an opportunity. It is possible—I have often felt so much weakness in myself that I can conceive even a man of honorable disposition, such as I have always believed Lydgate to be, succumbing to such a temptation as that of accepting money which was offered more or less indirectly as a bribe to insure his silence about scandalous facts long gone by. I say, I can conceive this, if he were under the pressure of hard circumstances—if he had been harassed as I feel sure Lydgate has been. I would not believe anything worse of him except under stringent proof. But there is the terrible Nemesis following on some errors, that it is always possible for those who like it to interpret them into a crime: there is no proof in favor of the man outside his own consciousness and assertion.


Oh, how cruel! And would you not like to be the one person who believed in that man’s innocence, if the rest of the world belied him? Besides, there is a man’s character beforehand to speak for him.


But, my dear Mrs. Casaubon, character is not cut in marble—it is not something solid and unalterable. It is something living and changing, and may become diseased as our bodies do.


Then it may be rescued and healed. I should not be afraid of asking Mr. Lydgate to tell me the truth, that I might help him. Why should I be afraid? Now that I am not to have the land, James, I might do as Mr. Bulstrode proposed, and take his place in providing for the Hospital; and I have to consult Mr. Lydgate, to know thoroughly what are the prospects of doing good by keeping up the present plans. There is the best opportunity in the world for me to ask for his confidence; and he would be able to tell me things which might make all the circumstances clear. Then we would all stand by him and bring him out of his trouble. People glorify all sorts of bravery except the bravery they might show on behalf of their nearest neighbors.


It is true that a woman may venture on some efforts of sympathy which would hardly succeed if we men undertook them,


Surely, a woman is bound to be cautious and listen to those who know the world better than she does. Whatever you do in the end, Dorothea, you should really keep back at present, and not volunteer any meddling with this Bulstrode business. We don’t know yet what may turn up. You must agree with me?


I do think it would be better to wait,


Yes, yes, my dear. It is easy to go too far, you know. You must not let your ideas run away with you. And as to being in a hurry to put money into schemes—it won’t do, you know. Garth has drawn me in uncommonly with repairs, draining, that sort of thing: I’m uncommonly out of pocket with one thing or another. I must pull up. As for you, Chettam, you are spending a fortune on those oak fences round your demesne.


Now, Dodo, do listen to what James says, else you will be getting into a scrape. You always did, and you always will, when you set about doing as you please. And I think it is a mercy now after all that you have got James to think for you. He lets you have your plans, only he hinders you from being taken in. And that is the good of having a brother instead of a husband. A husband would not let you have your plans.


As if I wanted a husband! I only want not to have my feelings checked at every turn.


Now, really, Dodo, you are contradictory: first one thing and then another. You used to submit to Mr. Casaubon quite shamefully: I think you would have given up ever coming to see me if he had asked you.


Of course I submitted to him, because it was my duty; it was my feeling for him,


Then why can’t you think it your duty to submit a little to what James wishes? Because he only wishes what is for your own good. And, of course, men know best about everything, except what women know better. Well, I mean about babies and those things. I should not give up to James when I knew he was wrong, as you used to do to Mr. Casaubon.


He was afraid of some betrayal in my hearing: all he wanted was to bind me to him by a strong obligation: that was why he passed on a sudden from hardness to liberality. And he may have tampered with the patient—he may have disobeyed my orders. I fear he did. But whether he did or not, the world believes that he somehow or other poisoned the man and that I winked at the crime, if I didn’t help in it. And yet—and yet he may not be guilty of the last offence; and it is just possible that the change towards me may have been a genuine relenting—the effect of second thoughts such as he alleged. What we call the ‘just possible’ is sometimes true and the thing we find it easier to believe is grossly false. In his last dealings with this man Bulstrode may have kept his hands pure, in spite of my suspicion to the contrary. I did not take the money as a bribe.


the purest experiment in treatment may still be conscientious: my business is to take care of life, and to do the best I can think of for it. Science is properly more scrupulous than dogma. Dogma gives a charter to mistake, but the very breath of science is a contest with mistake, and must keep the conscience alive. Is there a medical man of them all in Middlemarch who would question himself as I do? And yet they will all feel warranted in making a wide space between me and them, as if I were a leper! My practice and my reputation are utterly damned—I can see that. Even if I could be cleared by valid evidence, it would make little difference to the blessed world here. I have been set down as tainted and should be cheapened to them all the same.


I shall do as I think right, and explain to nobody. They will try to starve me out, but—


Ah, poor woman! She’s as honest as the day—she never suspected anything wrong in him, you may depend on it.


She has always been showy, though she has got into the way of putting her religion forward, to conform to her husband; she has tried to hold her head up above Middlemarch by making it known that she invites clergymen and heaven-knows-who from Riverston and those places.


We can hardly blame her for that, because few of the best people in the town cared to associate with Bulstrode, and she must have somebody to sit down at her table.


Mr. Thesiger has always countenanced him. I think he must be sorry now.


But he was never fond of him in his heart—that every one knows. Mr. Thesiger never goes into extremes. He keeps to the truth in what is evangelical. It is only clergymen like Mr. Tyke, who want to use Dissenting hymn-books and that low kind of religion, who ever found Bulstrode to their taste.


I understand, Mr. Tyke is in great distress about him. And well he may be: they say the Bulstrodes have half kept the Tyke family.


And of course it is a discredit to his doctrines. People will not make a boast of being methodistical in Middlemarch for a good while to come.


I think we must not set down people’s bad actions to their religion,


Oh, my dear, we are forgetting. We ought not to be talking of this before you.


I am sure I have no reason to be partial. It’s true Mr. Plymdale has always been on good terms with Mr. Bulstrode, and Harriet Vincy was my friend long before she married him. But I have always kept my own opinions and told her where she was wrong, poor thing. Still, in point of religion, I must say, Mr. Bulstrode might have done what he has, and worse, and yet have been a man of no religion. I don’t say that there has not been a little too much of that—I like moderation myself. But truth is truth. The men tried at the assizes are not all over-religious, I suppose.


Well, all I can say is, that I think she ought to separate from him.


I can’t say that. She took him for better or worse, you know.


But ‘worse’ can never mean finding out that your husband is fit for Newgate. Fancy living with such a man! I should expect to be poisoned.


Yes, I think myself it is an encouragement to crime if such men are to be taken care of and waited on by good wives,


And a good wife poor Harriet has been. She thinks her husband the first of men. It’s true he has never denied her anything.


Well, we shall see what she will do. I suppose she knows nothing yet, poor creature. I do hope and trust I shall not see her, for I should be frightened to death lest I should say anything about her husband. Do you think any hint has reached her?


I should hardly think so. We hear that he is ill, and has never stirred out of the house since the meeting on Thursday; but she was with her girls at church yesterday, and they had new Tuscan bonnets. Her own had a feather in it. I have never seen that her religion made any difference in her dress.


She wears very neat patterns always. And that feather I know she got dyed a pale lavender on purpose to be consistent. I must say it of Harriet that she wishes to do right.


As to her knowing what has happened, it can’t be kept from her long. The Vincys know, for Mr. Vincy was at the meeting. It will be a great blow to him. There is his daughter as well as his sister.


Yes, indeed. Nobody supposes that Mr. Lydgate can go on holding up his head in Middlemarch, things look so black about the thousand pounds he took just at that man’s death. It really makes one shudder.


Pride must have a fall,


I am not so sorry for Rosamond Vincy that was as I am for her aunt. She needed a lesson.


I suppose the Bulstrodes will go and live abroad somewhere. That is what is generally done when there is anything disgraceful in a family.


And a most deadly blow it will be to Harriet. If ever a woman was crushed, she will be. I pity her from my heart. And with all her faults, few women are better. From a girl she had the neatest ways, and was always good-hearted, and as open as the day. You might look into her drawers when you would—always the same. And so she has brought up Kate and Ellen. You may think how hard it will be for her to go among foreigners.


The doctor says that is what he should recommend the Lydgates to do. He says Lydgate ought to have kept among the French.


That would suit her well enough, I dare say, there is that kind of lightness about her. But she got that from her mother; she never got it from her aunt Bulstrode, who always gave her good advice, and to my knowledge would rather have had her marry elsewhere.


Mr. Lydgate, pray be open with me: I like to know the truth. Has anything happened to Mr. Bulstrode?


Some little nervous shock,


But what brought it on?


There is often something poisonous in the air of public rooms. Strong men can stand it, but it tells on people in proportion to the delicacy of their systems. It is often impossible to account for the precise moment of an attack—or rather, to say why the strength gives way at a particular moment.


I have not been anywhere except to church for nearly a week. But Mr. Bulstrode was taken so ill at the meeting on Thursday that I have not liked to leave the house. Was Mr. Hackbutt at the meeting?


Yes, he was. The land is to be bought by subscription, I believe.


Let us hope that there will be no more cases of cholera to be buried in it. It is an awful visitation. But I always think Middlemarch a very healthy spot. I suppose it is being used to it from a child; but I never saw the town I should like to live at better, and especially our end.


I am sure I should be glad that you always should live at Middlemarch, Mrs. Bulstrode. Still, we must learn to resign ourselves, wherever our lot may be cast. Though I am sure there will always be people in this town who will wish you well. if you take my advice you will part from your husband,


Selina


What is it that you have in your mind?


God help you, Harriet! you know all.


I know nothing, Walter. What is it?


People will talk. Even if a man has been acquitted by a jury, they’ll talk, and nod and wink—and as far as the world goes, a man might often as well be guilty as not. It’s a breakdown blow, and it damages Lydgate as much as Bulstrode. I don’t pretend to say what is the truth. I only wish we had never heard the name of either Bulstrode or Lydgate. You’d better have been a Vincy all your life, and so had Rosamond. But you must bear up as well as you can, Harriet. People don’t blame you. And I’ll stand by you whatever you make up your mind to do,


Give me your arm to the carriage, Walter. I feel very weak. I am not well, my dear; I must go and lie down. Attend to your papa. Leave me in quiet. I shall take no dinner.


Look up, Nicholas.


This is Chichely’s scratch. What is he writing to you about? Why on earth have you been sending out invitations without telling me, Rosamond? I beg, I insist that you will not invite any one to this house. I suppose you have been inviting others, and they have refused too. Do you hear me?


Yes, certainly I hear you,


Well, my dear!


Is there anything the matter, papa?


Oh, my dear, have you heard nothing? It won’t be long before it reaches you.


Is it anything about Tertius?


Oh, my dear, yes. To think of your marrying into this trouble. Debt was bad enough, but this will be worse.


Stay, stay, Lucy. Have you heard nothing about your uncle Bulstrode, Rosamond?


No, papa,


It’s better for you to know, my dear. I think Lydgate must leave the town. Things have gone against him. I dare say he couldn’t help it. I don’t accuse him of any harm,


She bears it beyond anything,


Ah, thank God!


Rosamond, have you heard anything that distresses you?


Yes,


What have you heard?


Everything, I suppose. Papa told me.


That people think me disgraced?


Surely, Tertius—


Well?


Surely now at last you have given up the idea of staying in Middlemarch. I cannot go on living here. Let us go to London. Papa, and every one else, says you had better go. Whatever misery I have to put up with, it will be easier away from here.


Your views may possibly have undergone some change, but, in that case also, it is desirable that you should lay them before her.


I have wished very much to see you for a long while, Mr. Lydgate, but I put off asking you to come until Mr. Bulstrode applied to me again about the Hospital. I know that the advantage of keeping the management of it separate from that of the Infirmary depends on you, or, at least, on the good which you are encouraged to hope for from having it under your control. And I am sure you will not refuse to tell me exactly what you think.


You want to decide whether you should give a generous support to the Hospital. I cannot conscientiously advise you to do it in dependence on any activity of mine. I may be obliged to leave the town.


Not because there is no one to believe in you? I know the unhappy mistakes about you. I knew them from the first moment to be mistakes. You have never done anything vile. You would not do anything dishonorable.


Thank you.


I beseech you to tell me how everything was. I am sure that the truth would clear you.


Tell me, pray, then we can consult together. It is wicked to let people think evil of any one falsely, when it can be hindered.


I don’t want, to bear hard on Bulstrode, who has lent me money of which I was in need—though I would rather have gone without it now. He is hunted down and miserable, and has only a poor thread of life in him. But I should like to tell you everything. It will be a comfort to me to speak where belief has gone beforehand, and where I shall not seem to be offering assertions of my own honesty. You will feel what is fair to another, as you feel what is fair to me.


Do trust me. I will not repeat anything without your leave. But at the very least, I could say that you have made all the circumstances clear to me, and that I know you are not in any way guilty. Mr. Farebrother would believe me, and my uncle, and Sir James Chettam. Nay, there are persons in Middlemarch to whom I could go; although they don’t know much of me, they would believe me. They would know that I could have no other motive than truth and justice. I would take any pains to clear you. I have very little to do. There is nothing better that I can do in the world.


It has come to my knowledge since, that Hawley sent some one to examine the housekeeper at Stone Court, and she said that she gave the patient all the opium in the phial I left, as well as a good deal of brandy. But that would not have been opposed to ordinary prescriptions, even of first-rate men. The suspicions against me had no hold there: they are grounded on the knowledge that I took money, that Bulstrode had strong motives for wishing the man to die, and that he gave me the money as a bribe to concur in some malpractices or other against the patient—that in any case I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue. They are just the suspicions that cling the most obstinately, because they lie in people’s inclination and can never be disproved. How my orders came to be disobeyed is a question to which I don’t know the answer. It is still possible that Bulstrode was innocent of any criminal intention—even possible that he had nothing to do with the disobedience, and merely abstained from mentioning it. But all that has nothing to do with the public belief. It is one of those cases on which a man is condemned on the ground of his character—it is believed that he has committed a crime in some undefined way, because he had the motive for doing it; and Bulstrode’s character has enveloped me, because I took his money. I am simply blighted—like a damaged ear of corn—the business is done and can’t be undone.


Oh, it is hard! I understand the difficulty there is in your vindicating yourself. And that all this should have come to you who had meant to lead a higher life than the common, and to find out better ways—I cannot bear to rest in this as unchangeable. I know you meant that. I remember what you said to me when you first spoke to me about the hospital. There is no sorrow I have thought more about than that—to love what is great, and try to reach it, and yet to fail.


Yes. I had some ambition. I meant everything to be different with me. I thought I had more strength and mastery. But the most terrible obstacles are such as nobody can see except oneself.


Suppose, suppose we kept on the Hospital according to the present plan, and you stayed here though only with the friendship and support of a few, the evil feeling towards you would gradually die out; there would come opportunities in which people would be forced to acknowledge that they had been unjust to you, because they would see that your purposes were pure. You may still win a great fame like the Louis and Laennec I have heard you speak of, and we shall all be proud of you,


That might do if I had my old trust in myself. Nothing galls me more than the notion of turning round and running away before this slander, leaving it unchecked behind me. Still, I can’t ask any one to put a great deal of money into a plan which depends on me.


It would be quite worth my while. Only think. I am very uncomfortable with my money, because they tell me I have too little for any great scheme of the sort I like best, and yet I have too much. I don’t know what to do. I have seven hundred a-year of my own fortune, and nineteen hundred a-year that Mr. Casaubon left me, and between three and four thousand of ready money in the bank. I wished to raise money and pay it off gradually out of my income which I don’t want, to buy land with and found a village which should be a school of industry; but Sir James and my uncle have convinced me that the risk would be too great. So you see that what I should most rejoice at would be to have something good to do with my money: I should like it to make other people’s lives better to them. It makes me very uneasy—coming all to me who don’t want it. I think you see now that you spoke too scrupulously. The hospital would be one good; and making your life quite whole and well again would be another.


You have the goodness as well as the money to do all that; if it could be done. But— Why should I not tell you?—you know what sort of bond marriage is. You will understand everything. It is impossible for me now to do anything—to take any step without considering my wife’s happiness. The thing that I might like to do if I were alone, is become impossible to me. I can’t see her miserable. She married me without knowing what she was going into, and it might have been better for her if she had not married me.


I know, I know—you could not give her pain, if you were not obliged to do it,


And she has set her mind against staying. She wishes to go. The troubles she has had here have wearied her,


But when she saw the good that might come of staying—


She would not see it. And, indeed, I have lost all spirit about carrying on my life here. The fact is, this trouble has come upon her confusedly. We have not been able to speak to each other about it. I am not sure what is in her mind about it: she may fear that I have really done something base. It is my fault; I ought to be more open. But I have been suffering cruelly.


May I go and see her? Would she accept my sympathy? I would tell her that you have not been blamable before any one’s judgment but your own. I would tell her that you shall be cleared in every fair mind. I would cheer her heart. Will you ask her if I may go to see her? I did see her once.


I am sure you may. She would feel honored—cheered, I think, by the proof that you at least have some respect for me. I will not speak to her about your coming—that she may not connect it with my wishes at all. I know very well that I ought not to have left anything to be told her by others, but—


And if Mrs. Lydgate knew that there were friends who would believe in you and support you, she might then be glad that you should stay in your place and recover your hopes—and do what you meant to do. Perhaps then you would see that it was right to agree with what I proposed about your continuing at the Hospital. Surely you would, if you still have faith in it as a means of making your knowledge useful? You need not decide immediately. A few days hence it will be early enough for me to send my answer to Mr. Bulstrode.


No; I prefer that there should be no interval left for wavering. I am no longer sure enough of myself—I mean of what it would be possible for me to do under the changed circumstances of my life. It would be dishonorable to let others engage themselves to anything serious in dependence on me. I might be obliged to go away after all; I see little chance of anything else. The whole thing is too problematic; I cannot consent to be the cause of your goodness being wasted. No—let the new Hospital be joined with the old Infirmary, and everything go on as it might have done if I had never come. I have kept a valuable register since I have been there; I shall send it to a man who will make use of it. I can think of nothing for a long while but getting an income.


It hurts me very much to hear you speak so hopelessly. It would be a happiness to your friends, who believe in your future, in your power to do great things, if you would let them save you from that. Think how much money I have; it would be like taking a burthen from me if you took some of it every year till you got free from this fettering want of income. Why should not people do these things? It is so difficult to make shares at all even. This is one way.


God bless you, Mrs. Casaubon! It is good that you should have such feelings. But I am not the man who ought to allow himself to benefit by them. I have not given guarantees enough. I must not at least sink into the degradation of being pensioned for work that I never achieved. It is very clear to me that I must not count on anything else than getting away from Middlemarch as soon as I can manage it. I should not be able for a long while, at the very best, to get an income here, and—and it is easier to make necessary changes in a new place. I must do as other men do, and think what will please the world and bring in money; look for a little opening in the London crowd, and push myself; set up in a watering-place, or go to some southern town where there are plenty of idle English, and get myself puffed,—that is the sort of shell I must creep into and try to keep my soul alive in.


Now that is not brave, to give up the fight.


No, it is not brave, but if a man is afraid of creeping paralysis? Yet you have made a great difference in my courage by believing in me. Everything seems more bearable since I have talked to you; and if you can clear me in a few other minds, especially in Farebrother’s, I shall be deeply grateful. The point I wish you not to mention is the fact of disobedience to my orders. That would soon get distorted. After all, there is no evidence for me but people’s opinion of me beforehand. You can only repeat my own report of myself.


Mr. Farebrother will believe—others will believe. I can say of you what will make it stupidity to suppose that you would be bribed to do a wickedness.


I don’t know. I have not taken a bribe yet. But there is a pale shade of bribery which is sometimes called prosperity. You will do me another great kindness, then, and come to see my wife?


Yes, I will. I remember how pretty she is. I hope she will like me.


If Tertius goes away, you will help us to move, will you not, papa? I suppose we shall have very little money. I am sure I hope some one will help us.


Yes, child, I don’t mind a hundred or two. I can see the end of that.


somebody who will manage your property for you, my dear,


I should like to manage it myself, if I knew what to do with it,


I shall talk to her about her husband. I shall take Mrs. Lydgate good news, and perhaps she will like to talk to me and make a friend of me. Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?


I’m not sure, my lady; I’ll see, if you’ll please to walk in. Will you please to walk in, and I’ll go and see.


Say that I am Mrs. Casaubon,


Excuse me, Mrs. Lydgate, the servant did not know that you were here. I called to deliver an important letter for Mr. Lydgate, which I wished to put into your own hands.


she was sorry the mistress was not at home


Drive on to Freshitt Hall,


Dodo, how very bright your eyes are! And you don’t see anything you look at, Arthur or anything. You are going to do something uncomfortable, I know. Is it all about Mr. Lydgate, or has something else happened?


Yes, dear, a great many things have happened,


I wonder what,


Oh, all the troubles of all people on the face of the earth,


Dear me, Dodo, are you going to have a scheme for them?


Don’t touch me!


You can easily go after Mrs. Casaubon and explain your preference.


Go after her! Do you think she would turn to look at me, or value any word I ever uttered to her again at more than a dirty feather?—Explain! How can a man explain at the expense of a woman?


You can tell her what you please,


Do you suppose she would like me better for sacrificing you? She is not a woman to be flattered because I made myself despicable—to believe that I must be true to her because I was a dastard to you. I had no hope before—not much—of anything better to come. But I had one certainty—that she believed in me. Whatever people had said or done about me, she believed in me.—That’s gone! She’ll never again think me anything but a paltry pretence—too nice to take heaven except upon flattering conditions, and yet selling myself for any devil’s change by the sly. She’ll think of me as an incarnate insult to her, from the first moment we— Explain! Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell! Explain my preference! I never had a preference for her, any more than I have a preference for breathing. No other woman exists by the side of her. I would rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any other woman’s living.


Shall I come in and see Lydgate this evening?


If you like,


My poor Rosamond! has something agitated you?


Poor Rosamond is ill,


Not seriously, I hope,


No—only a slight nervous shock—the effect of some agitation. She has been overwrought lately. The truth is, Ladislaw, I am an unlucky devil. We have gone through several rounds of purgatory since you left, and I have lately got on to a worse ledge of it than ever. I suppose you are only just come down—you look rather battered—you have not been long enough in the town to hear anything?


I travelled all night and got to the White Hart at eight o’clock this morning. I have been shutting myself up and resting,


I thought it better to tell you that your name is mixed up with the disclosures. You will be sure to hear it as soon as you turn out into the town. I suppose it is true that Raffles spoke to you.


Yes. I shall be fortunate if gossip does not make me the most disreputable person in the whole affair. I should think the latest version must be, that I plotted with Raffles to murder Bulstrode, and ran away from Middlemarch for the purpose.


Mrs. Casaubon has been the one person to come forward and say that she had no belief in any of the suspicions against me.


We shall have you again, old fellow,


Henrietta Noble, what is the matter?


I have lost my tortoise-shell lozenge-box. I fear the kitten has rolled it away,


Is it a great treasure, aunt?


Mr. Ladislaw gave it me. A German box—very pretty, but if it falls it always spins away as far as it can.


Oh, if it is Ladislaw’s present,


it was under a fender the last time.


That is an affair of the heart with my aunt,


If Henrietta Noble forms an attachment to any one, Mrs. Casaubon, she is like a dog—she would take their shoes for a pillow and sleep the better.


Mr. Ladislaw’s shoes, I would,


I must go; I have overtired myself.


It is true; you must have half-exhausted yourself in talking about Lydgate. That sort of work tells upon one after the excitement is over.


Oh, I did love him!


What should I do—how should I act now, this very day, if I could clutch my own pain, and compel it to silence, and think of those three?


Why, madam, you’ve never been in bed this blessed night. You’ll kill yourself, you will. Anybody might think now you had a right to give yourself a little comfort.


Don’t be alarmed, Tantripp. I have slept; I am not ill. I shall be glad of a cup of coffee as soon as possible. And I want you to bring me my new dress; and most likely I shall want my new bonnet to-day.


They’ve lain there a month and more ready for you, madam, and most thankful I shall be to see you with a couple o’ pounds’ worth less of crape. There’s a reason in mourning, as I’ve always said; and three folds at the bottom of your skirt and a plain quilling in your bonnet—and if ever anybody looked like an angel, it’s you in a net quilling—is what’s consistent for a second year. At least, that’s my thinking, and if anybody was to marry me flattering himself I should wear those hijeous weepers two years for him, he’d be deceived by his own vanity, that’s all.


The fire will do, my good Tan, get me the coffee.


Do you think that Mrs. Lydgate can receive me this morning?


I have no doubt she will, if you will be kind enough to come in and let me tell her that you are here. She has not been very well since you were here yesterday, but she is better this morning, and I think it is very likely that she will be cheered by seeing you again.


I wrote this last night, and was going to carry it to Lowick in my ride. When one is grateful for something too good for common thanks, writing is less unsatisfactory than speech—one does not at least hear how inadequate the words are.


It is I who have most to thank for, since you have let me take that place. You have consented?


Yes, the check is going to Bulstrode to-day.


Ladislaw is come, Rosy; he sat with me last night; I dare say he will be here again to-day. I thought he looked rather battered and depressed. Rosy, dear, Mrs. Casaubon is come to see you again; you would like to see her, would you not?


I am going out immediately.


Pray tell Martha not to bring any one else into the drawing-room.


I had an errand yesterday which I did not finish; that is why I am here again so soon. You will not think me too troublesome when I tell you that I came to talk to you about the injustice that has been shown towards Mr. Lydgate. It will cheer you—will it not?—to know a great deal about him, that he may not like to speak about himself just because it is in his own vindication and to his own honor. You will like to know that your husband has warm friends, who have not left off believing in his high character? You will let me speak of this without thinking that I take a liberty?


I know you have been very good. I shall like to hear anything you will say to me about Tertius.


The day before yesterday, when I had asked him to come to Lowick to give me his opinion on the affairs of the Hospital, he told me everything about his conduct and feelings in this sad event which has made ignorant people cast suspicions on him. The reason he told me was because I was very bold and asked him. I believed that he had never acted dishonorably, and I begged him to tell me the history. He confessed to me that he had never told it before, not even to you, because he had a great dislike to say, ‘I was not wrong,’ as if that were proof, when there are guilty people who will say so. The truth is, he knew nothing of this man Raffles, or that there were any bad secrets about him; and he thought that Mr. Bulstrode offered him the money because he repented, out of kindness, of having refused it before. All his anxiety about his patient was to treat him rightly, and he was a little uncomfortable that the case did not end as he had expected; but he thought then and still thinks that there may have been no wrong in it on any one’s part. And I have told Mr. Farebrother, and Mr. Brooke, and Sir James Chettam: they all believe in your husband. That will cheer you, will it not? That will give you courage?


Thank you: you are very kind.


And he felt that he had been so wrong not to pour out everything about this to you. But you will forgive him. It was because he feels so much more about your happiness than anything else—he feels his life bound into one with yours, and it hurts him more than anything, that his misfortunes must hurt you. He could speak to me because I am an indifferent person. And then I asked him if I might come to see you; because I felt so much for his trouble and yours. That is why I came yesterday, and why I am come to-day. Trouble is so hard to bear, is it not?— How can we live and think that any one has trouble—piercing trouble—and we could help them, and never try?


We were talking about your husband. I thought his looks were sadly changed with suffering the other day. I had not seen him for many weeks before. He said he had been feeling very lonely in his trial; but I think he would have borne it all better if he had been able to be quite open with you.


Tertius is so angry and impatient if I say anything. He ought not to wonder that I object to speak to him on painful subjects.


It was himself he blamed for not speaking. What he said of you was, that he could not be happy in doing anything which made you unhappy—that his marriage was of course a bond which must affect his choice about everything; and for that reason he refused my proposal that he should keep his position at the Hospital, because that would bind him to stay in Middlemarch, and he would not undertake to do anything which would be painful to you. He could say that to me, because he knows that I had much trial in my marriage, from my husband’s illness, which hindered his plans and saddened him; and he knows that I have felt how hard it is to walk always in fear of hurting another who is tied to us. Marriage is so unlike everything else. There is something even awful in the nearness it brings. Even if we loved some one else better than—than those we were married to, it would be no use I mean, marriage drinks up all our power of giving or getting any blessedness in that sort of love. I know it may be very dear—but it murders our marriage—and then the marriage stays with us like a murder—and everything else is gone. And then our husband—if he loved and trusted us, and we have not helped him, but made a curse in his life— I know, I know that the feeling may be very dear—it has taken hold of us unawares—it is so hard, it may seem like death to part with it—and we are weak—I am weak—


You are thinking what is not true. When you came in yesterday—it was not as you thought. He was telling me how he loved another woman, that I might know he could never love me. And now I think he hates me because—because you mistook him yesterday. He says it is through me that you will think ill of him—think that he is a false person. But it shall not be through me. He has never had any love for me—I know he has not—he has always thought slightly of me. He said yesterday that no other woman existed for him beside you. The blame of what happened is entirely mine. He said he could never explain to you—because of me. He said you could never think well of him again. But now I have told you, and he cannot reproach me any more.


No, he cannot reproach you any more. You are not sorry that I came this morning?


No, you have been very good to me. I did not think that you would be so good. I was very unhappy. I am not happy now. Everything is so sad.


But better days will come. Your husband will be rightly valued. And he depends on you for comfort. He loves you best. The worst loss would be to lose that—and you have not lost it,


Tertius did not find fault with me, then?


No, indeed! How could you imagine it?


I am come back in my quality of doctor. After I went away, I was haunted by two pale faces: Mrs. Casaubon looked as much in need of care as you, Rosy. And I thought that I had not done my duty in leaving you together; so when I had been to Coleman’s I came home again. I noticed that you were walking, Mrs. Casaubon, and the sky has changed—I think we may have rain. May I send some one to order your carriage to come for you?


Oh, no! I am strong: I need the walk. Mrs. Lydgate and I have chatted a great deal, and it is time for me to go. I have always been accused of being immoderate and saying too much.


Well, Rosy, what do you think of Mrs. Casaubon now you have seen so much of her?


I think she must be better than any one, and she is very beautiful. If you go to talk to her so often, you will be more discontented with me than ever!


But has she made you any less discontented with me?


I think she has. How heavy your eyes are, Tertius—and do push your hair back.


I have told Mrs. Casaubon. She is not under any mistake about you. I told her because she came to see me and was very kind. You will have nothing to reproach me with now. I shall not have made any difference to you.


And now good-morrow to our waking souls Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room, an everywhere.


Oh dear! oh dear! Do sit down. Am I wanted for anything? I shall be so glad if I can do anything.


I will not stay. I have left a friend in the churchyard. Mr. Ladislaw. He fears he has offended you, and has begged me to ask if you will see him for a few minutes. Do see him, Mrs. Casaubon, else I must go back and say No, and that will hurt him.


Yes, I will see him. Pray tell him to come.


If I love him too much it is because he has been used so ill:


I am so grateful to you for seeing me.


I wanted to see you,


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. But the affair is matter of gossip now. 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 giving me. Perhaps it is rather to Bulstrode’s credit that he privately offered me compensation for an old injury: he offered to give me a good income to make amends; but I suppose you know the disagreeable story? You know that it must be altogether painful to me.


Yes—yes—I know,


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. I felt that


You acted as I should have expected you to act,


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,


If it were a new hardship it would be a new reason for me to cling to you. Nothing could have changed me but— but thinking that you were different—not so good as I had believed you to be.


You are sure to believe me better than I am in everything but one. I mean, in my truth to you. When I thought you doubted of that, I didn’t care about anything that was left. I thought it was all over with me, and there was nothing to try for—only things to endure.


I don’t doubt you any longer. See how dark the clouds have become, and how the trees are tossed,


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, the misery of knowing that you must despise me.


But I have felt worse—it was worse to think ill—


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.


There is no hope for me. Even if you loved me as well as I love you—even if I were everything 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. I would rather share all the trouble of our parting.


It is impossible! It is as fatal as a murder or any other horror that divides people, it is more intolerable—to have our life maimed by petty accidents.


No—don’t say that—your life need not be maimed,


Yes, it must. 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,


When? 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 mouthpiece. I can see that clearly enough. I could not offer myself to any woman, even if she had no luxuries to renounce.


Good-by.


Oh, I cannot bear it—my heart will break. I don’t mind about poverty—I hate my wealth. 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 everything costs.


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. James’s title is worth far more than any new earldom. I never wished his father to be anything else than Sir James.


Oh, I only meant about Arthur’s little tooth. But see, here is my uncle coming.


Well, my dear! Well, you’re all here, you know,


Don’t take the throwing out of the Bill so much to heart, Brooke; you’ve got all the riff-raff of the country on your side.


The Bill, eh? ah! 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? Not another gamekeeper shot, I hope? It’s what I should expect, when a fellow like Trapping Bass is let off so easily.


Gamekeeper? No. Let us go in; I can tell you all in the house, you know. As to poachers like Trapping Bass, you know, Chettam, 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.


I’m dying to know the sad news. The gamekeeper is not shot: that is settled. What is it, then?


Well, it’s a very trying thing, you know. 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. 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,


For God’s sake let us hear what it is!


Well, you know, Chettam, I couldn’t help Casaubon’s will: it was a sort of will to make things worse.


Exactly. But what is worse?


Dorothea is going to be married again, you know,


Merciful heaven! Not to young Ladislaw?


Yes; to Ladislaw,


You see, Humphrey! 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 was gone out of the country.


So he might be, and yet come back,


When did you learn this?


Yesterday. 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,


Really, James, that would have been very disagreeable,


Be reasonable, Chettam. Look at the affair more quietly,


That is not so very easy for a man of any dignity—with any sense of right—when the affair happens to be in his own family. 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. 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, 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. 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 poverty—has 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.


I pointed everything out to her. I mean the poverty, and abandoning her position. I said, ‘My dear, you don’t know what it is to live on seven hundred a-year, and have no carriage, and that kind of thing, and go amongst people who don’t know who you are.’ I put it strongly to her. But I advise you to talk to Dorothea herself. The fact is, she has a dislike to Casaubon’s property. You will hear what she says, you know.


No—excuse me—I shall not. I cannot bear to see her again; it is too painful. It hurts me too much that a woman like Dorothea should have done what is wrong.


Be just, Chettam. 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. 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,


It is very dreadful of Dodo, though. She said she never would marry again—not anybody at all.


I heard her say the same thing myself,


Oh, there is usually a silent exception in such cases. 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. He’s not a man we can take into the family. At least, I must speak for myself. I suppose others will find his society too pleasant to care about the propriety of the thing.


Well, you know, Chettam. 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.


Do you mean that Dodo is going to be married directly, uncle?


In three weeks, you know. I can do nothing to hinder it, Cadwallader,


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, 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. 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. Elinor cannot be said to have descended below her rank. It is difficult to say what Mr. Ladislaw is, eh, James?


It must be admitted that his blood is a frightful mixture! 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. It is time for us to go.


After all, he is a pretty sprig. He is like the fine old Crichley portraits before the idiots came in.


I’ll go with you. You must all come and dine with me to-morrow, you know—eh, Celia, my dear?


You will, James—won’t you?


Oh, of course, if you like. That is to say, if it is not to meet anybody else.


No, no, no. Dorothea would not come, you know, unless you had been to see her.


Do you mind about my having the carriage to go to Lowick, James?


What, now, directly?


Yes, it is very important,


Remember, Celia, I cannot see her,


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.


O Kitty, I am delighted to see you! I almost thought you would not come to me.


I have not brought Arthur, because I was in a hurry. You know, Dodo, it is very bad. 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. 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. Well, it is very serious, Dodo. 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—


Dear Celia, if you don’t ever see me, it will not be my fault.


Yes, it will. 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,


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. Take comfort: perhaps James will forgive me some time.


But it would be much better if you would not be married, 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, 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.


Is he very fond of you, Dodo?


I hope so. I am very fond of him.


That is nice. Only I would rather you had such a sort of husband as James is, with a place very near, that I could drive to. I cannot think how it all came about.


I dare say not. If you knew how it came about, it would not seem wonderful to you.


Can’t you tell me?


No, dear, you would have to feel with me, else you would never know.


Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet. I mean with regard to arrangements of property. It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision. If you have any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me.


I should like to do something for my brother’s family, Nicholas; and I think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband. Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere with. I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some amends to my poor brother’s family. make some amends;


It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my dear. Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me. He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him. Mrs. Casaubon advanced him the sum for that purpose. Here is his letter.


There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your brother’s family, if you like to act in it. And it would, I think, be beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land which I mean to be yours. Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in order to place your nephew Fred there. The stock was to remain as it is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an ordinary rent. That would be a desirable beginning for the young man, in conjunction with his employment under Garth. Would it be a satisfaction to you?


Yes, it would. Poor Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do him some good before I go away. We have always been brother and sister.


You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet. You must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need have no transactions with me. Communications can be made through Standish. I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent. I can put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them. I think it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing for the sake of your nephew.


There you are, Caleb. Have you had your dinner?


Oh yes, a good dinner—cold mutton and I don’t know what. Where is Mary?


In the garden with Letty, I think.


Fred is not come yet?


No. Are you going out again without taking tea, Caleb?


No, no; I’m only going to Mary a minute. I came to look for you, Mary. Let us walk about a bit. It will be a sad while before you can be married, Mary,


Not a sad while, father—I mean to be merry. I have been single and merry for four-and-twenty years and more: I suppose it will not be quite as long again as that. If you are contented with Fred?


Did I?


Yes, I put it all down, and the date, anno Domini, and everything. You like things to be neatly booked. And then his behavior to you, father, is really good; he has a deep respect for you; and it is impossible to have a better temper than Fred has.


Ay, ay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match.


No, indeed, father. I don’t love him because he is a fine match.


What for, then?


Oh, dear, because I have always loved him. I should never like scolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought of in a husband.


Your mind is quite settled, then, Mary? There’s no other wish come into it since things have been going on as they have been of late? because, better late than never. A woman must not force her heart—she’ll do a man no good by that.


My feelings have not changed, father. I shall be constant to Fred as long as he is constant to me. I don’t think either of us could spare the other, or like any one else better, however much we might admire them. It would make too great a difference to us—like seeing all the old places altered, and changing the name for everything. We must wait for each other a long while; but Fred knows that.


Well, I’ve got a bit of news. What do you think of Fred going to live at Stone Court, and managing the land there?


How can that ever be, father?


He would manage it for his aunt Bulstrode. The poor woman has been to me begging and praying. She wants to do the lad good, and it might be a fine thing for him. With saving, he might gradually buy the stock, and he has a turn for farming.


Oh, Fred would be so happy! It is too good to believe.


Ah, but mind you. I must take it on my shoulders, and be responsible, and see after everything; and that will grieve your mother a bit, though she mayn’t say so. Fred had need be careful.


Perhaps it is too much, father. There would be no happiness in bringing you any fresh trouble.


Nay, nay; work is my delight, child, when it doesn’t vex your mother. And then, if you and Fred get married, he’ll be steady and saving; and you’ve got your mother’s cleverness, and mine too, in a woman’s sort of way; and you’ll keep him in order. He’ll be coming by-and-by, so I wanted to tell you first, because I think you’d like to tell him by yourself. After that, I could talk it well over with him, and we could go into business and the nature of things.


Oh, you dear good father! I wonder if any other girl thinks her father the best man in the world!


Nonsense, child; you’ll think your husband better.


Impossible, husbands are an inferior class of men, who require keeping in order. What fine clothes you wear, you extravagant youth! You are not learning economy.


Now that is too bad, Mary. Just look at the edges of these coat-cuffs! It is only by dint of good brushing that I look respectable. I am saving up three suits—one for a wedding-suit.


How very droll you will look!—like a gentleman in an old fashion-book.


Oh no, they will keep two years.


Two years! be reasonable, Fred. Don’t encourage flattering expectations.


Why not? One lives on them better than on unflattering ones. If we can’t be married in two years, the truth will be quite bad enough when it comes.


I have heard a story of a young gentleman who once encouraged flattering expectations, and they did him harm.


Mary, if you’ve got something discouraging to tell me, I shall bolt; I shall go into the house to Mr. Garth. I am out of spirits. My father is so cut up—home is not like itself. I can’t bear any more bad news.


Should you call it bad news to be told that you were to live at Stone Court, and manage the farm, and be remarkably prudent, and save money every year till all the stock and furniture were your own, and you were a distinguished agricultural character, as Mr. Borthrop Trumbull says—rather stout, I fear, and with the Greek and Latin sadly weather-worn?


You don’t mean anything except nonsense, Mary?


That is what my father has just told me of as what may happen, and he never talks nonsense,


Oh, I could be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary, and we could be married directly.


Not so fast, sir; how do you know that I would not rather defer our marriage for some years? That would leave you time to misbehave, and then if I liked some one else better, I should have an excuse for jilting you.


Pray don’t joke, Mary. Tell me seriously that all this is true, and that you are happy because of it—because you love me best.


It is all true, Fred, and I am happy because of it—because I love you best,


When we were first engaged, with the umbrella-ring, Mary, you used to—


Fred and Mary! are you ever coming in?—or may I eat your cake?


that would be too great a trial to your mother.


The more spooneys they!


He was ten times worthier of you than I was,


To be sure he was, and for that reason he could do better without me. But you—I shudder to think what you would have been—a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs!


a reward


He once called her his basil plant;


Why then had he chosen her? It was a pity he had not had Mrs. Ladislaw, whom he was always praising and placing above her.


Dorothea has a little boy. And you will not let me go and see her. And I am sure she wants to see me. And she will not know what to do with the baby—she will do wrong things with it. And they thought she would die. It is very dreadful! Suppose it had been me and little Arthur, and Dodo had been hindered from coming to see me! I wish you would be less unkind, James!


Good heavens, Celia! what do you wish? I will do anything you like. I will take you to town to-morrow if you wish it. My dear sir, it is not for me to dictate to you, but for my part I would let that alone. I would let things remain as they are.


Those who had not seen anything of Dorothea

a nice woman,