Middlemarch by George Eliot (ebook and pdf reader TXT) 📕

That attack upset his brain a little. It all goes for nothing. She doesn’t want to marry Ladislaw.”

“But this codicil is framed so as to make everybody believe that she did. I don’t believe anything of the sort about Dorothea,” said Sir James⁠—then frowningly, “but I suspect Ladislaw. I tell you frankly, I suspect Ladislaw.”

“I couldn’t take any immediate action on that ground, Chettam. In fact, if it were possible to pack him off⁠—send him to Norfolk Island⁠—that sort of thing⁠—it would look all the worse for Dorothea to those who knew about it. It would seem as if we distrusted her⁠—distrusted her, you know.”

That Mr. Brooke had hit on an undeniable argument, did not tend to soothe Sir James. He put out his hand to reach his hat, implying that he did not mean to contend further, and said, still with some heat⁠—

“Well, I can only say that I think Dorothea was sacrificed once, because her friends were too careless. I shall do what I can, as her brother, to protect her now.”

“You can’t do better than get her to Freshitt as soon as possible, Chettam. I approve that plan altogether,” said Mr. Brooke, well pleased that he had won the argument. It would have been highly inconvenient to him to part with Ladislaw at that time, when a dissolution might happen any day, and electors were to be convinced of the course by which the interests of the country would be best served. Mr. Brooke sincerely believed that this end could be secured by his own return to Parliament: he offered the forces of his mind honestly to the nation.

L

“This Loller here wol precilen us somewhat.”
“Nay by my father’s soule! that schal he nat,”
Sayde the Schipman, “here schal he not preche,
We schal no gospel glosen here ne teche.
We leven all in the gret God,” quod he.
He wolden sowen some diffcultee.

Canterbury Tales

Dorothea had been safe at Freshitt Hall nearly a week before she had asked any dangerous questions. Every morning now she sat with Celia in the prettiest of upstairs sitting-rooms, opening into a small conservatory⁠—Celia all in white and lavender like a bunch of mixed violets, watching the remarkable acts of the baby, which were so dubious to her inexperienced mind that all conversation was interrupted by appeals for their interpretation made to the oracular nurse. Dorothea sat by in her widow’s dress, with an expression which rather provoked Celia, as being much too sad; for not only was baby quite well, but really when a husband had been so dull and troublesome while he lived, and besides that had⁠—well, well! Sir James, of course, had told Celia everything, with a strong representation how important it was that Dorothea should not know it sooner than was inevitable.

But Mr. Brooke had been right in predicting that Dorothea would not long remain passive where action had been assigned to her; she knew the purport of her husband’s will made at the time of their marriage, and her mind, as soon as she was clearly conscious of her position, was silently occupied with what she ought to do as the owner of Lowick Manor with the patronage of the living attached to it.

One morning when her uncle paid his usual visit, though with an unusual alacrity in his manner which he accounted for by saying that it was now pretty certain Parliament would be dissolved forthwith, Dorothea said⁠—

“Uncle, it is right now that I should consider who is to have the living at Lowick. After Mr. Tucker had been provided for, I never heard my husband say that he had any clergyman in his mind as a successor to himself. I think I ought to have the keys now and go to Lowick to examine all my husband’s papers. There may be something that would throw light on his wishes.”

“No hurry, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, quietly. “By-and-by, you know, you can go, if you like. But I cast my eyes over things in the desks and drawers⁠—there was nothing⁠—nothing but deep subjects, you know⁠—besides the will. Everything can be done by-and-by. As to the living, I have had an application for interest already⁠—I should say rather good. Mr. Tyke has been strongly recommended to me⁠—I had something to do with getting him an appointment before. An apostolic man, I believe⁠—the sort of thing that would suit you, my dear.”

“I should like to have fuller knowledge about him, uncle, and judge for myself, if Mr. Casaubon has not left any expression of his wishes. He has perhaps made some addition to his will⁠—there may be some instructions for me,” said Dorothea, who had all the while had this conjecture in her mind with relation to her husband’s work.

“Nothing about the rectory, my dear⁠—nothing,” said Mr. Brooke, rising to go away, and putting out his hand to his nieces: “nor about his researches, you know. Nothing in the will.”

Dorothea’s lip quivered.

“Come, you must not think of these things yet, my dear. By-and-by, you know.”

“I am quite well now, uncle; I wish to exert myself.”

“Well, well, we shall see. But I must run away now⁠—I have no end of work now⁠—it’s a crisis⁠—a political crisis, you know. And here is Celia and her little man⁠—you are an aunt, you know, now, and I am a sort of grandfather,” said Mr. Brooke, with placid hurry, anxious to get away and tell Chettam that it would not be his (Mr. Brooke’s) fault if Dorothea insisted on looking into everything.

Dorothea sank back in her chair when her uncle had left the room, and cast her eyes down meditatively on her crossed hands.

“Look, Dodo! look at him! Did you ever see anything like that?” said Celia, in her comfortable staccato.

“What, Kitty?” said Dorothea, lifting her eyes rather absently.

“What? why, his upper lip; see how he is drawing it down, as if he meant to make a face. Isn’t it wonderful! He may have his little thoughts. I wish nurse were here. Do look at him.”

A large tear which had been for