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

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.”

Rosamond had delivered her soul under impulses which she had not known before. She had begun her confession under the subduing influence of Dorothea’s emotion; and as she went on she had gathered the sense that she was repelling Will’s reproaches, which were still like a knife-wound within her.

The revulsion of feeling in Dorothea was too strong to be called joy. It was a tumult in which the terrible strain of the night and morning made a resistant pain:⁠—she could only perceive that this would be joy when she had recovered her power of feeling it. Her immediate consciousness was one of immense sympathy without check; she cared for Rosamond without struggle now, and responded earnestly to her last words⁠—

“No, he cannot reproach you any more.”

With her usual tendency to overestimate the good in others, she felt a great outgoing of her heart towards Rosamond, for the generous effort which had redeemed her from suffering, not counting that the effort was a reflex of her own energy. After they had been silent a little, she said⁠—

“You are not sorry that I came this morning?”

“No, you have been very good to me,” said Rosamond. “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,” said Dorothea.

She tried to thrust away the too overpowering thought of her own relief, lest she should fail to win some sign that Rosamond’s affection was yearning back towards her husband.

“Tertius did not find fault with me, then?” said Rosamond, understanding now that Lydgate might have said anything to Mrs. Casaubon, and that she certainly was different from other women. Perhaps there was a faint taste of jealousy in the question. A smile began to play over Dorothea’s face as she said⁠—

“No, indeed! How could you imagine it?” But here the door opened, and Lydgate entered.

“I am come back in my quality of doctor,” he said. “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 someone to order your carriage to come for you?”

“Oh, no! I am strong: I need the walk,” said Dorothea, rising with animation in her face. “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.”

She put out her hand to Rosamond, and they said an earnest, quiet goodbye without kiss or other show of effusion: there had been between them too much serious emotion for them to use the signs of it superficially.

As Lydgate took her to the door she said nothing of Rosamond, but told him of Mr. Farebrother and the other friends who had listened with belief to his story.

When he came back to Rosamond, she had already thrown herself on the sofa, in resigned fatigue.

“Well, Rosy,” he said, standing over her, and touching her hair, “what do you think of Mrs. Casaubon now you have seen so much of her?”

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

Lydgate laughed at the “so often.” “But has she made you any less discontented with me?”

“I think she has,” said Rosamond, looking up in his face. “How heavy your eyes are, Tertius⁠—and do push your hair back.” He lifted up his large white hand to obey her, and felt thankful for this little mark of interest in him. Poor Rosamond’s vagrant fancy had come back terribly scourged⁠—meek enough to nestle under the old despised shelter. And the shelter was still there: Lydgate had accepted his narrowed lot with sad resignation. He had chosen this fragile creature, and had taken the burden of her life upon his arms. He must walk as he could, carrying that burden pitifully.

LXXXII

My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

Shakespeare: Sonnets

Exiles notoriously feed much on hopes, and are unlikely to stay in banishment unless they are obliged. When Will Ladislaw exiled himself from Middlemarch he had placed no stronger obstacle to his return than his own resolve, which was by no means an iron barrier, but simply a state of mind liable to melt into a minuet with other states of mind, and to find itself bowing, smiling, and giving place with polite facility. As the months went on, it had seemed more and more difficult to him to say why he should not run down to Middlemarch⁠—merely for the sake of hearing something about Dorothea; and if on such a flying visit he should chance by some strange coincidence to meet with her, there was no reason for him to be ashamed of having taken an innocent journey which he had beforehand supposed that he should not take. Since he was hopelessly divided from her, he might surely venture into her neighborhood; and as to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watch over her⁠—their opinions