Middlemarch

CHAPTER LXXXI.

”Du Erde warst auch diese Nacht bestandig, Und athmest neu erquickt zu meinen Fussen, Beginnest schon mit Lust mich zu umgeben, Zum regst und ruhrst ein kraftiges Reschliessen Zum hochsten Dasein immerfort zu streben. --Faust: 2r Theil.

When Dorothea was again at Lydgate's door speaking to Martha, he was inthe room close by with the door ajar, preparing to go out. He heardher voice, and immediately came to her.

”Do you think that Mrs. Lydgate can receive me this morning?” she said,having reflected that it would be better to leave out all allusion toher previous visit.

”I have no doubt she will,” said Lydgate, suppressing his thought aboutDorothea's looks, which were as much changed as Rosamond's, ”if youwill 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 isbetter this morning, and I think it is very likely that she will becheered by seeing you again.”

It was plain that Lydgate, as Dorothea had expected, knew nothing aboutthe circumstances of her yesterday's visit; nay, he appeared to imaginethat she had carried it out according to her intention. She hadprepared a little note asking Rosamond to see her, which she would havegiven to the servant if he had not been in the way, but now she was inmuch anxiety as to the result of his announcement.

After leading her into the drawing-room, he paused to take a letterfrom his pocket and put it into her hands, saying, ”I wrote this lastnight, and was going to carry it to Lowick in my ride. When one isgrateful for something too good for common thanks, writing is lessunsatisfactory than speech--one does not at least _hear_ how inadequatethe words are.”

Dorothea's face brightened. ”It is I who have most to thank for, sinceyou have let me take that place. You _have_ consented?” she said,suddenly doubting.

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

He said no more, but went up-stairs to Rosamond, who had but latelyfinished dressing herself, and sat languidly wondering what she shoulddo next, her habitual industry in small things, even in the days of hersadness, prompting her to begin some kind of occupation, which shedragged through slowly or paused in from lack of interest. She lookedill, but had recovered her usual quietude of manner, and Lydgate hadfeared to disturb her by any questions. He had told her of Dorothea'sletter containing the check, and afterwards he had said, ”Ladislaw iscome, Rosy; he sat with me last night; I dare say he will be here againto-day. I thought he looked rather battered and depressed.” AndRosamond had made no reply.

Now, when he came up, he said to her very gently, ”Rosy, dear, Mrs.Casaubon is come to see you again; you would like to see her, would younot?” That she colored and gave rather a startled movement did notsurprise him after the agitation produced by the interview yesterday--abeneficent agitation, he thought, since it seemed to have made her turnto him again.

Rosamond dared not say no. She dared not with a tone of her voicetouch the facts of yesterday. Why had Mrs. Casaubon come again? Theanswer was a blank which Rosamond could only fill up with dread, forWill Ladislaw's lacerating words had made every thought of Dorothea afresh smart to her. Nevertheless, in her new humiliating uncertaintyshe dared do nothing but comply. She did not say yes, but she rose andlet Lydgate put a light shawl over her shoulders, while he said, ”I amgoing out immediately.” Then something crossed her mind which promptedher to say, ”Pray tell Martha not to bring any one else into thedrawing-room.” And Lydgate assented, thinking that he fully understoodthis wish. He led her down to the drawing-room door, and then turnedaway, observing to himself that he was rather a blundering husband tobe dependent for his wife's trust in him on the influence of anotherwoman.

Rosamond, wrapping her soft shawl around her as she walked towardsDorothea, was inwardly wrapping her soul in cold reserve. Had Mrs.Casaubon come to say anything to her about Will? If so, it was aliberty that Rosamond resented; and she prepared herself to meet everyword with polite impassibility. Will had bruised her pride too sorelyfor her to feel any compunction towards him and Dorothea: her owninjury seemed much the greater. Dorothea was not only the ”preferred”woman, but had also a formidable advantage in being Lydgate'sbenefactor; and to poor Rosamond's pained confused vision it seemedthat this Mrs. Casaubon--this woman who predominated in all thingsconcerning her--must have come now with the sense of having theadvantage, and with animosity prompting her to use it. Indeed, notRosamond only, but any one else, knowing the outer facts of the case,and not the simple inspiration on which Dorothea acted, might well havewondered why she came.

Looking like the lovely ghost of herself, her graceful slimness wrappedin her soft white shawl, the rounded infantine mouth and cheekinevitably suggesting mildness and innocence, Rosamond paused at threeyards' distance from her visitor and bowed. But Dorothea, who hadtaken off her gloves, from an impulse which she could never resist whenshe wanted a sense of freedom, came forward, and with her face full ofa sad yet sweet openness, put out her hand. Rosamond could not avoidmeeting her glance, could not avoid putting her small hand intoDorothea's, which clasped it with gentle motherliness; and immediatelya doubt of her own prepossessions began to stir within her. Rosamond'seye was quick for faces; she saw that Mrs. Casaubon's face looked paleand changed since yesterday, yet gentle, and like the firm softness ofher hand. But Dorothea had counted a little too much on her ownstrength: the clearness and intensity of her mental action this morningwere the continuance of a nervous exaltation which made her frame asdangerously responsive as a bit of finest Venetian crystal; and inlooking at Rosamond, she suddenly found her heart swelling, and wasunable to speak--all her effort was required to keep back tears. Shesucceeded in that, and the emotion only passed over her face like thespirit of a sob; but it added to Rosamond's impression that Mrs.Casaubon's state of mind must be something quite different from whatshe had imagined.

So they sat down without a word of preface on the two chairs thathappened to be nearest, and happened also to be close together; thoughRosamond's notion when she first bowed was that she should stay a longway off from Mrs. Casaubon. But she ceased thinking how anything wouldturn out--merely wondering what would come. And Dorothea began tospeak quite simply, gathering firmness as she went on.

”I had an errand yesterday which I did not finish; that is why I amhere again so soon. You will not think me too troublesome when I tellyou that I came to talk to you about the injustice that has been showntowards Mr. Lydgate. It will cheer you--will it not?--to know a greatdeal about him, that he may not like to speak about himself justbecause it is in his own vindication and to his own honor. You willlike to know that your husband has warm friends, who have not left offbelieving in his high character? You will let me speak of this withoutthinking that I take a liberty?”

The cordial, pleading tones which seemed to flow with generousheedlessness above all the facts which had filled Rosamond's mind asgrounds of obstruction and hatred between her and this woman, came assoothingly as a warm stream over her shrinking fears. Of course Mrs.Casaubon had the facts in her mind, but she was not going to speak ofanything connected with them. That relief was too great for Rosamondto feel much else at the moment. She answered prettily, in the newease of her soul--

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

”The day before yesterday,” said Dorothea, ”when I had asked him tocome 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 eventwhich has made ignorant people cast suspicions on him. The reason hetold me was because I was very bold and asked him. I believed that hehad 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 thatwere proof, when there are guilty people who will say so. The truthis, he knew nothing of this man Raffles, or that there were any badsecrets about him; and he thought that Mr. Bulstrode offered him themoney because he repented, out of kindness, of having refused itbefore. 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 hadexpected; but he thought then and still thinks that there may have beenno wrong in it on any one's part. And I have told Mr. Farebrother, andMr. Brooke, and Sir James Chettam: they all believe in your husband.That will cheer you, will it not? That will give you courage?”

Dorothea's face had become animated, and as it beamed on Rosamond veryclose to her, she felt something like bashful timidity before asuperior, in the presence of this self-forgetful ardor. She said, withblushing embarrassment, ”Thank you: you are very kind.”

”And he felt that he had been so wrong not to pour out everything aboutthis to you. But you will forgive him. It was because he feels somuch more about your happiness than anything else--he feels his lifebound into one with yours, and it hurts him more than anything, thathis misfortunes must hurt you. He could speak to me because I am anindifferent 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 cameyesterday, and why I am come to-day. Trouble is so hard to bear, is itnot?-- How can we live and think that any one has trouble--piercingtrouble--and we could help them, and never try?”

Dorothea, completely swayed by the feeling that she was uttering,forgot everything but that she was speaking from out the heart of herown trial to Rosamond's. The emotion had wrought itself more and moreinto her utterance, till the tones might have gone to one's verymarrow, like a low cry from some suffering creature in the darkness.And she had unconsciously laid her hand again on the little hand thatshe had pressed before.

Rosamond, with an overmastering pang, as if a wound within her had beenprobed, burst into hysterical crying as she had done the day beforewhen she clung to her husband. Poor Dorothea was feeling a great waveof her own sorrow returning over her--her thought being drawn to thepossible share that Will Ladislaw might have in Rosamond's mentaltumult. She was beginning to fear that she should not be able tosuppress herself enough to the end of this meeting, and while her handwas still resting on Rosamond's lap, though the hand underneath it waswithdrawn, she was struggling against her own rising sobs. She triedto master herself with the thought that this might be a turning-pointin three lives--not in her own; no, there the irrevocable hadhappened, but--in those three lives which were touching hers with thesolemn neighborhood of danger and distress. The fragile creature whowas crying close to her--there might still be time to rescue her fromthe misery of false incompatible bonds; and this moment was unlike anyother: she and Rosamond could never be together again with the samethrilling consciousness of yesterday within them both. She felt therelation between them to be peculiar enough to give her a peculiarinfluence, though she had no conception that the way in which her ownfeelings were involved was fully known to Mrs. Lydgate.

It was a newer crisis in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea couldimagine: she was under the first great shock that had shattered herdream-world in which she had been easily confident of herself andcritical of others; and this strange unexpected manifestation offeeling in a woman whom she had approached with a shrinking aversionand dread, as one who must necessarily have a jealous hatred towardsher, made her soul totter all the more with a sense that she had beenwalking in an unknown world which had just broken in upon her.

When Rosamond's convulsed throat was subsiding into calm, and shewithdrew the handkerchief with which she had been hiding her face, hereyes met Dorothea's as helplessly as if they had been blue flowers.What was the use of thinking about behavior after this crying? AndDorothea looked almost as childish, with the neglected trace of asilent tear. Pride was broken down between these two.

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

”Tertius is so angry and impatient if I say anything,” said Rosamond,imagining that he had been complaining of her to Dorothea. ”He oughtnot to wonder that I object to speak to him on painful subjects.”

”It was himself he blamed for not speaking,” said Dorothea. ”What hesaid of you was, that he could not be happy in doing anything whichmade you unhappy--that his marriage was of course a bond which mustaffect his choice about everything; and for that reason he refused myproposal that he should keep his position at the Hospital, because thatwould bind him to stay in Middlemarch, and he would not undertake to doanything which would be painful to you. He could say that to me,because he knows that I had much trial in my marriage, from myhusband's illness, which hindered his plans and saddened him; and heknows that I have felt how hard it is to walk always in fear of hurtinganother who is tied to us.”

Dorothea waited a little; she had discerned a faint pleasure stealingover Rosamond's face. But there was no answer, and she went on, with agathering tremor, ”Marriage is so unlike everything else. There issomething even awful in the nearness it brings. Even if we loved someone else better than--than those we were married to, it would be nouse”--poor Dorothea, in her palpitating anxiety, could only seize herlanguage brokenly--”I mean, marriage drinks up all our power of givingor getting any blessedness in that sort of love. I know it may be verydear--but it murders our marriage--and then the marriage stays with uslike a murder--and everything else is gone. And then our husband--ifhe loved and trusted us, and we have not helped him, but made a cursein his life--”

Her voice had sunk very low: there was a dread upon her of presumingtoo far, and of speaking as if she herself were perfection addressingerror. She was too much preoccupied with her own anxiety, to be awarethat Rosamond was trembling too; and filled with the need to expresspitying fellowship rather than rebuke, she put her hands on Rosamond's,and said with more agitated rapidity,--”I know, I know that the feelingmay be very dear--it has taken hold of us unawares--it is so hard, itmay seem like death to part with it--and we are weak--I am weak--”

The waves of her own sorrow, from out of which she was struggling tosave another, rushed over Dorothea with conquering force. She stoppedin speechless agitation, not crying, but feeling as if she were beinginwardly grappled. Her face had become of a deathlier paleness, herlips trembled, and she pressed her hands helplessly on the hands thatlay under them.

Rosamond, taken hold of by an emotion stronger than her own--hurriedalong in a new movement which gave all things some new, awful,undefined aspect--could find no words, but involuntarily she put herlips to Dorothea's forehead which was very near her, and then for aminute the two women clasped each other as if they had been in ashipwreck.

”You are thinking what is not true,” said Rosamond, in an eagerhalf-whisper, while she was still feeling Dorothea's arms roundher--urged by a mysterious necessity to free herself from somethingthat oppressed her as if it were blood guiltiness.

They moved apart, looking at each other.

”When you came in yesterday--it was not as you thought,” said Rosamondin the same tone.

There was a movement of surprised attention in Dorothea. She expecteda vindication of Rosamond herself.

”He was telling me how he loved another woman, that I might know hecould never love me,” said Rosamond, getting more and more hurried asshe went on. ”And now I think he hates me because--because youmistook him yesterday. He says it is through me that you will thinkill of him--think that he is a false person. But it shall not bethrough me. He has never had any love for me--I know he has not--hehas always thought slightly of me. He said yesterday that no otherwoman existed for him beside you. The blame of what happened isentirely 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 toldyou, and he cannot reproach me any more.”

Rosamond had delivered her soul under impulses which she had not knownbefore. She had begun her confession under the subduing influence ofDorothea's emotion; and as she went on she had gathered the sense thatshe was repelling Will's reproaches, which were still like aknife-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 morningmade a resistant pain:--she could only perceive that this would be joywhen she had recovered her power of feeling it. Her immediateconsciousness was one of immense sympathy without check; she cared forRosamond without struggle now, and responded earnestly to her lastwords--

”No, he cannot reproach you any more.”

With her usual tendency to over-estimate the good in others, she felt agreat outgoing of her heart towards Rosamond, for the generous effortwhich had redeemed her from suffering, not counting that the effort wasa reflex of her own energy. After they had been silent a little, shesaid--

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

”No, you have been very good to me,” said Rosamond. ”I did not thinkthat 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. Andhe depends on you for comfort. He loves you best. The worst losswould be to lose that--and you have not lost it,” said Dorothea.

She tried to thrust away the too overpowering thought of her ownrelief, lest she should fail to win some sign that Rosamond's affectionwas 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 smilebegan to play over Dorothea's face as she said--

”No, indeed! How could you imagine it?” But here the door opened, andLydgate 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 needof care as you, Rosy. And I thought that I had not done my duty inleaving you together; so when I had been to Coleman's I came homeagain. I noticed that you were walking, Mrs. Casaubon, and the sky haschanged--I think we may have rain. May I send some one to order yourcarriage to come for you?”

”Oh, no! I am strong: I need the walk,” said Dorothea, rising withanimation 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 beingimmoderate and saying too much.”

She put out her hand to Rosamond, and they said an earnest, quietgood-by without kiss or other show of effusion: there had been betweenthem too much serious emotion for them to use the signs of itsuperficially.

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

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

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

”I think she must be better than any one,” said Rosamond, ”and she isvery beautiful. If you go to talk to her so often, you will be morediscontented with me than ever!”

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

”I think she has,” said Rosamond, looking up in his face. ”How heavyyour eyes are, Tertius--and do push your hair back.” He lifted up hislarge white hand to obey her, and felt thankful for this little mark ofinterest in him. Poor Rosamond's vagrant fancy had come back terriblyscourged--meek enough to nestle under the old despised shelter. Andthe shelter was still there: Lydgate had accepted his narrowed lot withsad resignation. He had chosen this fragile creature, and had takenthe burthen of her life upon his arms. He must walk as he could,carrying that burthen pitifully.