Chapter LXXXIV
Though it be songe of old and yonge,
That I sholde be to blame,
Theyrs be the charge, that spoke so large
In hurtynge of my name.
The Not-browne Mayde.
It was just after the Lords had thrown out the Reform
Bill: that explains how Mr. Cadwallader came to be walking
on the slope of the lawn near the great conservatory at
Freshitt Hall, holding the " Times " in his hands behind
him, while he talked with a trout-fisher's dispassionateness
about the prospects of the country to Sir James Chettam.
Mrs. Cadwallader, the Dowager Lady Chettam, and Celia were
sometimes seated on garden-chairs, sometimes walking to meet
little Arthur, who was being drawn in his chariot, and, as
became the infantine Bouddha, was sheltered by his sacred
umbrella with handsome silken fringe.
The ladies also talked polities, though more fitfully.
Mrs. Cadwallader was strong on the intended creation of
peers: she had it for certain from her cousin that Truberry
had gone over to the other side entirely at the instigation
of his wife, who had scented peerages in the air from the
very first introduction of the Reform question, and would
sign her soul away to take precedence of her younger sister,
who had married a baronet. Lady Chettam thought that such
conduct was very reprehensible, and remembered that Mrs.
Truberry's mother was a Miss Walsingham of Melspring. Celia
confessed it was nicer to be "Lady" than "Mrs.," and that
Dodo never minded about precedence if she could have her own
way. Mrs. Cadwallader held that it was a poor satisfaction
to take precedence when everybody about you knew that you
had not a drop of good blood in your veins; and Celia again,
stopping to look at Arthur, said, " 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," said the Dowager, " 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," said
Celia, comfortably. "But see, here is my uncle coming."
She tripped off to meet her uncle, while Sir James and
Mr. Cadwallader came forward to make one group with the
ladies. Celia had slipped her arm through her uncle's, and
he patted her hand with a rather melancholy " Well, my
dear!" As they approached, it was evident that Mr. Brooke
was looking dejected, but this was fully accounted for by
the state of politics; and as he was shaking hands all round
without more greeting than a " Well, you're all here, you
know," the Rector said, laughingly —
"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!" said Mr. Brooke, with a mild
distractedness of manner. "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?" said Sir James. "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," said Mr. Brooke, nodding at the
Cadwalladers, to show that he included them in his
confidence. "As to poachers like Trapping Bass, you know,
Chettam," he continued, as they were entering, " 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."
Mr. Brooke was evidently in a state of nervous
perturbation. When he had something painful to tell, it was
usually his way
to introduce it among a number of
disjointed particulars, as if it were a medicine that would
get a milder flavor by mixing He continued his chat with Sir
James about the poachers until they were all seated, and
Mrs. Cadwallader, impatient of this drivelling, said —
"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," said Mr.
Brooke. "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." Here
Mr. Brooke looked at Celia — " 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," said Celia, who had been used
to think of her sister as the dangerous part of the family
machinery. She had seated herself on a low stool against
her husband's knee.
"For Cod's sake let us hear what it is!" said Sir James.
"Well, you know, Chettam, I couldn't help Casaubon's
will: it was a sort of will to make things worse."
"Exactly," said Sir James, hastily. "But what is
worse?"
"Dorothea is going to be married again, you know," said
Mr. Brooke, nodding towards Celia, who immediately looked up
at her husband with a frightened glance, and put her hand on
his knee.
Sir James was almost white with anger, but he did not
speak.
"Merciful heaven!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Not to
young Ladislaw?"
Mr. Brooke nodded, saying, " Yes; to Ladislaw," and then
fell into a prudential silence.
"You see, Humphrey!" said Mrs. Cadwallader, waving her
arm towards her husband. "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," said the Rector,
quietly
"When did you learn this?" said Sir James, not liking to
hear any one else speak, though finding it difficult to
speak himself.
"Yesterday," said Mr. Brooke, meekly. "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," said Sir James, not from bloody-mindedness, but because he needed something strong to say.
"Really, James, that would have been very disagreeable,"
said Celia.
"Be reasonable, Chettam. Look at the affair more
quietly," said Mr. Cadwallader, sorry to see his good-natured friend so overmastered by anger.
"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," said Sir James, still in his white indignation.
"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,"
said Mr. Brooke. "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," said Sir James, unable to repress a retort, "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." Sir James
made little
stoppages between his clauses, the words
not coming easily. "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," Sir James ended
emphatically, turning aside and crossing his leg.
"I pointed everything out to her," said Mr. Brooke,
apologetically — "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," said Sir James, with more
coolness. "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," said the easy, large-lipped Rector,
who objected to all this unnecessary discomfort. "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," answered Sir James. "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," said the Rector,
quietly. Like many men who take life easily, he had the
knack of saying a home truth occasionally to those who felt
themselves virtuously out of temper. Sir James took out his
handkerchief and began to bite the corner.
"It is very dreadful of Dodo, though," said Celia,
wishing to justify her husband. "She said she never
would marry again — not anybody at all."
"I heard her say the same thing myself," said Lady
Chettam, majestically, as if this were royal evidence.
"Oh, there is usually a silent exception in such eases,"
said Mrs. Cadwallader. "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," said
Sir James, still feeling a little stung, and turning round
in his chair towards the Rector. "He's not a man we can
take into the family. At least, I must speak for myself,"
he continued, carefully keeping his eyes off Mr. Brooke. "I
suppose others will find his society too pleasant to care
about the propriety of the thing."
"Well, you know, Chettam," said Mr. Brooke, good-humoredly, nursing his leg, " 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."
Mr. Brooke nodded at Sir James, and felt that he was
both showing his own force of resolution and propitiating
what was just in the Baronet's vexation. He had hit on a
more ingenious mode of parrying than he was aware of. He
had touched a motive of which Sir James was ashamed. The
mass of his feeling about Dorothea's marriage to Ladislaw
was due partly to excusable prejudice, or even justifiable
opinion, partly to a jealous repugnance hardly less in
Ladislaw's case than in Casaubon's. He was convinced that
the marriage was a fatal one for Dorothea. But amid that
mass ran a vein of which he was too good and honorable a man
to like the avowal even to himself: it was undeniable that
the union of the two estates
— Tipton and Freshitt —
lying charmingly within a ring-fence, was a prospect that
flattered him for his son and heir. Hence when Mr. Brooke
noddingly appealed to that motive, Sir James felt a sudden
embarrassment; there was a stoppage in his throat; he even
blushed. He had found more words than usual in the first
jet of his anger, but Mr. Brooke's propitiation was more
clogging to his tongue than Mr. Cadwallader's caustic hint.
But Celia was glad to have room for speech after her
uncle's suggestion of the marriage ceremony, and she said,
though with as little eagerness of manner as if the question
had turned on an invitation to dinner, " Do you mean that
Dodo is going to be married directly, uncle?"
"In three weeks, you know," said Mr. Brooke, helplessly.
"I can do nothing to hinder it, Cadwallader," he added,
turning for a little countenance toward the Rector, who
said —
" — 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," continued the provoking husband; "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," said
his wife. "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," observed Lady Chettam with
approbation. "Elinor cannot be said to have descended below
her rank. It is difficult to say what Mr. Ladislaw is, eh,
James?"
Sir James gave a small grunt, which was less respectful
than his usual mode of answering his mother. Celia looked
up at him like a thoughtful kitten.
"It must be admitted that his blood is a frightful
mixture!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "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," said the Rector, rising. "It is
time for us to go."
"After all, he is a pretty sprig," said Mrs.
Cadwallader, rising too, and wishing to make amends. "He is
like the fine old Crichley portraits before the idiots came
in."
"I'll go with you," said Mr. Brooke, starting up with
alacrity. "You must all come and dine with me to-morrow,
you know — eh, Celia, my dear?"
"You will, James — won't you?" said Celia, taking her
husband's hand.
"Oh, of course, if you like," said Sir James, pulling
down his waistcoat, but unable yet to adjust his face good-humoredly. "That is to say, if it is not to meet anybody
else.':
"No, no, no," said Mr. Brooke, understanding the
condition. "Dorothea would not come, you know, unless you
had been to see her."
When Sir James and Celia were alone, she said, "Do you
mind about my having the carriage to go to, Lowick, James?"
"What, now, directly?" he answered, with some surprise.
"Yes, it is very important," said Celia.
"Remember, Celia, I cannot see her," said Sir James.
"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."
Celia thought it was of great use, if not to say that,
at least to take a journey to Lowick in order to influence
Dorothea's mind. All through their girlhood she had felt
that she could act on her sister by a word judiciously
placed — by opening a little window for the daylight of her
own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps
by which Dodo habitually saw. And Celia the matron
naturally felt more able to advise her childless sister.
How could any one understand Dodo so well as Celia did or
love her so tenderly?
Dorothea, busy in her boudoir, felt a glow of pleasure
at
the sight of her sister so soon after the revelation
of her intended marriage. She had prefigured to herself,
even with exaggeration, the disgust of her friends, and she
had even feared that Celia might be kept aloof from her.
"O Kitty, I am delighted to see you!" said Dorothea,
putting her hands on Celia's shoulders, and beaming on her.
"I almost thought you would not come to me."
"I have not brought Arthur, because I was in a hurry,"
said Celia, and they sat down on two small chairs opposite
each other, with their knees touching.
"You know, Dodo, it is very bad," said Celia, in her
placid guttural, looking as prettily free from humors as
possible. "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," said Dorothea, " 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
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."
Dorothea laughed.
"Well, it is very serious, Dodo," said Celia, becoming
more impressive. "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 — "
Celia's rare tears had got into her eyes, and the
corners of her mouth were agitated.
"Dear Celia," said Dorothea, with tender gravity, " if
you don't ever see me, it will not be my fault."
"Yes, it will," said Celia, with the same touching
distortion of her small features. "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," said Dorothea.
"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," said Dorothea, with gentle warmth.
"Take comfort: perhaps James will forgive me some time."
"But it would be much better if you would not be
married," said Celia, drying her eyes, and returning to her
argument; " 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," said Dorothea, " 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."
The tone in which Dorothea said this was a note that
Celia had long learned to recognize. She was silent a few
moments, and then said, as if she had dismissed all contest,
" Is he very fond of you, Dodo?"
"I hope so. I am very fond of him."
"That is nice," said Celia,-comfortably. "Only I rather
you had such a sort of husband as James is, with a place
very near, that I could drive to."
Dorothea smiled, and Celia looked rather meditative.
Pres
ently she said, "I cannot think how it all came
about." Celia thought it would be pleasant to hear the
story.
"I dare say not," said-Dorothea, pinching her sister's
chin. "If you knew how it came about, it would not seem
wonderful to you."
"Can't you tell me?" said Celia, settling her arms
cozily.
"No, dear, you would have to feel with me, else you
would never know."