Dorothea had been aware when Lydgate had ridden away, and she had

stepped into the garden, with the impulse to go at once to her husband.

But she hesitated, fearing to offend him by obtruding herself; for her

ardor, continually repulsed, served, with her intense memory, to

heighten her dread, as thwarted energy subsides into a shudder; and she

wandered slowly round the nearer clumps of trees until she saw him

advancing. Then she went towards him, and might have represented a

heaven-sent angel coming with a promise that the short hours remaining

should yet be filled with that faithful love which clings the closer to

a comprehended grief. His glance in reply to hers was so chill that

she felt her timidity increased; yet she turned and passed her hand

through his arm.

Mr. Casaubon kept his hands behind him and allowed her pliant arm to

cling with difficulty against his rigid arm.

There was something horrible to Dorothea in the sensation which this

unresponsive hardness inflicted on her. That is a strong word, but not

too strong: it is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of

joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard

faces at the devastation their own waste has made, and say, the earth

bears no harvest of sweetness--calling their denial knowledge. You may

ask why, in the name of manliness, Mr. Casaubon should have behaved in

that way. Consider that his was a mind which shrank from pity: have

you ever watched in such a mind the effect of a suspicion that what is

pressing it as a grief may be really a source of contentment, either

actual or future, to the being who already offends by pitying?

Besides, he knew little of Dorothea's sensations, and had not reflected

that on such an occasion as the present they were comparable in

strength to his own sensibilities about Carp's criticisms.

Dorothea did not withdraw her arm, but she could not venture to speak.

Mr. Casaubon did not say, "I wish to be alone," but he directed his

steps in silence towards the house, and as they entered by the glass

door on this eastern side, Dorothea withdrew her arm and lingered on

the matting, that she might leave her husband quite free. He entered

the library and shut himself in, alone with his sorrow.

She went up to her boudoir. The open bow-window let in the serene

glory of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast

long shadows. But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threw

herself on a chair, not heeding that she was in the dazzling sun-rays:

if there were discomfort in that, how could she tell that it was not

part of her inward misery?




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