"Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea. "Mr. Casaubon wants me

particularly."

When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil his

wishes; but that would be later in the day--not yet.

As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round from the

table where he had been placing some books, and said--

"I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hoped to set to

work at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition,

probably from too much excitement yesterday. I am going now to take a

turn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder."

"I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea. "Your mind, I feared, was too

active last night."

"I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke of,

Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer."

"May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea, winning

a little breathing space in that way.

"I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour," said Mr.

Casaubon, and then he left her.

Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bring her some

wraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutes, but not in any

renewal of the former conflict: she simply felt that she was going to

say "Yes" to her own doom: she was too weak, too full of dread at the

thought of inflicting a keen-edged blow on her husband, to do anything

but submit completely. She sat still and let Tantripp put on her

bonnet and shawl, a passivity which was unusual with her, for she liked

to wait on herself.

"God bless you, madam!" said Tantripp, with an irrepressible movement

of love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom she felt unable

to do anything more, now that she had finished tying the bonnet.

This was too much for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, and she burst

into tears, sobbing against Tantripp's arm. But soon she checked

herself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass door into the

shrubbery.

"I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom for your

master," said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in the

breakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities, as

we know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but

"your master," when speaking to the other servants.

Pratt laughed. He liked his master very well, but he liked Tantripp

better.

When Dorothea was out on the gravel walks, she lingered among the

nearer clumps of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before, though

from a different cause. Then she had feared lest her effort at

fellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spot where

she foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship from which she

shrank. Neither law nor the world's opinion compelled her to

this--only her husband's nature and her own compassion, only the ideal

and not the real yoke of marriage. She saw clearly enough the whole

situation, yet she was fettered: she could not smite the stricken soul

that entreated hers. If that were weakness, Dorothea was weak. But

the half-hour was passing, and she must not delay longer. When she

entered the Yew-tree Walk she could not see her husband; but the walk

had bends, and she went, expecting to catch sight of his figure wrapped

in a blue cloak, which, with a warm velvet cap, was his outer garment

on chill days for the garden. It occurred to her that he might be

resting in the summer-house, towards which the path diverged a little.

Turning the angle, she could see him seated on the bench, close to a

stone table. His arms were resting on the table, and his brow was

bowed down on them, the blue cloak being dragged forward and screening

his face on each side.




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