Middlemarch George Eliot (essential reading txt) đ
- Author: George Eliot
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âFad to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my fellow-creaturesâ houses in that childish way? I may well make mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among people with such petty thoughts?â
No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She was disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the purblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer the eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white nullifidian, worse than any discouraging presence in the Pilgrimâs Progress. The fad of drawing plans! What was life worthâ âwhat great faith was possible when the whole effect of oneâs actions could be withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the carriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an image of sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have been alarmed, if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty and composed, that he at once concluded Dorotheaâs tears to have their origin in her excessive religiousness. He had returned, during their absence, from a journey to the county town, about a petition for the pardon of some criminal.
âWell, my dears,â he said, kindly, as they went up to kiss him, âI hope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away.â
âNo, uncle,â said Celia, âwe have been to Freshitt to look at the cottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch.â
âI came by Lowick to lunchâ âyou didnât know I came by Lowick. And I have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorotheaâ âin the library, you know; they lie on the table in the library.â
It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, thrilling her from despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the early Church. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shaken off, and she walked straight to the library. Celia went upstairs. Mr. Brooke was detained by a message, but when he re-entered the library, he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphlets which had some marginal manuscript of Mr. Casaubonâsâ âtaking it in as eagerly as she might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after a dry, hot, dreary walk.
She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sad liability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem.
Mr. Brooke sat down in his armchair, stretched his legs towards the wood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dice between the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very mildly towards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he had nothing particular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon as she was aware of her uncleâs presence, and rose as if to go. Usually she would have been interested about her uncleâs merciful errand on behalf of the criminal, but her late agitation had made her absentminded.
âI came back by Lowick, you know,â said Mr. Brooke, not as if with any intention to arrest her departure, but apparently from his usual tendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle of human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. âI lunched there and saw Casaubonâs library, and that kind of thing. Thereâs a sharp air, driving. Wonât you sit down, my dear? You look cold.â
Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Some times, when her uncleâs easy way of taking things did not happen to be exasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle and bonnet, and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifting up her beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or small hands; but powerful, feminine, maternal hands. She seemed to be holding them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know and to think, which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Freshitt had issued in crying and red eyelids.
She bethought herself now of the condemned criminal. âWhat news have you brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?â
âWhat, poor Bunch?â âwell, it seems we canât get him offâ âhe is to be hanged.â
Dorotheaâs brow took an expression of reprobation and pity.
âHanged, you know,â said Mr. Brooke, with a quiet nod. âPoor Romilly! he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didnât know Romilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is.â
âWhen a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must of course give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about making acquaintances?â
âThatâs true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been a bachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I never moped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants a companionâ âa companion, you know.â
âIt would be a great honor to anyone to be his companion,â said Dorothea, energetically.
âYou like him, eh?â said Mr. Brooke, without showing any surprise, or other emotion. âWell, now, Iâve known Casaubon ten years, ever since he came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of himâ âany ideas, you know. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishopâ âthat kind of thing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of you, my dear.â
Dorothea could not speak.
âThe fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaks uncommonly wellâ âdoes Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him I thought there was not
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