“Mrs. Cadwallader says it is nonsense, people
going a long journey when they are married.
She says they get tired to death of each other, and
can’t quarrel comfortably, as they would at home.
And Lady Chettam says she went to Bath.”
Celia’s color changed again and again—seemed
“To come and go with
tidings from the heart,
As it a running messenger
had been.”
It must mean more than Celia’s blushing usually
did.
“Celia! has something happened?” said
Dorothea, in a tone full of sisterly feeling.
“Have you really any great news to tell me?”
“It was because you went away, Dodo. Then
there was nobody but me for Sir James to talk to,”
said Celia, with a certain roguishness in her eyes.
“I understand. It is as I used to hope
and believe,” said Dorothea, taking her sister’s
face between her hands, and looking at her half anxiously.
Celia’s marriage seemed more serious than it
used to do.
“It was only three days ago,” said Celia.
“And Lady Chettam is very kind.”
“And you are very happy?”
“Yes. We are not going to be married yet.
Because every thing is to be got ready. And
I don’t want to be married so very soon, because
I think it is nice to be engaged. And we shall
be married all our lives after.”
“I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty.
Sir James is a good, honorable man,” said Dorothea,
warmly.
“He has gone on with the cottages, Dodo.
He will tell you about them when he comes.
Shall you be glad to see him?”
“Of course I shall. How can you ask me?”
“Only I was afraid you would be getting so learned,”
said Celia, regarding Mr. Casaubon’s learning
as a kind of damp which might in due time saturate
a neighboring body.
“I found that no genius
in another could please me. My
unfortunate paradoxes had
entirely dried up that source of
comfort.”—GOLDSMITH.
One morning, some weeks after her arrival at Lowick,
Dorothea— but why always Dorothea?
Was her point of view the only possible one with
regard to this marriage? I protest against all
our interest, all our effort at understanding being
given to the young skins that look blooming in spite
of trouble; for these too will get faded, and will
know the older and more eating griefs which we are
helping to neglect. In spite of the blinking
eyes and white moles objectionable to Celia, and the
want of muscular curve which was morally painful to
Sir James, Mr. Casaubon had an intense consciousness
within him, and was spiritually a-hungered like the
rest of us. He had done nothing exceptional
in marrying—nothing but what society sanctions,
and considers an occasion for wreaths and bouquets.
It had occurred to him that he must not any longer
defer his intention of matrimony, and he had reflected
that in taking a wife, a man of good position should
