“I always thought it a horrible sacrifice of your sister,” said Sir James.

“Yes.  But poor Dodo never did do what other people do, and I think she never will.”

“She is a noble creature,” said the loyal-hearted Sir James.  He had just had a fresh impression of this kind, as he had seen Dorothea stretching her tender arm under her husband’s neck and looking at him with unspeakable sorrow.  He did not know how much penitence there was in the sorrow.

“Yes,” said Celia, thinking it was very well for Sir James to say so, but he would not have been comfortable with Dodo.  “Shall I go to her?  Could I help her, do you think?”

“I think it would be well for you just to go and see her before Lydgate comes,” said Sir James, magnanimously.  “Only don’t stay long.”

While Celia was gone he walked up and down remembering what he had originally felt about Dorothea’s engagement, and feeling a revival of his disgust at Mr. Brooke’s indifference.  If Cadwallader—­ if every one else had regarded the affair as he, Sir James, had done, the marriage might have been hindered.  It was wicked to let a young girl blindly decide her fate in that way, without any effort to save her.  Sir James had long ceased to have any regrets on his own account:  his heart was satisfied with his engagement to Celia.  But he had a chivalrous nature (was not the disinterested service of woman among the ideal glories of old chivalry?):  his disregarded love had not turned to bitterness; its death had made sweet odors—­ floating memories that clung with a consecrating effect to Dorothea.  He could remain her brotherly friend, interpreting her actions with generous trustfulness.

CHAPTER XXX.

    “Qui veut delasser hors de propos, lasse.”—­PASCAL.

Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and in a few days began to recover his usual condition.  But Lydgate seemed to think the case worth a great deal of attention.  He not only used his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him.  To Mr. Casaubon’s questions about himself, he replied that the source of the illness was the common error of intellectual men—­a too eager and monotonous application:  the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate work, and to seek variety of relaxation.  Mr. Brooke, who sat by on one occasion, suggested that Mr. Casaubon should go fishing, as Cadwallader did, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind of thing.

“In short, you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my second childhood,” said poor Mr. Casaubon, with some bitterness.  “These things,” he added, looking at Lydgate, “would be to me such relaxation as tow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction.”

“I confess,” said Lydgate, smiling, “amusement is rather an unsatisfactory prescription.  It is something like telling people to keep up their spirits.  Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit to be mildly bored rather than to go on working.”