“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.
“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.”
