“How should I be able now to persevere in any
path without your companionship?” said Mr. Casaubon,
kissing her candid brow, and feeling that heaven had
vouchsafed him a blessing in every way suited to his
peculiar wants. He was being unconsciously wrought
upon by the charms of a nature which was entirely without
hidden calculations either for immediate effects or
for remoter ends. It was this which made Dorothea
so childlike, and, according to some judges, so stupid,
with all her reputed cleverness; as, for example,
in the present case of throwing herself, metaphorically
speaking, at Mr. Casaubon’s feet, and kissing
his unfashionable shoe-ties as if he were a Protestant
Pope. She was not in the least teaching Mr.
Casaubon to ask if he were good enough for her, but
merely asking herself anxiously how she could be good
enough for Mr. Casaubon. Before he left the next
day it had been decided that the marriage should take
place within six weeks. Why not? Mr. Casaubon’s
house was ready. It was not a parsonage, but
a considerable mansion, with much land attached to
it. The parsonage was inhabited by the curate,
who did all the duty except preaching the morning sermon.
CHAPTER VI.
My lady’s tongue is
like the meadow blades,
That cut you stroking them
with idle hand.
Nice cutting is her function:
she divides
With spiritual edge the millet-seed,
And makes intangible savings.
As Mr. Casaubon’s carriage was passing out of
the gateway, it arrested the entrance of a pony phaeton
driven by a lady with a servant seated behind.
It was doubtful whether the recognition had been
mutual, for Mr. Casaubon was looking absently before
him; but the lady was quick-eyed, and threw a nod
and a “How do you do?” in the nick of
time. In spite of her shabby bonnet and very
old Indian shawl, it was plain that the lodge-keeper
regarded her as an important personage, from the low
curtsy which was dropped on the entrance of the small
phaeton.
“Well, Mrs. Fitchett, how are your fowls laying
now?” said the high-colored, dark-eyed lady,
with the clearest chiselled utterance.
“Pretty well for laying, madam, but they’ve
ta’en to eating their eggs: I’ve
no peace o’ mind with ’em at all.”
“Oh, the cannibals! Better sell them cheap
at once. What will you sell them a couple?
One can’t eat fowls of a bad character at a
high price.”
“Well, madam, half-a-crown: I couldn’t
let ’em go, not under.”
“Half-a-crown, these times! Come now—for
the Rector’s chicken-broth on a Sunday.
He has consumed all ours that I can spare. You
are half paid with the sermon, Mrs. Fitchett, remember
that. Take a pair of tumbler-pigeons for them—little
beauties. You must come and see them.
You have no tumblers among your pigeons.”
“Well, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and see
’em after work. He’s very hot on
new sorts; to oblige you.”
