Middlemarch by George Eliot & David Carroll & Felicia Bonaparte

Author:George Eliot & David Carroll & Felicia Bonaparte
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780451529176
Publisher: Oxford University Press
Published: 1871-12-31T15:00:00+00:00

‘Ah, what a different life from mine!’ said Dorothea, with keen interest, clasping her hands on her lap. ‘I have always had too much of everything. But tell me how it was–Mr Casaubon could not have known about you then.’

‘No; but my father had made himself known to Mr Casaubon, and that was my last hungry day. My father died soon after, and my mother and I were well taken care of. Mr Casaubon always expressly recognized it as his duty to take care of us because of the harsh injustice which had been shown to his mother’s sister. But now I am telling you what is not new to you.’

In his inmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell Dorothea what was rather new even in his own construction of things–namely, that Mr Casaubon had never done more than pay a debt towards him. Will was much too good a fellow to be easy under the sense of being ungrateful. And when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many ways of escaping from its bonds.

‘No,’ answered Dorothea; ‘Mr Casaubon has always avoided dwelling on his own honourable actions.’ She did not feel that her husband’s conduct was depreciated; but this notion of what justice had required in his relations with Will Ladislaw took strong hold on her mind. After a moment’s pause, she added, ‘He had never told me that he supported your mother. Is she still living?’

‘No; she died by an accident–a fall–four years ago. It is curious that my mother, too, ran away from her family, but not for the sake of her husband. She never would tell me anything about her family, except that she forsook them to get her own living–went on the stage, in fact. She was a dark-eyed creature, with crisp ringlets, and never seemed to be getting old. You see I come of rebellious blood on both sides,’ Will ended, smiling brightly at Dorothea, while she was still looking with serious intentness before her, like a child seeing a drama for the first time.

But her face, too, broke into a smile as she said, ‘That is your apology, I suppose, for having yourself been rather rebellious; I mean, to Mr Casaubon’s wishes. You must remember that you have not done what he thought best for you. And if he dislikes you–you were speaking of dislike a little while ago–but I should rather say, if he has shown any painful feelings towards you, you must consider how sensitive he has become from the wearing effect of study. Perhaps,’ she continued, getting into a pleading tone, ‘my uncle has not told you how serious Mr Casaubon’s illness was. It would be very petty of us who are well and can bear things, to think much of small offences from those who carry a weight of trial.’

‘You teach me better,’ said Will. ‘I will never grumble on that subject again.’ There was a gentleness in his tone which came from the

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