She could understand well enough now why her husband had come to cling to her, as possibly the only hope left that his labors would ever take a shape in which they could be given to the world.
At first it had seemed that he wished to keep even her aloof from any close knowledge of what he was doing; but gradually the terrible stringency of human need--the prospect of a too speedy death--And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own future to her husband's past--nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which had grown out of that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathing hardly under the pressure of self-distrust; the goal receding, and the heavier limbs; and now at last the sword visibly trembling above him! And had she not wished to marry him that she might help him in his life's labor?--But she had thought the work was to be something greater, which she could serve in devoutly for its own sake.
Was it right, even to soothe his grief--would it be possible, even if she promised--to work as in a treadmill fruitlessly?
And yet, could she deny him? Could she say, "I refuse to content this pining hunger?" It would be refusing to do for him dead, what she was almost sure to do for him living. If he lived as Lydgate had said he might, for fifteen years or more, her life would certainly be spent in helping him and obeying him.
Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to the living and that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead.
While he lived, he could claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrate against, and even to refuse. But--the thought passed through her mind more than once, though she could not believe in it--might he not mean to demand something more from her than she had been able to imagine, since he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes without telling her exactly what they were? No; his heart was bound up in his work only:
that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked out by hers.
And now, if she were to say, "No! if you die, I will put no finger to your work"--it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised heart.
For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt ill and bewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely. Helpless as a child which has sobbed and sought too long, she fell into a late morning sleep, and when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up.
Tantripp told her that he had read prayers, breakfasted, and was in the library.
"I never saw you look so pale, madam," said Tantripp, a solid-figured woman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne.
"Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?" said Dorothea, smiling faintly.
"Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose.
But always smelling those leather books, what can be expected?
Do rest a little this morning, madam. Let me say you are ill and not able to go into that close library.""Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea. "Mr. Casaubon wants me particularly."When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil his wishes; but that would be later in the day--not yet.
As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round from the table where he had been placing some books, and said--"I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hoped to set to work at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition, probably from too much excitement yesterday.
I am going now to take a turn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder.""I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea. "Your mind, I feared, was too active last night.""I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke of, Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer.""May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea, winning a little breathing space in that way.
"I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour,"said Mr. Casaubon, and then he left her.
