LITMIR.BIZ

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for a Romanist church, all men needed the bridle of religion, which, properly speaking, was the dread of a Hereafter.

      ‘I made a great study of theology at one time,’ said Mr Brooke, as if to explain the insight just manifested. ‘I know something of all schools. I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you know Wilberforce?’

      Mr Casaubon said ‘No.’

      ‘Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I went into Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on the independent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at philanthropy.’

      Mr Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a wide field.

      ‘Yes,’ said Mr Brooke, with an easy smile, ‘but I have documents. I began a long while ago to collect documents. They want arranging, but when a question has struck me, I have written to somebody and got an answer. I have documents at my back. But now, how do you arrange your documents?’

      ‘In pigeon-holes partly,’ said Mr Casaubon, with rather a startled air of effort.

      ‘Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, but everything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper is in A or Z.’

      ‘I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle,’ said Dorothea. ‘I would letter them all, and then make a list of subjects under each letter.’

      Mr Casaubon gravely smiled approval, and said to Mr Brooke, ‘You have an excellent secretary at hand, you perceive.’

      ‘No, no,’ said Mr Brooke, shaking his head; ‘I cannot let young ladies meddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty.’

      Dorothea felt hurt. Mr Casaubon would think that her uncle had some special reason for delivering this opinion, whereas the remark lay in his mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect among all the other fragments there, and a chance current had sent it alighting on her.

      When the two girls were in the drawing-room alone, Celia said—

      ‘How very ugly Mr Casaubon is!’

      ‘Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever saw. He is remarkably like the portrait of Locke. He has the same deep eye-sockets.’

      ‘Had Locke those white moles with hairs on them?’

      ‘Oh, I dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him,’ said Dorothea, walking away a little.

      ‘Mr Casaubon is so sallow.’

      ‘All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of a cochon de lait.’

      ‘Dodo!’ exclaimed Celia, looking after her in surprise. ‘I never heard you make such a comparison before.’

      ‘Why should I make it before the occasion came? It is a good comparison; the match is perfect.’

      Miss Brooke was clearly forgetting herself, and Celia thought so.

      ‘I wonder you show temper, Dorothea.’

      ‘It is so painful in you, Celia, that you will look at human things as if they were merely animals with a toilet, and never see the great soul in a man’s face.’

      ‘Has Mr Casaubon a great soul?’ Celia was not without a touch of naive malice.

      ‘Yes, I believe he has,’ said Dorothea, with the full voice of decision. ‘Everything I see in him corresponds to his pamphlet on Biblical Cosmology.’

      ‘He talks very little,’ said Celia.

      ‘There is no one for him to talk to.’

      Celia thought privately, ‘Dorothea quite despises Sir James Chettam; I believe she would not accept him.’ Celia felt that this was a pity. She had never been deceived as to the object of the baronet’s interest. Sometimes, indeed, she had reflected that Dodo would perhaps not make a husband happy who had not her way of looking at things; and stifled in the depths of her heart was the feeling that her sister was too religious for family comfort. Notions and scruples were like spilt needles, making one afraid of treading, or sitting down, or even eating.

      When Miss Brooke was at the tea-table, Sir James came to sit down by her, not having felt her mode of answering him at all offensive. Why should he? He thought it probable that Miss Brooke liked him, and manners must be very marked indeed before they cease to be interpreted by preconceptions either confident or distrustful. She was thoroughly charming to him, but of course he theorised a little about his attachment. He was made of excellent human dough, and had the rare merit of knowing that his talents, even if let loose, would not set the smallest stream in the county on fire; hence he liked the prospect of a wife to whom he could say, ‘What shall we do?’ about this or that; who could help her husband out with reasons, and would also have the property qualification for doing so. As to the excessive religiousness alleged against Miss Brooke, he had a very indefinite notion of what it consisted in, and thought that it would die out with marriage. In short, he felt himself to be in love in the right place, and was ready to endure a great deal of predominance, which, after all, a man could always put down when he liked. Sir James had no idea that he should ever like to put down the predominance of this handsome girl, in whose cleverness he delighted. Why not? A man’s mind—what there is of it—has always the advantage of being masculine, as the smallest birch-tree is of a higher kind than the most soaring palm,—and even his ignorance is of a sounder quality. Sir James might not have originated this estimate; but a kind Providence furnishes the limpest personality with a little gum or starch in the form of tradition.

      ‘Let me hope that you will rescind that resolution about the horse, Miss Brooke,’ said the persevering admirer. ‘I assure you, riding is the most healthy of exercises.’

      ‘I am aware of it,’ said Dorothea, coldly. ‘I think it would do Celia good—if she would take to it.’

      ‘But you are such a perfect horsewoman.’

      ‘Excuse me; I have had very little practice, and I should be easily thrown.’

      ‘Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be a perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband.’

      ‘You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind that I ought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should never correspond to your pattern of a lady.’ Dorothea looked straight before her, and spoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air of a handsome boy, in amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of her admirer.

      ‘I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It is not possible that you should think horsemanship wrong.’

      ‘It is quite possible that I should think it wrong for me.’

      ‘Oh, why?’ said Sir James, in a tender tone of remonstrance.

      Mr Casaubon had come up to the table, tea-cup in hand, and was listening.

      ‘We must not inquire too curiously into motives,’ he interposed, in his measured way. ‘Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble in the utterance; the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keep the germinating grain away from the light.’

      Dorothea coloured with pleasure, and looked up gratefully to the speaker. Here was a man who could understand the higher inward life, and with whom there could be some spiritual communion; nay, who could illuminate principle with the widest knowledge: a man whose learning almost amounted to a proof of whatever he believed!

      Dorothea’s inferences may seem large; but really life could never have gone on at any period but for this liberal allowance of conclusions, which has facilitated marriage under the difficulties of civilisation. Has any one ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb of pre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?

      ‘Certainly,’ said good Sir James. ‘Miss Brooke shall not be urged to tell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I am sure her reasons would do her honour.’

      He

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