CHAPTER IX.

perfections,interpretinghimassheinterpretedtheworksofProvidence,andaccountingforseemingdiscordsbyherowndeafnesstothehigherharmonies.Andtherearemanyblanksleftintheweeksofcourtshipwhichalovingfaithfillswithhappyassurance. “Now,mydearDorothea,Iwishyoutofavormebypointingoutwhichroomyouwouldliketohaveasyourboudoir,”saidMr.Casaubon,showingthathisviewsofthewomanlynatureweresufficientlylargetoincludethatrequirement. “Itisverykindofyoutothinkofthat,”saidDorothea,“butIassureyouIwouldratherhaveallthosemattersdecidedforme.Ishallbemuchhappiertotakeeverythingasitis—justasyouhavebeenusedtohaveit,orasyouwillyourselfchooseittobe.Ihavenomotiveforwishinganythingelse.” “Oh,Dodo,”saidCelia,“willyounothavethebow-windowedroomup-stairs?” Mr.Casaubonledthewaythither.Thebow-windowlookeddowntheavenueoflimesthefurniturewasallofafadedblue,andtherewereminiaturesofladiesandgentlemenwithpowderedhairhanginginagroup.Apieceoftapestryoveradooralsoshowedablue-greenworldwithapalestaginit.Thechairsandtableswerethin-leggedandeasytoupset.Itwasaroomwhereonemightfancytheghostofatight-lacedladyrevisitingthesceneofherembroidery.Alightbookcasecontainedduodecimovolumesofpoliteliteratureincalf,completingthefurniture. “Yes,”saidMr.Brooke,“thiswouldbeaprettyroomwithsomenewhangings,sofas,andthatsortofthing.Alittlebarenow.” “No,uncle,”saidDorothea,eagerly.“Praydonotspeakofalteringanything.Therearesomanyotherthingsintheworldthatwantaltering—Iliketotakethesethingsastheyare.Andyoulikethemastheyare,don’tyou?”sheadded,lookingatMr.Casaubon.“Perhapsthiswasyourmother’sroomwhenshewasyoung.” “Itwas,”hesaid,withhisslowbendofthehead. “Thisisyourmother,”saidDorothea,whohadturnedtoexaminethegroupofminiatures.“Itislikethetinyoneyoubroughtmeonly,Ishouldthink,abetterportrait.Andthisoneopposite,whoisthis?” “Hereldersister.Theywere,likeyouandyoursister,theonlytwochildrenoftheirparents,whohangabovethem,yousee.” “Thesisterispretty,”saidCelia,implyingthatshethoughtlessfavorablyofMr.Casaubon’smother.ItwasanewopeningtoCelia’simagination,thathecameofafamilywhohadallbeenyoungintheirtime—theladieswearingnecklaces. “Itisapeculiarface,”saidDorothea,lookingclosely.“Thosedeepgrayeyesratherneartogether—andthedelicateirregularnosewithasortofrippleinit—andallthepowderedcurlshangingbackward.Altogetheritseemstomepeculiarratherthanpretty.Thereisnotevenafamilylikenessbetweenherandyourmother.” “No.Andtheywerenotalikeintheirlot.” “Youdidnotmentionhertome,”saidDorothea. “Myauntmadeanunfortunatemarriage.Ineversawher.” Dorotheawonderedalittle,butfeltthatitwouldbeindelicatejustthentoaskforanyinformationwhichMr.Casaubondidnotproffer,andsheturnedtothewindowtoadmiretheview.Thesunhadlatelypiercedthegray,andtheavenueoflimescastshadows. “Shallwenotwalkinthegardennow?”saidDorothea. “Andyouwouldliketoseethechurch,youknow,”saidMr.Brooke.“Itisadrolllittlechurch.Andthevillage.Itallliesinanut-shell.Bytheway,itwillsuityou,Dorotheaforthecottagesarelikearowofalms-houses—littlegardens,gilly-flowers,thatsortofthing.” “Yes,please,”saidDorothea,lookingatMr.Casaubon,“Ishouldliketoseeallthat.”ShehadgotnothingfromhimmoregraphicabouttheLowickcottagesthanthattheywere“notbad.” Theyweresoononagravelwalkwhichledchieflybetweengrassybordersandclumpsoftrees,thisbeingthenearestwaytothechurch,Mr.Casaubonsaid.AtthelittlegateleadingintothechurchyardtherewasapausewhileMr.Casaubonwenttotheparsonageclosebytofetchakey.Celia,whohadbeenhangingalittleintherear,cameuppresently,whenshesawthatMr.Casaubonwasgoneaway,andsaidinhereasystaccato,whichalwaysseemedtocontradictthesuspicionofanymaliciousintent— “Doyouknow,Dorothea,Isawsomeonequiteyoungcominguponeofthewalks.” “Isthatastonishing,Celia?” “Theremaybeayounggardener,youknow—whynot?”saidMr.Brooke.“It