“I shall talk to her about her husband,” thought Dorothea, as she was being driven towards the town.
The clear spring morning, the scent of the moist earth, the fresh leaves just showing their creased-up wealth of greenery from out their half-opened sheaths, seemed part of the cheerfulness she was feeling from a long conversation with Mr. Farebrother, who had joyfully accepted the justifying explanation of Lydgate’s conduct.
“I shall take Mrs. Lydgate good news, and perhaps she will like to talk to me and make a friend of me.”
Dorothea had another errand in Lowick Gate: it was about a new fine-toned bell for the schoolhouse, and as she had to get out of her carriage very near to Lydgate’s, she walked thither across the street, having told the coachman to wait for some packages.
The street door was open, and the servant was taking the opportunity of looking out at the carriage which was pausing within sight when it became apparent to her that the lady who “belonged to it” was coming towards her.
“Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?” said Dorothea.
“I’m not sure, my lady; I’ll see, if you’ll please to walk in,” said Martha, a little confused on the score of her kitchen apron, but collected enough to be sure that “mum” was not the right title for this queenly young widow with a carriage and pair. “Will you please to walk in, and I’ll go and see.”
“Say that I am Mrs. Casaubon,” said Dorothea, as Martha moved forward intending to show her into the drawing-room and then to go upstairs to see if Rosamond had returned from her walk.