“Well, you know, Chettam, I couldn’t help Casaubon’s will: it was a sort of will to make things worse.”
“Exactly,” said Sir James, hastily. “But what is worse?”
“Dorothea is going to be married again, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, nodding towards Celia, who immediately looked up at her husband with a frightened glance, and put her hand on his knee. Sir James was almost white with anger, but he did not speak.
“Merciful heaven!” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “Not to young Ladislaw?”
Mr. Brooke nodded, saying, “Yes; to Ladislaw,” and then fell into a prudential silence.
“You see, Humphrey!” said Mrs. Cadwallader, waving her arm towards her husband. “Another time you will admit that I have some foresight; or rather you will contradict me and be just as blind as ever. You supposed that the young gentleman was gone out of the country.”
“So he might be, and yet come back,” said the Rector, quietly.
“When did you learn this?” said Sir James, not liking to hear anyone else speak, though finding it difficult to speak himself.
“Yesterday,” said Mr. Brooke, meekly. “I went to Lowick. Dorothea sent for me, you know. It had come about quite suddenly—neither of them had any idea two days ago—not any idea, you know. There’s something singular in things. But Dorothea is quite determined—it is no use opposing. I put it strongly to her. I did my duty, Chettam. But she can act as she likes, you know.”
“It would have been better if I had called him out and shot him a year ago,” said Sir James, not from bloody-mindedness, but because he needed something strong to say.