“Enough! I understand,”—said Mrs. Cadwallader. “You shall be innocent. I am such a blackamoor that I cannot smirch myself.”
“I don’t mean that it’s of any consequence,” said Sir James, disliking that Mrs. Cadwallader should understand too much. “Only it is desirable that Dorothea should know there are reasons why she should not receive him again; and I really can’t say so to her. It will come lightly from you.”
It came very lightly indeed. When Dorothea quitted Caleb and turned to meet them, it appeared that Mrs. Cadwallader had stepped across the park by the merest chance in the world, just to chat with Celia in a matronly way about the baby.
And so Mr. Brooke was coming back? Delightful!—coming back, it was to be hoped, quite cured of Parliamentary fever and pioneering.
Apropos of the Pioneer —somebody had prophesied that it would soon be like a dying dolphin, and turn all colors for want of knowing how to help itself, because Mr. Brooke’s protégé, the brilliant young Ladislaw, was gone or going. Had Sir James heard that?
The three were walking along the gravel slowly, and Sir James, turning aside to whip a shrub, said he had heard something of that sort.
“All false!” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “He is not gone, or going, apparently; the Pioneer keeps its color, and Mr. Orlando Ladislaw is making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continually with your Mr. Lydgate’s wife, who they tell me is as pretty as pretty can be. It seems nobody ever goes into the house without finding this young gentleman lying on the rug or warbling at the piano. But the people in manufacturing towns are always disreputable.”
“You began by saying that one report was false, Mrs. Cadwallader, and I believe this is false too,” said Dorothea, with indignant energy; “at least, I