She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had
felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words:--
"What have I done--what am I--that he should treat me so? He never
knows what is in my mind--he never cares. What is the use of anything
I do? He wishes he had never married me."
She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness. Like one
who has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance all
the paths of her young hope which she should never find again. And
just as clearly in the miserable light she saw her own and her
husband's solitude--how they walked apart so that she was obliged to
survey him. If he had drawn her towards him, she would never have
surveyed him--never have said, "Is he worth living for?" but would have
felt him simply a part of her own life. Now she said bitterly, "It is
his fault, not mine." In the jar of her whole being, Pity was
overthrown. Was it her fault that she had believed in him--had
believed in his worthiness?--And what, exactly, was he?-- She was able
enough to estimate him--she who waited on his glances with trembling,
and shut her best soul in prison, paying it only hidden visits, that
she might be petty enough to please him. In such a crisis as this,
some women begin to hate.
The sun was low when Dorothea was thinking that she would not go down
again, but would send a message to her husband saying that she was not
well and preferred remaining up-stairs. She had never deliberately
allowed her resentment to govern her in this way before, but she
believed now that she could not see him again without telling him the
truth about her feeling, and she must wait till she could do it without
interruption. He might wonder and be hurt at her message. It was good
that he should wonder and be hurt. Her anger said, as anger is apt to
say, that God was with her--that all heaven, though it were crowded
with spirits watching them, must be on her side. She had determined to
ring her bell, when there came a rap at the door.
Mr. Casaubon had sent to say that he would have his dinner in the
library. He wished to be quite alone this evening, being much occupied.
"I shall not dine, then, Tantripp."
"Oh, madam, let me bring you a little something?"
"No; I am not well. Get everything ready in my dressing room, but pray
do not disturb me again."