The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that the
tears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were
embittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceiving that
she recognized him as her lover. There was vexation too on account of
Celia.
"How could he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuous manner.
"I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I was
barely polite to him before."
"But you have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun to feel
quite sure that you are fond of him."
"Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?" said
Dorothea, passionately.
"Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a
man whom you accepted for a husband."
"It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond of
him. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have
towards the man I would accept as a husband."
"Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you,
because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are,
and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees;
it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain.
That's your way, Dodo." Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage;
and she was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe.
Who can tell what just criticisms Murr the Cat may be passing on us
beings of wider speculation?
"It is very painful," said Dorothea, feeling scourged. "I can have no
more to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell
him I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyes
filled again with tears.
"Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day
or two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood."
Celia could not help relenting. "Poor Dodo," she went on, in an
amiable staccato. "It is very hard: it is your favorite _fad_ to draw
plans."
"_Fad_ to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my
fellow-creatures' houses in that childish way? I may well make
mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among
people with such petty thoughts?"
No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper
and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She
was disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the
purblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer
the eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white
nullifidian, worse than any discouraging presence in the "Pilgrim's
Progress." The _fad_ of drawing plans! What was life worth--what great
faith was possible when the whole effect of one's actions could be
withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the
carriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an image
of sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have been
alarmed, if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty and
composed, that he at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have their
origin in her excessive religiousness. He had returned, during their
absence, from a journey to the county town, about a petition for the
pardon of some criminal.