“How should I be able now to persevere in any path without your companionship?” said Mr. Casaubon, kissing her candid brow, and feeling that heaven had vouchsafed him a blessing in every way suited to his peculiar wants.  He was being unconsciously wrought upon by the charms of a nature which was entirely without hidden calculations either for immediate effects or for remoter ends.  It was this which made Dorothea so childlike, and, according to some judges, so stupid, with all her reputed cleverness; as, for example, in the present case of throwing herself, metaphorically speaking, at Mr. Casaubon’s feet, and kissing his unfashionable shoe-ties as if he were a Protestant Pope.  She was not in the least teaching Mr. Casaubon to ask if he were good enough for her, but merely asking herself anxiously how she could be good enough for Mr. Casaubon.  Before he left the next day it had been decided that the marriage should take place within six weeks.  Why not?  Mr. Casaubon’s house was ready.  It was not a parsonage, but a considerable mansion, with much land attached to it.  The parsonage was inhabited by the curate, who did all the duty except preaching the morning sermon.

CHAPTER VI.

    My lady’s tongue is like the meadow blades,
    That cut you stroking them with idle hand. 
    Nice cutting is her function:  she divides
    With spiritual edge the millet-seed,
    And makes intangible savings.

As Mr. Casaubon’s carriage was passing out of the gateway, it arrested the entrance of a pony phaeton driven by a lady with a servant seated behind.  It was doubtful whether the recognition had been mutual, for Mr. Casaubon was looking absently before him; but the lady was quick-eyed, and threw a nod and a “How do you do?” in the nick of time.  In spite of her shabby bonnet and very old Indian shawl, it was plain that the lodge-keeper regarded her as an important personage, from the low curtsy which was dropped on the entrance of the small phaeton.

“Well, Mrs. Fitchett, how are your fowls laying now?” said the high-colored, dark-eyed lady, with the clearest chiselled utterance.

“Pretty well for laying, madam, but they’ve ta’en to eating their eggs:  I’ve no peace o’ mind with ’em at all.”

“Oh, the cannibals!  Better sell them cheap at once.  What will you sell them a couple?  One can’t eat fowls of a bad character at a high price.”

“Well, madam, half-a-crown:  I couldn’t let ’em go, not under.”

“Half-a-crown, these times!  Come now—­for the Rector’s chicken-broth on a Sunday.  He has consumed all ours that I can spare.  You are half paid with the sermon, Mrs. Fitchett, remember that.  Take a pair of tumbler-pigeons for them—­little beauties.  You must come and see them.  You have no tumblers among your pigeons.”

“Well, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and see ’em after work.  He’s very hot on new sorts; to oblige you.”