Middlemarch | Page 4

having views of his own which were to be more clearly
ascertained on the publication of his book. His very name carried an
impressiveness hardly to be measured without a precise chronology of
scholarship.
Early in the day Dorothea had returned from the infant school which
she had set going in the village, and was taking her usual place in the
pretty sitting-room which divided the bedrooms of the sisters, bent on
finishing a plan for some buildings (a kind of work which she delighted
in), when Celia, who had been watching her with a hesitating desire to
propose something, said--
"Dorothea, dear, if you don't mind--if you are not very busy--suppose
we looked at mamma's jewels to-day, and divided them? It is exactly
six months to-day since uncle gave them to you, and you have not
looked at them yet."
Celia's face had the shadow of a pouting expression in it, the full
presence of the pout being kept back by an habitual awe of Dorothea
and principle; two associated facts which might show a mysterious
electricity if you touched them incautiously. To her relief, Dorothea's

eyes were full of laughter as she looked up.
"What a wonderful little almanac you are, Celia! Is it six calendar or six
lunar months?"
"It is the last day of September now, and it was the first of April when
uncle gave them to you. You know, he said that he had forgotten them
till then. I believe you have never thought of them since you locked
them up in the cabinet here."
"Well, dear, we should never wear them, you know." Dorothea spoke in
a full cordial tone, half caressing, half explanatory. She had her pencil
in her hand, and was making tiny side-plans on a margin.
Celia colored, and looked very grave. "I think, dear, we are wanting in
respect to mamma's memory, to put them by and take no notice of them.
And," she added, after hesitating a little, with a rising sob of
mortification, "necklaces are quite usual now; and Madame Poincon,
who was stricter in some things even than you are, used to wear
ornaments. And Christians generally--surely there are women in heaven
now who wore jewels." Celia was conscious of some mental strength
when she really applied herself to argument.
"You would like to wear them?" exclaimed Dorothea, an air of
astonished discovery animating her whole person with a dramatic
action which she had caught from that very Madame Poincon who wore
the ornaments. "Of course, then, let us have them out. Why did you not
tell me before? But the keys, the keys!" She pressed her hands against
the sides of her head and seemed to despair of her memory.
"They are here," said Celia, with whom this explanation had been long
meditated and prearranged.
"Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and get out the jewel-box."
The casket was soon open before them, and the various jewels spread
out, making a bright parterre on the table. It was no great collection, but
a few of the ornaments were really of remarkable beauty, the finest that

was obvious at first being a necklace of purple amethysts set in
exquisite gold work, and a pearl cross with five brilliants in it.
Dorothea immediately took up the necklace and fastened it round her
sister's neck, where it fitted almost as closely as a bracelet; but the
circle suited the Henrietta-Maria style of Celia's head and neck, and she
could see that it did, in the pier-glass opposite.
"There, Celia! you can wear that with your Indian muslin. But this
cross you must wear with your dark dresses."
Celia was trying not to smile with pleasure. "O Dodo, you must keep
the cross yourself."
"No, no, dear, no," said Dorothea, putting up her hand with careless
deprecation.
"Yes, indeed you must; it would suit you--in your black dress, now,"
said Celia, insistingly. "You might wear that."
"Not for the world, not for the world. A cross is the last thing I would
wear as a trinket." Dorothea shuddered slightly.
"Then you will think it wicked in me to wear it," said Celia, uneasily.
"No, dear, no," said Dorothea, stroking her sister's cheek. "Souls have
complexions too: what will suit one will not suit another."
"But you might like to keep it for mamma's sake."
"No, I have other things of mamma's--her sandal-wood box which I am
so fond of--plenty of things. In fact, they are all yours, dear. We need
discuss them no longer. There--take away your property."
Celia felt a little hurt. There was a strong assumption of superiority in
this Puritanic toleration, hardly less trying to the blond flesh of an
unenthusiastic sister than a Puritanic persecution.
"But how can I wear ornaments if you, who are