Middlemarch

CHAPTER XXXVII.

”Thrice happy she that is so well assured Unto herself and settled so in heart That neither will for better be allured Ne fears to worse with any chance to start, But like a steddy ship doth strongly part The raging waves and keeps her course aright; Ne aught for tempest doth from it depart, Ne aught for fairer weather's false delight. Such self-assurance need not fear the spight Of grudging foes; ne favour seek of friends; But in the stay of her own stedfast might Neither to one herself nor other bends. Most happy she that most assured doth rest, But he most happy who such one loves best.” --SPENSER.

The doubt hinted by Mr. Vincy whether it were only the general electionor the end of the world that was coming on, now that George the Fourthwas dead, Parliament dissolved, Wellington and Peel generallydepreciated and the new King apologetic, was a feeble type of theuncertainties in provincial opinion at that time. With the glow-wormlights of country places, how could men see which were their ownthoughts in the confusion of a Tory Ministry passing Liberal measures,of Tory nobles and electors being anxious to return Liberals ratherthan friends of the recreant Ministers, and of outcries for remedieswhich seemed to have a mysteriously remote bearing on private interest,and were made suspicious by the advocacy of disagreeable neighbors?Buyers of the Middlemarch newspapers found themselves in an anomalousposition: during the agitation on the Catholic Question many had givenup the ”Pioneer”--which had a motto from Charles James Fox and was inthe van of progress--because it had taken Peel's side about thePapists, and had thus blotted its Liberalism with a toleration ofJesuitry and Baal; but they were ill-satisfied with the ”Trumpet,”which--since its blasts against Rome, and in the general flaccidity ofthe public mind (nobody knowing who would support whom)--had becomefeeble in its blowing.

It was a time, according to a noticeable article in the ”Pioneer,” whenthe crying needs of the country might well counteract a reluctance topublic action on the part of men whose minds had from long experienceacquired breadth as well as concentration, decision of judgment as wellas tolerance, dispassionateness as well as energy--in fact, all thosequalities which in the melancholy experience of mankind have been theleast disposed to share lodgings.

Mr. Hackbutt, whose fluent speech was at that time floating more widelythan usual, and leaving much uncertainty as to its ultimate channel,was heard to say in Mr. Hawley's office that the article in question”emanated” from Brooke of Tipton, and that Brooke had secretly boughtthe ”Pioneer” some months ago.

”That means mischief, eh?” said Mr. Hawley. ”He's got the freak ofbeing a popular man now, after dangling about like a stray tortoise.So much the worse for him. I've had my eye on him for some time. Heshall be prettily pumped upon. He's a damned bad landlord. Whatbusiness has an old county man to come currying favor with a low set ofdark-blue freemen? As to his paper, I only hope he may do the writinghimself. It would be worth our paying for.”

”I understand he has got a very brilliant young fellow to edit it, whocan write the highest style of leading article, quite equal to anythingin the London papers. And he means to take very high ground on Reform.”

”Let Brooke reform his rent-roll. He's a cursed old screw, and thebuildings all over his estate are going to rack. I suppose this youngfellow is some loose fish from London.”

”His name is Ladislaw. He is said to be of foreign extraction.”

”I know the sort,” said Mr. Hawley; ”some emissary. He'll begin withflourishing about the Rights of Man and end with murdering a wench.That's the style.”

”You must concede that there are abuses, Hawley,” said Mr. Hackbutt,foreseeing some political disagreement with his family lawyer. ”Imyself should never favor immoderate views--in fact I take my standwith Huskisson--but I cannot blind myself to the consideration that thenon-representation of large towns--”

”Large towns be damned!” said Mr. Hawley, impatient of exposition. ”Iknow a little too much about Middlemarch elections. Let 'em quashevery pocket borough to-morrow, and bring in every mushroom town in thekingdom--they'll only increase the expense of getting into Parliament.I go upon facts.”

Mr. Hawley's disgust at the notion of the ”Pioneer” being edited by anemissary, and of Brooke becoming actively political--as if a tortoiseof desultory pursuits should protrude its small head ambitiously andbecome rampant--was hardly equal to the annoyance felt by some membersof Mr. Brooke's own family. The result had oozed forth gradually, likethe discovery that your neighbor has set up an unpleasant kind ofmanufacture which will be permanently under your nostrils without legalremedy. The ”Pioneer” had been secretly bought even before WillLadislaw's arrival, the expected opportunity having offered itself inthe readiness of the proprietor to part with a valuable property whichdid not pay; and in the interval since Mr. Brooke had written hisinvitation, those germinal ideas of making his mind tell upon the worldat large which had been present in him from his younger years, but hadhitherto lain in some obstruction, had been sprouting under cover.

The development was much furthered by a delight in his guest whichproved greater even than he had anticipated. For it seemed that Willwas not only at home in all those artistic and literary subjects whichMr. Brooke had gone into at one time, but that he was strikingly readyat seizing the points of the political situation, and dealing with themin that large spirit which, aided by adequate memory, lends itself toquotation and general effectiveness of treatment.

”He seems to me a kind of Shelley, you know,” Mr. Brooke took anopportunity of saying, for the gratification of Mr. Casaubon. ”I don'tmean as to anything objectionable--laxities or atheism, or anything ofthat kind, you know--Ladislaw's sentiments in every way I am sure aregood--indeed, we were talking a great deal together last night. But hehas the same sort of enthusiasm for liberty, freedom, emancipation--afine thing under guidance--under guidance, you know. I think I shallbe able to put him on the right tack; and I am the more pleased becausehe is a relation of yours, Casaubon.”

If the right tack implied anything more precise than the rest of Mr.Brooke's speech, Mr. Casaubon silently hoped that it referred to someoccupation at a great distance from Lowick. He had disliked Will whilehe helped him, but he had begun to dislike him still more now that Willhad declined his help. That is the way with us when we have any uneasyjealousy in our disposition: if our talents are chiefly of theburrowing kind, our honey-sipping cousin (whom we have grave reasonsfor objecting to) is likely to have a secret contempt for us, and anyone who admires him passes an oblique criticism on ourselves. Havingthe scruples of rectitude in our souls, we are above the meanness ofinjuring him--rather we meet all his claims on us by active benefits;and the drawing of cheques for him, being a superiority which he mustrecognize, gives our bitterness a milder infusion. Now Mr. Casaubonhad been deprived of that superiority (as anything more than aremembrance) in a sudden, capricious manner. His antipathy to Will didnot spring from the common jealousy of a winter-worn husband: it wassomething deeper, bred by his lifelong claims and discontents; butDorothea, now that she was present--Dorothea, as a young wife whoherself had shown an offensive capability of criticism, necessarilygave concentration to the uneasiness which had before been vague.

Will Ladislaw on his side felt that his dislike was flourishing at theexpense of his gratitude, and spent much inward discourse in justifyingthe dislike. Casaubon hated him--he knew that very well; on his firstentrance he could discern a bitterness in the mouth and a venom in theglance which would almost justify declaring war in spite of pastbenefits. He was much obliged to Casaubon in the past, but really theact of marrying this wife was a set-off against the obligation. It wasa question whether gratitude which refers to what is done for one'sself ought not to give way to indignation at what is done againstanother. And Casaubon had done a wrong to Dorothea in marrying her. Aman was bound to know himself better than that, and if he chose to growgray crunching bones in a cavern, he had no business to be luring agirl into his companionship. ”It is the most horrible ofvirgin-sacrifices,” said Will; and he painted to himself what wereDorothea's inward sorrows as if he had been writing a choric wail. Buthe would never lose sight of her: he would watch over her--if he gaveup everything else in life he would watch over her, and she should knowthat she had one slave in the world, Will had--to use Sir ThomasBrowne's phrase--a ”passionate prodigality” of statement both tohimself and others. The simple truth was that nothing then invited himso strongly as the presence of Dorothea.

Invitations of the formal kind had been wanting, however, for Will hadnever been asked to go to Lowick. Mr. Brooke, indeed, confident ofdoing everything agreeable which Casaubon, poor fellow, was too muchabsorbed to think of, had arranged to bring Ladislaw to Lowick severaltimes (not neglecting meanwhile to introduce him elsewhere on everyopportunity as ”a young relative of Casaubon's”). And though Will hadnot seen Dorothea alone, their interviews had been enough to restoreher former sense of young companionship with one who was cleverer thanherself, yet seemed ready to be swayed by her. Poor Dorothea beforeher marriage had never found much room in other minds for what shecared most to say; and she had not, as we know, enjoyed her husband'ssuperior instruction so much as she had expected. If she spoke withany keenness of interest to Mr. Casaubon, he heard her with an air ofpatience as if she had given a quotation from the Delectus familiar tohim from his tender years, and sometimes mentioned curtly what ancientsects or personages had held similar ideas, as if there were too muchof that sort in stock already; at other times he would inform her thatshe was mistaken, and reassert what her remark had questioned.

But Will Ladislaw always seemed to see more in what she said than sheherself saw. Dorothea had little vanity, but she had the ardentwoman's need to rule beneficently by making the joy of another soul.Hence the mere chance of seeing Will occasionally was like a lunetteopened in the wall of her prison, giving her a glimpse of the sunnyair; and this pleasure began to nullify her original alarm at what herhusband might think about the introduction of Will as her uncle'sguest. On this subject Mr. Casaubon had remained dumb.

But Will wanted to talk with Dorothea alone, and was impatient of slowcircumstance. However slight the terrestrial intercourse between Danteand Beatrice or Petrarch and Laura, time changes the proportion ofthings, and in later days it is preferable to have fewer sonnets andmore conversation. Necessity excused stratagem, but stratagem waslimited by the dread of offending Dorothea. He found out at last thathe wanted to take a particular sketch at Lowick; and one morning whenMr. Brooke had to drive along the Lowick road on his way to the countytown, Will asked to be set down with his sketch-book and camp-stool atLowick, and without announcing himself at the Manor settled himself tosketch in a position where he must see Dorothea if she came out towalk--and he knew that she usually walked an hour in the morning.

But the stratagem was defeated by the weather. Clouds gathered withtreacherous quickness, the rain came down, and Will was obliged to takeshelter in the house. He intended, on the strength of relationship, togo into the drawing-room and wait there without being announced; andseeing his old acquaintance the butler in the hall, he said, ”Don'tmention that I am here, Pratt; I will wait till luncheon; I know Mr.Casaubon does not like to be disturbed when he is in the library.”

”Master is out, sir; there's only Mrs. Casaubon in the library. I'dbetter tell her you're here, sir,” said Pratt, a red-cheeked man givento lively converse with Tantripp, and often agreeing with her that itmust be dull for Madam.

”Oh, very well; this confounded rain has hindered me from sketching,”said Will, feeling so happy that he affected indifference withdelightful ease.

In another minute he was in the library, and Dorothea was meeting himwith her sweet unconstrained smile.

”Mr. Casaubon has gone to the Archdeacon's,” she said, at once. ”Idon't know whether he will be at home again long before dinner. He wasuncertain how long he should be. Did you want to say anythingparticular to him?”

”No; I came to sketch, but the rain drove me in. Else I would not havedisturbed you yet. I supposed that Mr. Casaubon was here, and I knowhe dislikes interruption at this hour.”

”I am indebted to the rain, then. I am so glad to see you.” Dorotheauttered these common words with the simple sincerity of an unhappychild, visited at school.

”I really came for the chance of seeing you alone,” said Will,mysteriously forced to be just as simple as she was. He could not stayto ask himself, why not? ”I wanted to talk about things, as we did inRome. It always makes a difference when other people are present.”

”Yes,” said Dorothea, in her clear full tone of assent. ”Sit down.”She seated herself on a dark ottoman with the brown books behind her,looking in her plain dress of some thin woollen-white material, withouta single ornament on her besides her wedding-ring, as if she were undera vow to be different from all other women; and Will sat down oppositeher at two yards' distance, the light falling on his bright curls anddelicate but rather petulant profile, with its defiant curves of lipand chin. Each looked at the other as if they had been two flowerswhich had opened then and there. Dorothea for the moment forgot herhusband's mysterious irritation against Will: it seemed fresh water ather thirsty lips to speak without fear to the one person whom she hadfound receptive; for in looking backward through sadness sheexaggerated a past solace.

”I have often thought that I should like to talk to you again,” shesaid, immediately. ”It seems strange to me how many things I said toyou.”

”I remember them all,” said Will, with the unspeakable content in hissoul of feeling that he was in the presence of a creature worthy to beperfectly loved. I think his own feelings at that moment were perfect,for we mortals have our divine moments, when love is satisfied in thecompleteness of the beloved object.

”I have tried to learn a great deal since we were in Rome,” saidDorothea. ”I can read Latin a little, and I am beginning to understandjust a little Greek. I can help Mr. Casaubon better now. I can findout references for him and save his eyes in many ways. But it is verydifficult to be learned; it seems as if people were worn out on the wayto great thoughts, and can never enjoy them because they are too tired.”

”If a man has a capacity for great thoughts, he is likely to overtakethem before he is decrepit,” said Will, with irrepressible quickness.But through certain sensibilities Dorothea was as quick as he, andseeing her face change, he added, immediately, ”But it is quite truethat the best minds have been sometimes overstrained in working outtheir ideas.”

”You correct me,” said Dorothea. ”I expressed myself ill. I shouldhave said that those who have great thoughts get too much worn inworking them out. I used to feel about that, even when I was a littlegirl; and it always seemed to me that the use I should like to make ofmy life would be to help some one who did great works, so that hisburthen might be lighter.”

Dorothea was led on to this bit of autobiography without any sense ofmaking a revelation. But she had never before said anything to Willwhich threw so strong a light on her marriage. He did not shrug hisshoulders; and for want of that muscular outlet he thought the moreirritably of beautiful lips kissing holy skulls and other emptinessesecclesiastically enshrined. Also he had to take care that his speechshould not betray that thought.

”But you may easily carry the help too far,” he said, ”and getover-wrought yourself. Are you not too much shut up? You already lookpaler. It would be better for Mr. Casaubon to have a secretary; hecould easily get a man who would do half his work for him. It wouldsave him more effectually, and you need only help him in lighter ways.”

”How can you think of that?” said Dorothea, in a tone of earnestremonstrance. ”I should have no happiness if I did not help him in hiswork. What could I do? There is no good to be done in Lowick. Theonly thing I desire is to help him more. And he objects to asecretary: please not to mention that again.”

”Certainly not, now I know your feeling. But I have heard both Mr.Brooke and Sir James Chettam express the same wish.”

”Yes?” said Dorothea, ”but they don't understand--they want me to be agreat deal on horseback, and have the garden altered and newconservatories, to fill up my days. I thought you could understandthat one's mind has other wants,” she added, ratherimpatiently--”besides, Mr. Casaubon cannot bear to hear of a secretary.”

”My mistake is excusable,” said Will. ”In old days I used to hear Mr.Casaubon speak as if he looked forward to having a secretary. Indeedhe held out the prospect of that office to me. But I turned out tobe--not good enough for it.”

Dorothea was trying to extract out of this an excuse for her husband'sevident repulsion, as she said, with a playful smile, ”You were not asteady worker enough.”

”No,” said Will, shaking his head backward somewhat after the manner ofa spirited horse. And then, the old irritable demon prompting him togive another good pinch at the moth-wings of poor Mr. Casaubon's glory,he went on, ”And I have seen since that Mr. Casaubon does not like anyone to overlook his work and know thoroughly what he is doing. He istoo doubtful--too uncertain of himself. I may not be good for much,but he dislikes me because I disagree with him.”

Will was not without his intentions to be always generous, but ourtongues are little triggers which have usually been pulled beforegeneral intentions can be brought to bear. And it was too intolerablethat Casaubon's dislike of him should not be fairly accounted for toDorothea. Yet when he had spoken he was rather uneasy as to the effecton her.

But Dorothea was strangely quiet--not immediately indignant, as she hadbeen on a like occasion in Rome. And the cause lay deep. She was nolonger struggling against the perception of facts, but adjustingherself to their clearest perception; and now when she looked steadilyat her husband's failure, still more at his possible consciousness offailure, she seemed to be looking along the one track where duty becametenderness. Will's want of reticence might have been met with moreseverity, if he had not already been recommended to her mercy by herhusband's dislike, which must seem hard to her till she saw betterreason for it.

She did not answer at once, but after looking down ruminatingly shesaid, with some earnestness, ”Mr. Casaubon must have overcome hisdislike of you so far as his actions were concerned: and that isadmirable.”

”Yes; he has shown a sense of justice in family matters. It was anabominable thing that my grandmother should have been disinheritedbecause she made what they called a mesalliance, though there wasnothing to be said against her husband except that he was a Polishrefugee who gave lessons for his bread.”

”I wish I knew all about her!” said Dorothea. ”I wonder how she borethe change from wealth to poverty: I wonder whether she was happy withher husband! Do you know much about them?”

”No; only that my grandfather was a patriot--a bright fellow--couldspeak many languages--musical--got his bread by teaching all sorts ofthings. They both died rather early. And I never knew much of myfather, beyond what my mother told me; but he inherited the musicaltalents. I remember his slow walk and his long thin hands; and one dayremains with me when he was lying ill, and I was very hungry, and hadonly a little bit of bread.”

”Ah, what a different life from mine!” said Dorothea, with keeninterest, clasping her hands on her lap. ”I have always had too muchof everything. But tell me how it was--Mr. Casaubon could not haveknown about you then.”

”No; but my father had made himself known to Mr. Casaubon, and that wasmy last hungry day. My father died soon after, and my mother and Iwere well taken care of. Mr. Casaubon always expressly recognized itas his duty to take care of us because of the harsh injustice which hadbeen shown to his mother's sister. But now I am telling you what isnot new to you.”

In his inmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell Dorothea whatwas rather new even in his own construction of things--namely, thatMr. Casaubon had never done more than pay a debt towards him. Will wasmuch too good a fellow to be easy under the sense of being ungrateful.And when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many waysof escaping from its bonds.

”No,” answered Dorothea; ”Mr. Casaubon has always avoided dwelling onhis own honorable actions.” She did not feel that her husband'sconduct was depreciated; but this notion of what justice had requiredin his relations with Will Ladislaw took strong hold on her mind.After a moment's pause, she added, ”He had never told me that hesupported your mother. Is she still living?”

”No; she died by an accident--a fall--four years ago. It is curiousthat my mother, too, ran away from her family, but not for the sake ofher husband. She never would tell me anything about her family, exceptthat she forsook them to get her own living--went on the stage, infact. She was a dark-eyed creature, with crisp ringlets, and neverseemed to be getting old. You see I come of rebellious blood on bothsides,” Will ended, smiling brightly at Dorothea, while she was stilllooking with serious intentness before her, like a child seeing a dramafor the first time.

But her face, too, broke into a smile as she said, ”That is yourapology, I suppose, for having yourself been rather rebellious; I mean,to Mr. Casaubon's wishes. You must remember that you have not donewhat he thought best for you. And if he dislikes you--you werespeaking of dislike a little while ago--but I should rather say, if hehas shown any painful feelings towards you, you must consider howsensitive he has become from the wearing effect of study. Perhaps,”she continued, getting into a pleading tone, ”my uncle has not told youhow serious Mr. Casaubon's illness was. It would be very petty of uswho are well and can bear things, to think much of small offences fromthose who carry a weight of trial.”

”You teach me better,” said Will. ”I will never grumble on thatsubject again.” There was a gentleness in his tone which came from theunutterable contentment of perceiving--what Dorothea was hardlyconscious of--that she was travelling into the remoteness of pure pityand loyalty towards her husband. Will was ready to adore her pity andloyalty, if she would associate himself with her in manifesting them.”I have really sometimes been a perverse fellow,” he went on, ”but Iwill never again, if I can help it, do or say what you woulddisapprove.”

”That is very good of you,” said Dorothea, with another open smile. ”Ishall have a little kingdom then, where I shall give laws. But youwill soon go away, out of my rule, I imagine. You will soon be tiredof staying at the Grange.”

”That is a point I wanted to mention to you--one of the reasons why Iwished to speak to you alone. Mr. Brooke proposes that I should stayin this neighborhood. He has bought one of the Middlemarch newspapers,and he wishes me to conduct that, and also to help him in other ways.”

”Would not that be a sacrifice of higher prospects for you?” saidDorothea.

”Perhaps; but I have always been blamed for thinking of prospects, andnot settling to anything. And here is something offered to me. If youwould not like me to accept it, I will give it up. Otherwise I wouldrather stay in this part of the country than go away. I belong tonobody anywhere else.”

”I should like you to stay very much,” said Dorothea, at once, assimply and readily as she had spoken at Rome. There was not the shadowof a reason in her mind at the moment why she should not say so.

”Then I _will_ stay,” said Ladislaw, shaking his head backward, risingand going towards the window, as if to see whether the rain had ceased.

But the next moment, Dorothea, according to a habit which was gettingcontinually stronger, began to reflect that her husband feltdifferently from herself, and she colored deeply under the doubleembarrassment of having expressed what might be in opposition to herhusband's feeling, and of having to suggest this opposition to Will.His face was not turned towards her, and this made it easier to say--

”But my opinion is of little consequence on such a subject. I thinkyou should be guided by Mr. Casaubon. I spoke without thinking ofanything else than my own feeling, which has nothing to do with thereal question. But it now occurs to me--perhaps Mr. Casaubon mightsee that the proposal was not wise. Can you not wait now and mentionit to him?”

”I can't wait to-day,” said Will, inwardly seared by the possibilitythat Mr. Casaubon would enter. ”The rain is quite over now. I toldMr. Brooke not to call for me: I would rather walk the five miles. Ishall strike across Halsell Common, and see the gleams on the wetgrass. I like that.”

He approached her to shake hands quite hurriedly, longing but notdaring to say, ”Don't mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon.” No, hedared not, could not say it. To ask her to be less simple and directwould be like breathing on the crystal that you want to see the lightthrough. And there was always the other great dread--of himselfbecoming dimmed and forever ray-shorn in her eyes.

”I wish you could have stayed,” said Dorothea, with a touch ofmournfulness, as she rose and put out her hand. She also had herthought which she did not like to express:--Will certainly ought tolose no time in consulting Mr. Casaubon's wishes, but for her to urgethis might seem an undue dictation.

So they only said ”Good-by,” and Will quitted the house, strikingacross the fields so as not to run any risk of encountering Mr.Casaubon's carriage, which, however, did not appear at the gate untilfour o'clock. That was an unpropitious hour for coming home: it was tooearly to gain the moral support under ennui of dressing his person fordinner, and too late to undress his mind of the day's frivolousceremony and affairs, so as to be prepared for a good plunge into theserious business of study. On such occasions he usually threw into aneasy-chair in the library, and allowed Dorothea to read the Londonpapers to him, closing his eyes the while. To-day, however, hedeclined that relief, observing that he had already had too many publicdetails urged upon him; but he spoke more cheerfully than usual, whenDorothea asked about his fatigue, and added with that air of formaleffort which never forsook him even when he spoke without his waistcoatand cravat--

”I have had the gratification of meeting my former acquaintance, Dr.Spanning, to-day, and of being praised by one who is himself a worthyrecipient of praise. He spoke very handsomely of my late tractate onthe Egyptian Mysteries,--using, in fact, terms which it would notbecome me to repeat.” In uttering the last clause, Mr. Casaubon leanedover the elbow of his chair, and swayed his head up and down,apparently as a muscular outlet instead of that recapitulation whichwould not have been becoming.

”I am very glad you have had that pleasure,” said Dorothea, delightedto see her husband less weary than usual at this hour. ”Before youcame I had been regretting that you happened to be out to-day.”

”Why so, my dear?” said Mr. Casaubon, throwing himself backward again.

”Because Mr. Ladislaw has been here; and he has mentioned a proposal ofmy uncle's which I should like to know your opinion of.” Her husbandshe felt was really concerned in this question. Even with herignorance of the world she had a vague impression that the positionoffered to Will was out of keeping with his family connections, andcertainly Mr. Casaubon had a claim to be consulted. He did not speak,but merely bowed.

”Dear uncle, you know, has many projects. It appears that he hasbought one of the Middlemarch newspapers, and he has asked Mr. Ladislawto stay in this neighborhood and conduct the paper for him, besideshelping him in other ways.”

Dorothea looked at her husband while she spoke, but he had at firstblinked and finally closed his eyes, as if to save them; while his lipsbecame more tense. ”What is your opinion?” she added, rather timidly,after a slight pause.

”Did Mr. Ladislaw come on purpose to ask my opinion?” said Mr.Casaubon, opening his eyes narrowly with a knife-edged look atDorothea. She was really uncomfortable on the point he inquired about,but she only became a little more serious, and her eyes did not swerve.

”No,” she answered immediately, ”he did not say that he came to askyour opinion. But when he mentioned the proposal, he of courseexpected me to tell you of it.”

Mr. Casaubon was silent.

”I feared that you might feel some objection. But certainly a youngman with so much talent might be very useful to my uncle--might helphim to do good in a better way. And Mr. Ladislaw wishes to have somefixed occupation. He has been blamed, he says, for not seekingsomething of that kind, and he would like to stay in this neighborhoodbecause no one cares for him elsewhere.”

Dorothea felt that this was a consideration to soften her husband.However, he did not speak, and she presently recurred to Dr. Spanningand the Archdeacon's breakfast. But there was no longer sunshine onthese subjects.

The next morning, without Dorothea's knowledge, Mr. Casaubon despatchedthe following letter, beginning ”Dear Mr. Ladislaw” (he had alwaysbefore addressed him as ”Will”):--

”Mrs. Casaubon informs me that a proposal has been made to you, and(according to an inference by no means stretched) has on your part beenin some degree entertained, which involves your residence in thisneighborhood in a capacity which I am justified in saying touches myown position in such a way as renders it not only natural andwarrantable in me when that effect is viewed under the influence oflegitimate feeling, but incumbent on me when the same effect isconsidered in the light of my responsibilities, to state at once thatyour acceptance of the proposal above indicated would be highlyoffensive to me. That I have some claim to the exercise of a vetohere, would not, I believe, be denied by any reasonable personcognizant of the relations between us: relations which, though throwninto the past by your recent procedure, are not thereby annulled intheir character of determining antecedents. I will not here makereflections on any person's judgment. It is enough for me to point outto yourself that there are certain social fitnesses and proprietieswhich should hinder a somewhat near relative of mine from becoming anywise conspicuous in this vicinity in a status not only much beneath myown, but associated at best with the sciolism of literary or politicaladventurers. At any rate, the contrary issue must exclude you fromfurther reception at my house.

Yours faithfully, ”EDWARD CASAUBON.”

Meanwhile Dorothea's mind was innocently at work towards the furtherembitterment of her husband; dwelling, with a sympathy that grew toagitation, on what Will had told her about his parents andgrandparents. Any private hours in her day were usually spent in herblue-green boudoir, and she had come to be very fond of its pallidquaintness. Nothing had been outwardly altered there; but while thesummer had gradually advanced over the western fields beyond the avenueof elms, the bare room had gathered within it those memories of aninward life which fill the air as with a cloud of good or bad angels,the invisible yet active forms of our spiritual triumphs or ourspiritual falls. She had been so used to struggle for and to findresolve in looking along the avenue towards the arch of western lightthat the vision itself had gained a communicating power. Even the palestag seemed to have reminding glances and to mean mutely, ”Yes, weknow.” And the group of delicately touched miniatures had made anaudience as of beings no longer disturbed about their own earthly lot,but still humanly interested. Especially the mysterious ”Aunt Julia”about whom Dorothea had never found it easy to question her husband.

And now, since her conversation with Will, many fresh images hadgathered round that Aunt Julia who was Will's grandmother; the presenceof that delicate miniature, so like a living face that she knew,helping to concentrate her feelings. What a wrong, to cut off the girlfrom the family protection and inheritance only because she had chosena man who was poor! Dorothea, early troubling her elders withquestions about the facts around her, had wrought herself into someindependent clearness as to the historical, political reasons whyeldest sons had superior rights, and why land should be entailed: thosereasons, impressing her with a certain awe, might be weightier than sheknew, but here was a question of ties which left them uninfringed.Here was a daughter whose child--even according to the ordinary apingof aristocratic institutions by people who are no more aristocraticthan retired grocers, and who have no more land to ”keep together” thana lawn and a paddock--would have a prior claim. Was inheritance aquestion of liking or of responsibility? All the energy of Dorothea'snature went on the side of responsibility--the fulfilment of claimsfounded on our own deeds, such as marriage and parentage.

It was true, she said to herself, that Mr. Casaubon had a debt to theLadislaws--that he had to pay back what the Ladislaws had been wrongedof. And now she began to think of her husband's will, which had beenmade at the time of their marriage, leaving the bulk of his property toher, with proviso in case of her having children. That ought to bealtered; and no time ought to be lost. This very question which hadjust arisen about Will Ladislaw's occupation, was the occasion forplacing things on a new, right footing. Her husband, she felt sure,according to all his previous conduct, would be ready to take the justview, if she proposed it--she, in whose interest an unfairconcentration of the property had been urged. His sense of right hadsurmounted and would continue to surmount anything that might be calledantipathy. She suspected that her uncle's scheme was disapproved byMr. Casaubon, and this made it seem all the more opportune that a freshunderstanding should be begun, so that instead of Will's startingpenniless and accepting the first function that offered itself, heshould find himself in possession of a rightful income which should bepaid by her husband during his life, and, by an immediate alteration ofthe will, should be secured at his death. The vision of all this aswhat ought to be done seemed to Dorothea like a sudden letting in ofdaylight, waking her from her previous stupidity and incuriousself-absorbed ignorance about her husband's relation to others. WillLadislaw had refused Mr. Casaubon's future aid on a ground that nolonger appeared right to her; and Mr. Casaubon had never himself seenfully what was the claim upon him. ”But he will!” said Dorothea. ”Thegreat strength of his character lies here. And what are we doing withour money? We make no use of half of our income. My own money buys menothing but an uneasy conscience.”

There was a peculiar fascination for Dorothea in this division ofproperty intended for herself, and always regarded by her as excessive.She was blind, you see, to many things obvious to others--likely totread in the wrong places, as Celia had warned her; yet her blindnessto whatever did not lie in her own pure purpose carried her safely bythe side of precipices where vision would have been perilous with fear.

The thoughts which had gathered vividness in the solitude of herboudoir occupied her incessantly through the day on which Mr. Casaubonhad sent his letter to Will. Everything seemed hindrance to her tillshe could find an opportunity of opening her heart to her husband. Tohis preoccupied mind all subjects were to be approached gently, and shehad never since his illness lost from her consciousness the dread ofagitating him. But when young ardor is set brooding over theconception of a prompt deed, the deed itself seems to start forth withindependent life, mastering ideal obstacles. The day passed in asombre fashion, not unusual, though Mr. Casaubon was perhaps unusuallysilent; but there were hours of the night which might be counted on asopportunities of conversation; for Dorothea, when aware of herhusband's sleeplessness, had established a habit of rising, lighting acandle, and reading him to sleep again. And this night she was fromthe beginning sleepless, excited by resolves. He slept as usual for afew hours, but she had risen softly and had sat in the darkness fornearly an hour before he said--

”Dorothea, since you are up, will you light a candle?”

”Do you feel ill, dear?” was her first question, as she obeyed him.

”No, not at all; but I shall be obliged, since you are up, if you willread me a few pages of Lowth.”

”May I talk to you a little instead?” said Dorothea.

”Certainly.”

”I have been thinking about money all day--that I have always had toomuch, and especially the prospect of too much.”

”These, my dear Dorothea, are providential arrangements.”

”But if one has too much in consequence of others being wronged, itseems to me that the divine voice which tells us to set that wrongright must be obeyed.”

”What, my love, is the bearing of your remark?”

”That you have been too liberal in arrangements for me--I mean, withregard to property; and that makes me unhappy.”

”How so? I have none but comparatively distant connections.”

”I have been led to think about your aunt Julia, and how she was leftin poverty only because she married a poor man, an act which was notdisgraceful, since he was not unworthy. It was on that ground, I know,that you educated Mr. Ladislaw and provided for his mother.”

Dorothea waited a few moments for some answer that would help heronward. None came, and her next words seemed the more forcible to her,falling clear upon the dark silence.

”But surely we should regard his claim as a much greater one, even tothe half of that property which I know that you have destined for me.And I think he ought at once to be provided for on that understanding.It is not right that he should be in the dependence of poverty while weare rich. And if there is any objection to the proposal he mentioned,the giving him his true place and his true share would set aside anymotive for his accepting it.”

”Mr. Ladislaw has probably been speaking to you on this subject?” saidMr. Casaubon, with a certain biting quickness not habitual to him.

”Indeed, no!” said Dorothea, earnestly. ”How can you imagine it, sincehe has so lately declined everything from you? I fear you think toohardly of him, dear. He only told me a little about his parents andgrandparents, and almost all in answer to my questions. You are sogood, so just--you have done everything you thought to be right. Butit seems to me clear that more than that is right; and I must speakabout it, since I am the person who would get what is called benefit bythat 'more' not being done.”

There was a perceptible pause before Mr. Casaubon replied, not quicklyas before, but with a still more biting emphasis.

”Dorothea, my love, this is not the first occasion, but it were wellthat it should be the last, on which you have assumed a judgment onsubjects beyond your scope. Into the question how far conduct,especially in the matter of alliances, constitutes a forfeiture offamily claims, I do not now enter. Suffice it, that you are not herequalified to discriminate. What I now wish you to understand is, thatI accept no revision, still less dictation within that range of affairswhich I have deliberated upon as distinctly and properly mine. It isnot for you to interfere between me and Mr. Ladislaw, and still less toencourage communications from him to you which constitute a criticismon my procedure.”

Poor Dorothea, shrouded in the darkness, was in a tumult of conflictingemotions. Alarm at the possible effect on himself of her husband'sstrongly manifested anger, would have checked any expression of her ownresentment, even if she had been quite free from doubt and compunctionunder the consciousness that there might be some justice in his lastinsinuation. Hearing him breathe quickly after he had spoken, she satlistening, frightened, wretched--with a dumb inward cry for help tobear this nightmare of a life in which every energy was arrested bydread. But nothing else happened, except that they both remained along while sleepless, without speaking again.

The next day, Mr. Casaubon received the following answer from WillLadislaw:--

”DEAR MR. CASAUBON,--I have given all due consideration to your letterof yesterday, but I am unable to take precisely your view of our mutualposition. With the fullest acknowledgment of your generous conduct tome in the past, I must still maintain that an obligation of this kindcannot fairly fetter me as you appear to expect that it should.Granted that a benefactor's wishes may constitute a claim; there mustalways be a reservation as to the quality of those wishes. They maypossibly clash with more imperative considerations. Or a benefactor'sveto might impose such a negation on a man's life that the consequentblank might be more cruel than the benefaction was generous. I ammerely using strong illustrations. In the present case I am unable totake your view of the bearing which my acceptance of occupation--notenriching certainly, but not dishonorable--will have on your ownposition which seems to me too substantial to be affected in thatshadowy manner. And though I do not believe that any change in ourrelations will occur (certainly none has yet occurred) which cannullify the obligations imposed on me by the past, pardon me for notseeing that those obligations should restrain me from using theordinary freedom of living where I choose, and maintaining myself byany lawful occupation I may choose. Regretting that there exists thisdifference between us as to a relation in which the conferring ofbenefits has been entirely on your side--

I remain, yours with persistent obligation, WILL LADISLAW.”

Poor Mr. Casaubon felt (and must not we, being impartial, feel with hima little?) that no man had juster cause for disgust and suspicion thanhe. Young Ladislaw, he was sure, meant to defy and annoy him, meant towin Dorothea's confidence and sow her mind with disrespect, and perhapsaversion, towards her husband. Some motive beneath the surface hadbeen needed to account for Will's sudden change of course in rejecting Mr.Casaubon's aid and quitting his travels; and this defiant determinationto fix himself in the neighborhood by taking up something so much atvariance with his former choice as Mr. Brooke's Middlemarch projects,revealed clearly enough that the undeclared motive had relation toDorothea. Not for one moment did Mr. Casaubon suspect Dorothea of anydoubleness: he had no suspicions of her, but he had (what was littleless uncomfortable) the positive knowledge that her tendency to formopinions about her husband's conduct was accompanied with a dispositionto regard Will Ladislaw favorably and be influenced by what he said.His own proud reticence had prevented him from ever being undeceived inthe supposition that Dorothea had originally asked her uncle to inviteWill to his house.

And now, on receiving Will's letter, Mr. Casaubon had to consider hisduty. He would never have been easy to call his action anything elsethan duty; but in this case, contending motives thrust him back intonegations.

Should he apply directly to Mr. Brooke, and demand of that troublesomegentleman to revoke his proposal? Or should he consult Sir JamesChettam, and get him to concur in remonstrance against a step whichtouched the whole family? In either case Mr. Casaubon was aware thatfailure was just as probable as success. It was impossible for him tomention Dorothea's name in the matter, and without some alarmingurgency Mr. Brooke was as likely as not, after meeting allrepresentations with apparent assent, to wind up by saying, ”Neverfear, Casaubon! Depend upon it, young Ladislaw will do you credit.Depend upon it, I have put my finger on the right thing.” And Mr.Casaubon shrank nervously from communicating on the subject with SirJames Chettam, between whom and himself there had never been anycordiality, and who would immediately think of Dorothea without anymention of her.

Poor Mr. Casaubon was distrustful of everybody's feeling towards him,especially as a husband. To let any one suppose that he was jealouswould be to admit their (suspected) view of his disadvantages: to letthem know that he did not find marriage particularly blissful wouldimply his conversion to their (probably) earlier disapproval. It wouldbe as bad as letting Carp, and Brasenose generally, know how backwardhe was in organizing the matter for his ”Key to all Mythologies.” Allthrough his life Mr. Casaubon had been trying not to admit even tohimself the inward sores of self-doubt and jealousy. And on the mostdelicate of all personal subjects, the habit of proud suspiciousreticence told doubly.

Thus Mr. Casaubon remained proudly, bitterly silent. But he hadforbidden Will to come to Lowick Manor, and he was mentally preparingother measures of frustration.