Dorothea was trying to extract out of this an excuse for herhusband's evident repulsion, as she said, with a playful smile, "You werenot a steady worker enough."
"No," said Will, shaking his head backward somewhat after themanner of a spirited horse. And then, the old irritable demon promptinghim to give another good pinch at the moth-wings of poor Mr.Casaubon's glory, he went on, "And I have seen since that Mr. Casaubondoes not like any one to overlook his work and know thoroughly what heis doing. He is too doubtful—too uncertain of himself. I may not be goodfor 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 before generalintentions can be brought to bear. And it was too intolerable thatCasaubon's dislike of him should not be fairly accounted for to Dorothea.Yet when he had spoken he was rather uneasy as to the effect on her. But Dorothea was strangely quiet—not immediately indignant, as shehad been on a like occasion in Rome. And the cause lay deep. She wasno longer struggling against the perception of facts, but adjusting herselfto their clearest perception; and now when she looked steadily at herhusband's failure, still more at his possible consciousness of failure, sheseemed to be looking along the one track where duty became tenderness.Will's want of reticence might have been met with more severity, if hehad not already been recommended to her mercy by her husband'sdislike, which must seem hard to her till she saw better reason 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 happywith her 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 much ofeverything. But tell me how it was—Mr. Casaubon could not have knownabout you then."
"No; but my father had made himself known to Mr. Casaubon, andthat was my last hungry day. My father died soon after, and my motherand I were well taken care of. Mr. Casaubon always expressly recognizedit as 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 is notnew to you."
In his inmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell Dorotheawhat was rather new even in his own construction of things—namely,that Mr. Casaubon had never done more than pay a debt towards him.Will was much too good a fellow to be easy under the sense of beingungrateful. And when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning thereare many ways of escaping from its bonds.
"No," answered Dorothea; "Mr. Casaubon has always avoideddwelling on his own honorable actions." She did not feel that herhusband's conduct was depreciated; but this notion of what justice hadrequired in his relations with Will Ladislaw took strong hold on hermind. 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, in fact.She was a dark-eyed creature, with crisp ringlets, and never seemed tobe getting old. You see I come of rebellious blood on both sides," Willended, smiling brightly at Dorothea, while she was still looking withserious intentness before her, like a child seeing a drama for the firsttime.
But her face, too, broke into a smile as she said, "That is yourapology, I suppose, for having yourself been rather rebellious; I mean, toMr. Casaubon's wishes. You must remember that you have not donewhat he thought best for you. And if he dislikes you—you were speakingof dislike a little while ago—but I should rather say, if he has shown anypainful feelings towards you, you must consider how sensitive he hasbecome from the wearing effect of study. Perhaps," she continued,getting into a pleading tone, "my uncle has not told you how serious Mr.Casaubon's illness was. It would be very petty of us who are well andcan bear things, to think much of small offences from those who carry aweight of trial."
"You teach me better," said Will. "I will never grumble on that subjectagain." 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. "Ihave really sometimes been a perverse fellow," he went on, "but I willnever again, if I can help it, do or say what you would disapprove."
"That is very good of you," said Dorothea, with another open smile."I shall have a little kingdom then, where I shall give laws. But you willsoon go away, out of my rule, I imagine. You will soon be tired ofstaying at the Grange."
"That is a point I wanted to mention to you—one of the reasons whyI wished to speak to you alone. Mr. Brooke proposes that I should stayin this neighborhood. He has bought one of the Middlemarchnewspapers, and he wishes me to conduct that, and also to help him inother ways."
"Would not that be a sacrifice of higher prospects for you?" saidDorothea.
"Perhaps; but I have always been blamed for thinking of prospects,and not 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 would ratherstay in this part of the country than go away. I belong to nobodyanywhere 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 theshadow of a reason in her mind at the moment why she should not sayso.
"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 wasgetting continually 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. If isface 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 the realquestion. But it now occurs to me—perhaps Mr. Casaubon might seethat the proposal was not wise. Can you not wait now and mention it tohim?"
"I can't wait to-day," said Will, inwardly seared by the possibility thatMr. Casaubon would enter. "The rain is quite over now. I told Mr.Brooke not to call for me: I would rather walk the five miles. I shallstrike across Halsell Common, and see the gleams on the wet grass. I likethat."
He approached her to shake hands quite hurriedly, longing but notdaring to say, "Don't mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon." No, he darednot, could not say it. To ask her to be less simple and direct would belike breathing on the crystal that you want to see the light through. Andthere was always the other great dread—of himself becoming dimmedand 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 to loseno time in consulting Mr. Casaubon's wishes, but for her to urge thismight 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 frivolous ceremonyand affairs, so as to be prepared for a good plunge into the seriousbusiness of study. On such occasions he usually threw into an easy-chairin the library, and allowed Dorothea to read the London papers to him,closing his eyes the while. To-day, however, he declined that relief,observing that he had already had too many public details urged uponhim; but he spoke more cheerfully than usual, when Dorothea askedabout his fatigue, and added with that air of formal effort which neverforsook him even when he spoke without his waistcoat and 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 on theEgyptian Mysteries,—using, in fact, terms which it would not become meto repeat." In uttering the last clause, Mr. Casaubon leaned over theelbow of his chair, and swayed his head up and down, apparently as amuscular outlet instead of that recapitulation which would not have beenbecoming.
"I am very glad you have had that pleasure," said Dorothea, delightedto see her husband less weary than usual at this hour. "Before you came Ihad been regretting that you happened to be out to-day."
"Why so, my dear?" said Mr. Casaubon, throwing himself backwardagain.
"Because Mr. Ladislaw has been here; and he has mentioned aproposal of my uncle's which I should like to know your opinion of." Herhusband she 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.Ladislaw to stay in this neighborhood and conduct the paper for him,besides helping 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. Casaubondespatched the following letter, beginning "Dear Mr. Ladislaw" (he hadalways before 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
been in some degree entertained, which involves your residence in this
neighborhood in a capacity which I am justified in saying touches my
own position in such a way as renders it not only natural and
warrantable in me when that effect is viewed under the influence of
legitimate feeling, but incumbent on me when the same effect is
considered in the light of my responsibilities, to state at once that your
acceptance of the proposal above indicated would be highly offensive
to me. That I have some claim to the exercise of a veto here, would
not, I believe, be denied by any reasonable person cognizant of the
relations between us: relations which, though thrown into the past by
your recent procedure, are not thereby annulled in their character of
determining antecedents. I will not here make reflections on any
person's judgment. It is enough for me to point out to yourself that
there are certain social fitnesses and proprieties which should hinder a
somewhat near relative of mine from becoming any wise conspicuous
in this vicinity in a status not only much beneath my own, but
associated at best with the sciolism of literary or political adventurers.
At any rate, the contrary issue must exclude you from further reception
at my house.
Yours faithfully,
"EDWARD CASAUBON."
Meanwhile Dorothea's mind was innocently at work towards thefurther embitterment of her husband; dwelling, with a sympathy thatgrew to agitation, 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 theavenue of elms, the bare room had gathered within it those memories ofan inward life which fill the air as with a cloud of good or bad angels,the invisible yet active forms of our spiritual triumphs or our spiritualfalls. She had been so used to struggle for and to find resolve in lookingalong the avenue towards the arch of western light that the vision itselfhad gained a communicating power. Even the pale stag seemed to havereminding glances and to mean mutely, "Yes, we know." And the groupof delicately touched miniatures had made an audience as of beings nolonger disturbed about their own earthly lot, but still humanly interested.Especially the mysterious "Aunt Julia" about whom Dorothea had neverfound it easy to question her husband.
