"I must stay here a little, Mrs. Kell. I will go into the library andwrite you some memoranda from my uncle's letter, if you will open theshutters for me."
"The shutters are open, madam," said Mrs. Kell, following Dorothea,who had walked along as she spoke. "Mr. Ladislaw is there, looking forsomething."
(Will had come to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he hadmissed in the act of packing his movables, and did not choose to leavebehind.)
Dorothea's heart seemed to turn over as if it had had a blow, but shewas not perceptibly checked: in truth, the sense that Will was there wasfor the moment all-satisfying to her, like the sight of something preciousthat one has lost. When she reached the door she said to Mrs. Kell—
"Go in first, and tell him that I am here."
Will had found his portfolio, and had laid it on the table at the farend of the room, to turn over the sketches and please himself by lookingat the memorable piece of art which had a relation to nature toomysterious for Dorothea. He was smiling at it still, and shaking thesketches into order with the thought that he might find a letter from herawaiting him at Middlemarch, when Mrs. Kell close to his elbow said—
"Mrs. Casaubon is coming in, sir."
Will turned round quickly, and the next moment Dorothea wasentering. As Mrs. Kell closed the door behind her they met: each waslooking at the other, and consciousness was overflowed by somethingthat suppressed utterance. It was not confusion that kept them silent, forthey both felt that parting was near, and there is no shamefacedness in asad parting.
She moved automatically towards her uncle's chair against thewriting-table, and Will, after drawing it out a little for her, went a fewpaces off and stood opposite to her.
"Pray sit down," said Dorothea, crossing her hands on her lap; "I amvery glad you were here." Will thought that her face looked just as it didwhen she first shook hands with him in Rome; for her widow's cap, fixedin her bonnet, had gone off with it, and he could see that she had latelybeen shedding tears. But the mixture of anger in her agitation hadvanished at the sight of him; she had been used, when they were face toface, always to feel confidence and the happy freedom which comes withmutual understanding, and how could other people's words hinder thateffect on a sudden? Let the music which can take possession of ourframe and fill the air with joy for us, sound once more—what does itsignify that we heard it found fault with in its absence?
"I have sent a letter to Lowick Manor to-day, asking leave to seeyou," said Will, seating himself opposite to her. "I am going awayimmediately, and I could not go without speaking to you again."
"I thought we had parted when you came to Lowick many weeksago—you thought you were going then," said Dorothea, her voicetrembling a little.
"Yes; but I was in ignorance then of things which I know now—things which have altered my feelings about the future. When I saw youbefore, I was dreaming that I might come back some day. I don't think Iever shall—now." Will paused here.
"You wished me to know the reasons?" said Dorothea, timidly.
"Yes," said Will, impetuously, shaking his head backward, andlooking away from her with irritation in his face. "Of course I must wishit. I have been grossly insulted in your eyes and in the eyes of others.There has been a mean implication against my character. I wish you toknow that under no circumstances would I have lowered myself by—under no circumstances would I have given men the chance of sayingthat I sought money under the pretext of seeking—something else. Therewas no need of other safeguard against me—the safeguard of wealth wasenough."
Will rose from his chair with the last word and went—he hardlyknew where; but it was to the projecting window nearest him, which hadbeen open as now about the same season a year ago, when he andDorothea had stood within it and talked together. Her whole heart wasgoing out at this moment in sympathy with Will's indignation: she onlywanted to convince him that she had never done him injustice, and heseemed to have turned away from her as if she too had been part of theunfriendly world.
"It would be very unkind of you to suppose that I ever attributed anymeanness to you," she began. Then in her ardent way, wanting to pleadwith him, she moved from her chair and went in front of him to her oldplace in the window, saying, "Do you suppose that I ever disbelieved inyou?"
When Will saw her there, he gave a start and moved backward out ofthe window, without meeting her glance. Dorothea was hurt by thismovement following up the previous anger of his tone. She was ready tosay that it was as hard on her as on him, and that she was helpless; butthose strange particulars of their relation which neither of them couldexplicitly mention kept her always in dread of saying too much. At thismoment she had no belief that Will would in any case have wanted tomarry her, and she feared using words which might imply such a belief.She only said earnestly, recurring to his last word—
"I am sure no safeguard was ever needed against you."
Will did not answer. In the stormy fluctuation of his feelings thesewords of hers seemed to him cruelly neutral, and he looked pale andmiserable after his angry outburst. He went to the table and fastened uphis portfolio, while Dorothea looked at him from the distance. They werewasting these last moments together in wretched silence. What could hesay, since what had got obstinately uppermost in his mind was thepassionate love for her which he forbade himself to utter? What couldshe say, since she might offer him no help—since she was forced to keepthe money that ought to have been his?—since to-day he seemed not torespond as he used to do to her thorough trust and liking?
But Will at last turned away from his portfolio and approached thewindow again.
"I must go," he said, with that peculiar look of the eyes whichsometimes accompanies bitter feeling, as if they had been tired andburned with gazing too close at a light.
"What shall you do in life?" said Dorothea, timidly. "Have yourintentions remained just the same as when we said good-by before?" "Yes," said Will, in a tone that seemed to waive the subject asuninteresting. "I shall work away at the first thing that offers. I supposeone gets a habit of doing without happiness or hope."
"Oh, what sad words!" said Dorothea, with a dangerous tendency tosob. Then trying to smile, she added, "We used to agree that we werealike in speaking too strongly."
"I have not spoken too strongly now," said Will, leaning back againstthe angle of the wall. "There are certain things which a man can only gothrough once in his life; and he must know some time or other that thebest is over with him. This experience has happened to me while I amvery young—that is all. What I care more for than I can ever care foranything else is absolutely forbidden to me—I don't mean merely bybeing out of my reach, but forbidden me, even if it were within myreach, by my own pride and honor—by everything I respect myself for.Of course I shall go on living as a man might do who had seen heaven ina trance."
Will paused, imagining that it would be impossible for Dorothea tomisunderstand this; indeed he felt that he was contradicting himself andoffending against his self-approval in speaking to her so plainly; butstill—it could not be fairly called wooing a woman to tell her that hewould never woo her. It must be admitted to be a ghostly kind ofwooing.
But Dorothea's mind was rapidly going over the past with quiteanother vision than his. The thought that she herself might be what Willmost cared for did throb through her an instant, but then came doubt:the memory of the little they had lived through together turned pale andshrank before the memory which suggested how much fuller might havebeen the intercourse between Will and some one else with whom he hadhad constant companionship. Everything he had said might refer to thatother relation, and whatever had passed between him and herself wasthoroughly explained by what she had always regarded as their simplefriendship and the cruel obstruction thrust upon it by her husband'sinjurious act. Dorothea stood silent, with her eyes cast down dreamily,while images crowded upon her which left the sickening certainty thatWill was referring to Mrs. Lydgate. But why sickening? He wanted her toknow that here too his conduct should be above suspicion.
Will was not surprised at her silence. His mind also wastumultuously busy while he watched her, and he was feeling ratherwildly that something must happen to hinder their parting—somemiracle, clearly nothing in their own deliberate speech. Yet, after all, hadshe any love for him?—he could not pretend to himself that he wouldrather believe her to be without that pain. He could not deny that asecret longing for the assurance that she loved him was at the root of allhis words.
Neither of them knew how long they stood in that way. Dorotheawas raising her eyes, and was about to speak, when the door opened andher footman came to say—
"The horses are ready, madam, whenever you like to start."
"Presently," said Dorothea. Then turning to Will, she said, "I havesome memoranda to write for the housekeeper."
"I must go," said Will, when the door had closed again—advancingtowards her. "The day after to-morrow I shall leave Middlemarch."
"You have acted in every way rightly," said Dorothea, in a low tone,feeling a pressure at her heart which made it difficult to speak.
She put out her hand, and Will took it for an instant withoutspeaking, for her words had seemed to him cruelly cold and unlikeherself. Their eyes met, but there was discontent in his, and in hers therewas only sadness. He turned away and took his portfolio under his arm.
"I have never done you injustice. Please remember me," saidDorothea, repressing a rising sob.
"Why should you say that?" said Will, with irritation. "As if I werenot in danger of forgetting everything else."
He had really a movement of anger against her at that moment, andit impelled him to go away without pause. It was all one flash toDorothea—his last words—his distant bow to her as he reached thedoor—the sense that he was no longer there. She sank into the chair, andfor a few moments sat like a statue, while images and emotions werehurrying upon her. Joy came first, in spite of the threatening train behindit—joy in the impression that it was really herself whom Will loved andwas renouncing, that there was really no other love less permissible,more blameworthy, which honor was hurrying him away from. Theywere parted all the same, but—Dorothea drew a deep breath and felt herstrength return—she could think of him unrestrainedly. At that momentthe parting was easy to bear: the first sense of loving and being lovedexcluded sorrow. It was as if some hard icy pressure had melted, and herconsciousness had room to expand: her past was come back to her withlarger interpretation. The joy was not the less—perhaps it was the morecomplete just then—because of the irrevocable parting; for there was noreproach, no contemptuous wonder to imagine in any eye or from anylips. He had acted so as to defy reproach, and make wonder respectful.
Any one watching her might have seen that there was a fortifyingthought within her. Just as when inventive power is working with gladease some small claim on the attention is fully met as if it were only acranny opened to the sunlight, it was easy now for Dorothea to write hermemoranda. She spoke her last words to the housekeeper in cheerfultones, and when she seated herself in the carriage her eyes were brightand her cheeks blooming under the dismal bonnet. She threw back theheavy "weepers," and looked before her, wondering which road Will hadtaken. It was in her nature to be proud that he was blameless, andthrough all her feelings there ran this vein—"I was right to defend him."
The coachman was used to drive his grays at a good pace, Mr.Casaubon being unenjoying and impatient in everything away from hisdesk, and wanting to get to the end of all journeys; and Dorothea wasnow bowled along quickly. Driving was pleasant, for rain in the nighthad laid the dust, and the blue sky looked far off, away from the regionof the great clouds that sailed in masses. The earth looked like a happyplace under the vast heavens, and Dorothea was wishing that she mightovertake Will and see him once more.
After a turn of the road, there he was with the portfolio under hisarm; but the next moment she was passing him while he raised his hat,and she felt a pang at being seated there in a sort of exaltation, leavinghim behind. She could not look back at him. It was as if a crowd ofindifferent objects had thrust them asunder, and forced them alongdifferent paths, taking them farther and farther away from each other,and making it useless to look back. She could no more make any signthat would seem to say, "Need we part?" than she could stop the carriageto wait for him. Nay, what a world of reasons crowded upon her againstany movement of her thought towards a future that might reverse thedecision of this day!
"I only wish I had known before—I wish he knew—then we could bequite happy in thinking of each other, though we are forever parted. Andif I could but have given him the money, and made things easier forhim!"—were the longings that came back the most persistently. And yet,so heavily did the world weigh on her in spite of her independent energy,that with this idea of Will as in need of such help and at a disadvantagewith the world, there came always the vision of that unfittingness of anycloser relation between them which lay in the opinion of every oneconnected with her. She felt to the full all the imperativeness of themotives which urged Will's conduct. How could he dream of her defyingthe barrier that her husband had placed between them?—how could sheever say to herself that she would defy it?
Will's certainty as the carriage grew smaller in the distance, hadmuch more bitterness in it. Very slight matters were enough to gall himin his sensitive mood, and the sight of Dorothea driving past him whilehe felt himself plodding along as a poor devil seeking a position in aworld which in his present temper offered him little that he coveted,made his conduct seem a mere matter of necessity, and took away thesustainment of resolve. After all, he had no assurance that she lovedhim: could any man pretend that he was simply glad in such a case tohave the suffering all on his own side?
