Kabanata Kabanata 37 · 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 election

or the end of the world that was coming on, now that George the Fourth

was dead, Parliament dissolved, Wellington and Peel generally

depreciated and the new King apologetic, was a feeble type of the

uncertainties in provincial opinion at that time. With the glow-worm

lights of country places, how could men see which were their own

thoughts in the confusion of a Tory Ministry passing Liberal measures,

of Tory nobles and electors being anxious to return Liberals rather

than friends of the recreant Ministers, and of outcries for remedies

which 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 anomalous

position: during the agitation on the Catholic Question many had given

up the “Pioneer”—which had a motto from Charles James Fox and was in

the van of progress—because it had taken Peel’s side about the Papists,

and had thus blotted its Liberalism with a toleration of Jesuitry and

Baal; but they were ill-satisfied with the “Trumpet,” which—since its

blasts against Rome, and in the general flaccidity of the public mind

(nobody knowing who would support whom)—had become feeble in its

blowing.

It was a time, according to a noticeable article in the “Pioneer,” when

the crying needs of the country might well counteract a reluctance to

public action on the part of men whose minds had from long experience

acquired breadth as well as concentration, decision of judgment as well

as tolerance, dispassionateness as well as energy—in fact, all those

qualities which in the melancholy experience of mankind have been the

least disposed to share lodgings.

Mr. Hackbutt, whose fluent speech was at that time floating more widely

than 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 bought

the “Pioneer” some months ago.

“That means mischief, eh?” said Mr. Hawley. “He’s got the freak of

being 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. He shall

be prettily pumped upon. He’s a damned bad landlord. What business has

an old county man to come currying favor with a low set of dark-blue

freemen? As to his paper, I only hope he may do the writing himself. It

would be worth our paying for.”

“I understand he has got a very brilliant young fellow to edit it, who

can write the highest style of leading article, quite equal to anything

in 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 the

buildings all over his estate are going to rack. I suppose this young

fellow 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 with

flourishing 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. “I

myself should never favor immoderate views—in fact I take my stand with

Huskisson—but I cannot blind myself to the consideration that the

non-representation of large towns—”

“Large towns be damned!” said Mr. Hawley, impatient of exposition. “I

know a little too much about Middlemarch elections. Let ’em quash every

pocket borough to-morrow, and bring in every mushroom town in the

kingdom—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 an

emissary, and of Brooke becoming actively political—as if a tortoise of

desultory pursuits should protrude its small head ambitiously and

become rampant—was hardly equal to the annoyance felt by some members

of Mr. Brooke’s own family. The result had oozed forth gradually, like

the discovery that your neighbor has set up an unpleasant kind of

manufacture which will be permanently under your nostrils without legal

remedy. The “Pioneer” had been secretly bought even before Will

Ladislaw’s arrival, the expected opportunity having offered itself in

the readiness of the proprietor to part with a valuable property which

did not pay; and in the interval since Mr. Brooke had written his

invitation, those germinal ideas of making his mind tell upon the world

at large which had been present in him from his younger years, but had

hitherto lain in some obstruction, had been sprouting under cover.

The development was much furthered by a delight in his guest which

proved greater even than he had anticipated. For it seemed that Will

was not only at home in all those artistic and literary subjects which

Mr. Brooke had gone into at one time, but that he was strikingly ready

at seizing the points of the political situation, and dealing with them

in that large spirit which, aided by adequate memory, lends itself to

quotation and general effectiveness of treatment.

“He seems to me a kind of Shelley, you know,” Mr. Brooke took an

opportunity of saying, for the gratification of Mr. Casaubon. “I don’t

mean as to anything objectionable—laxities or atheism, or anything of

that kind, you know—Ladislaw’s sentiments in every way I am sure are

good—indeed, we were talking a great deal together last night. But he

has the same sort of enthusiasm for liberty, freedom, emancipation—a

fine thing under guidance—under guidance, you know. I think I shall be

able to put him on the right tack; and I am the more pleased because he

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 some

occupation at a great distance from Lowick. He had disliked Will while

he helped him, but he had begun to dislike him still more now that Will

had declined his help. That is the way with us when we have any uneasy

jealousy in our disposition: if our talents are chiefly of the

burrowing kind, our honey-sipping cousin (whom we have grave reasons

for objecting to) is likely to have a secret contempt for us, and any

one who admires him passes an oblique criticism on ourselves. Having

the scruples of rectitude in our souls, we are above the meanness of

injuring him—rather we meet all his claims on us by active benefits;

and the drawing of cheques for him, being a superiority which he must

recognize, gives our bitterness a milder infusion. Now Mr. Casaubon had

been deprived of that superiority (as anything more than a remembrance)

in a sudden, capricious manner. His antipathy to Will did not spring

from the common jealousy of a winter-worn husband: it was something

deeper, bred by his lifelong claims and discontents; but Dorothea, now

that she was present—Dorothea, as a young wife who herself had shown an

offensive capability of criticism, necessarily gave concentration to

the uneasiness which had before been vague.

Will Ladislaw on his side felt that his dislike was flourishing at the

expense of his gratitude, and spent much inward discourse in justifying

the dislike. Casaubon hated him—he knew that very well; on his first

entrance he could discern a bitterness in the mouth and a venom in the

glance which would almost justify declaring war in spite of past

benefits. He was much obliged to Casaubon in the past, but really the

act of marrying this wife was a set-off against the obligation. It was

a question whether gratitude which refers to what is done for one’s

self ought not to give way to indignation at what is done against

another. And Casaubon had done a wrong to Dorothea in marrying her. A

man was bound to know himself better than that, and if he chose to grow

gray crunching bones in a cavern, he had no business to be luring a

girl into his companionship. “It is the most horrible of

virgin-sacrifices,” said Will; and he painted to himself what were

Dorothea’s inward sorrows as if he had been writing a choric wail. But

he would never lose sight of her: he would watch over her—if he gave up

everything else in life he would watch over her, and she should know

that she had one slave in the world. Will had—to use Sir Thomas

Browne’s phrase—a “passionate prodigality” of statement both to himself

and others. The simple truth was that nothing then invited him so

strongly as the presence of Dorothea.

Invitations of the formal kind had been wanting, however, for Will had

never been asked to go to Lowick. Mr. Brooke, indeed, confident of

doing everything agreeable which Casaubon, poor fellow, was too much

absorbed to think of, had arranged to bring Ladislaw to Lowick several

times (not neglecting meanwhile to introduce him elsewhere on every

opportunity as “a young relative of Casaubon’s”). And though Will had

not seen Dorothea alone, their interviews had been enough to restore

her former sense of young companionship with one who was cleverer than

herself, yet seemed ready to be swayed by her. Poor Dorothea before her

marriage had never found much room in other minds for what she cared

most to say; and she had not, as we know, enjoyed her husband’s

superior instruction so much as she had expected. If she spoke with any

keenness of interest to Mr. Casaubon, he heard her with an air of

patience as if she had given a quotation from the Delectus familiar to

him from his tender years, and sometimes mentioned curtly what ancient

sects or personages had held similar ideas, as if there were too much

of that sort in stock already; at other times he would inform her that

she was mistaken, and reassert what her remark had questioned.

But Will Ladislaw always seemed to see more in what she said than she

herself saw. Dorothea had little vanity, but she had the ardent woman’s

need to rule beneficently by making the joy of another soul. Hence the

mere chance of seeing Will occasionally was like a lunette opened in

the wall of her prison, giving her a glimpse of the sunny air; and this

pleasure began to nullify her original alarm at what her husband might

think about the introduction of Will as her uncle’s guest. On this

subject Mr. Casaubon had remained dumb.

But Will wanted to talk with Dorothea alone, and was impatient of slow

circumstance. However slight the terrestrial intercourse between Dante

and Beatrice or Petrarch and Laura, time changes the proportion of

things, and in later days it is preferable to have fewer sonnets and

more conversation. Necessity excused stratagem, but stratagem was

limited by the dread of offending Dorothea. He found out at last that

he wanted to take a particular sketch at Lowick; and one morning when

Mr. Brooke had to drive along the Lowick road on his way to the county

town, Will asked to be set down with his sketch-book and camp-stool at

Lowick, and without announcing himself at the Manor settled himself to

sketch in a position where he must see Dorothea if she came out to

walk—and he knew that she usually walked an hour in the morning.

But the stratagem was defeated by the weather. Clouds gathered with

treacherous quickness, the rain came down, and Will was obliged to take

shelter in the house. He intended, on the strength of relationship, to

go into the drawing-room and wait there without being announced; and

seeing his old acquaintance the butler in the hall, he said, “Don’t

mention 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’d

better tell her you’re here, sir,” said Pratt, a red-cheeked man given

to lively converse with Tantripp, and often agreeing with her that it

must be dull for Madam.

“Oh, very well; this confounded rain has hindered me from sketching,”

said Will, feeling so happy that he affected indifference with

delightful ease.

In another minute he was in the library, and Dorothea was meeting him

with her sweet unconstrained smile.

“Mr. Casaubon has gone to the Archdeacon’s,” she said, at once. “I

don’t know whether he will be at home again long before dinner. He was

uncertain how long he should be. Did you want to say anything

particular to him?”

“No; I came to sketch, but the rain drove me in. Else I would not have

disturbed you yet. I supposed that Mr. Casaubon was here, and I know he

dislikes interruption at this hour.”

“I am indebted to the rain, then. I am so glad to see you.” Dorothea

uttered these common words with the simple sincerity of an unhappy

child, 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 stay

to ask himself, why not? “I wanted to talk about things, as we did in

Rome. 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, without

a single ornament on her besides her wedding-ring, as if she were under

a vow to be different from all other women; and Will sat down opposite

her at two yards’ distance, the light falling on his bright curls and

delicate but rather petulant profile, with its defiant curves of lip

and chin. Each looked at the other as if they had been two flowers

which had opened then and there. Dorothea for the moment forgot her

husband’s mysterious irritation against Will: it seemed fresh water at

her thirsty lips to speak without fear to the one person whom she had

found receptive; for in looking backward through sadness she

exaggerated a past solace.

“I have often thought that I should like to talk to you again,” she

said, immediately. “It seems strange to me how many things I said to

you.”

“I remember them all,” said Will, with the unspeakable content in his

soul of feeling that he was in the presence of a creature worthy to be

perfectly loved. I think his own feelings at that moment were perfect,

for we mortals have our divine moments, when love is satisfied in the

completeness of the beloved object.

“I have tried to learn a great deal since we were in Rome,” said

Dorothea. “I can read Latin a little, and I am beginning to understand

just a little Greek. I can help Mr. Casaubon better now. I can find out

references for him and save his eyes in many ways. But it is very

difficult to be learned; it seems as if people were worn out on the way

to 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 overtake

them before he is decrepit,” said Will, with irrepressible quickness.

But through certain sensibilities Dorothea was as quick as he, and

seeing her face change, he added, immediately, “But it is quite true

that the best minds have been sometimes overstrained in working out

their ideas.”

“You correct me,” said Dorothea. “I expressed myself ill. I should have

said that those who have great thoughts get too much worn in working

them out. I used to feel about that, even when I was a little girl; and

it always seemed to me that the use I should like to make of my life

would be to help some one who did great works, so that his burthen

might be lighter.”

Dorothea was led on to this bit of autobiography without any sense of

making a revelation. But she had never before said anything to Will

which threw so strong a light on her marriage. He did not shrug his

shoulders; and for want of that muscular outlet he thought the more

irritably of beautiful lips kissing holy skulls and other emptinesses

ecclesiastically enshrined. Also he had to take care that his speech

should not betray that thought.

“But you may easily carry the help too far,” he said, “and get

over-wrought yourself. Are you not too much shut up? You already look

paler. It would be better for Mr. Casaubon to have a secretary; he

could easily get a man who would do half his work for him. It would

save him more effectually, and you need only help him in lighter ways.”

“How can you think of that?” said Dorothea, in a tone of earnest

remonstrance. “I should have no happiness if I did not help him in his

work. What could I do? There is no good to be done in Lowick. The only

thing I desire is to help him more. And he objects to a secretary:

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 a

great deal on horseback, and have the garden altered and new

conservatories, to fill up my days. I thought you could understand that

one’s mind has other wants,” she added, rather impatiently—“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. Indeed he

held out the prospect of that office to me. But I turned out to be—not

good enough for it.”

Dorothea was trying to extract out of this an excuse for her husband’s

evident repulsion, as she said, with a playful smile, “You were not a

steady worker enough.”

“No,” said Will, shaking his head backward somewhat after the manner of

a spirited horse. And then, the old irritable demon prompting him 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. Casaubon does not like any

one to overlook his work and know thoroughly what he is doing. He is

too 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 our

tongues are little triggers which have usually been pulled before

general intentions can be brought to bear. And it was too intolerable

that Casaubon’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 she had

been on a like occasion in Rome. And the cause lay deep. She was no

longer struggling against the perception of facts, but adjusting

herself to their clearest perception; and now when she looked steadily

at her husband’s failure, still more at his possible consciousness of

failure, she seemed to be looking along the one track where duty became

tenderness. Will’s want of reticence might have been met with more

severity, if he had not already been recommended to her mercy by her

husband’s dislike, which must seem hard to her till she saw better

reason for it.

She did not answer at once, but after looking down ruminatingly she

said, with some earnestness, “Mr. Casaubon must have overcome his

dislike of you so far as his actions were concerned: and that is

admirable.”

“Yes; he has shown a sense of justice in family matters. It was an

abominable thing that my grandmother should have been disinherited

because she made what they called a _mesalliance_, though there was

nothing to be said against her husband except that he was a Polish

refugee who gave lessons for his bread.”

“I wish I knew all about her!” said Dorothea. “I wonder how she bore

the change from wealth to poverty: I wonder whether she was happy with

her husband! Do you know much about them?”

“No; only that my grandfather was a patriot—a bright fellow—could speak

many languages—musical—got his bread by teaching all sorts of things.

They both died rather early. And I never knew much of my father, beyond

what my mother told me; but he inherited the musical talents. I

remember his slow walk and his long thin hands; and one day remains

with me when he was lying ill, and I was very hungry, and had only a

little bit of bread.”

“Ah, what a different life from mine!” said Dorothea, with keen

interest, clasping her hands on her lap. “I have always had too much of

everything. But tell me how it was—Mr. Casaubon could not have known

about you then.”

“No; but my father had made himself known to Mr. Casaubon, and that was

my last hungry day. My father died soon after, and my mother and I were

well taken care of. Mr. Casaubon always expressly recognized it as his

duty to take care of us because of the harsh injustice which had been

shown to his mother’s sister. But now I am telling you what is not new

to you.”

In his inmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell Dorothea what

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 being ungrateful. And

when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many ways of

escaping from its bonds.

“No,” answered Dorothea; “Mr. Casaubon has always avoided dwelling on

his own honorable actions.” She did not feel that her husband’s conduct

was depreciated; but this notion of what justice had required in his

relations with Will Ladislaw took strong hold on her mind. After a

moment’s pause, she added, “He had never told me that he supported your

mother. Is she still living?”

“No; she died by an accident—a fall—four years ago. It is curious that

my mother, too, ran away from her family, but not for the sake of her

husband. She never would tell me anything about her family, except that

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 to be

getting old. You see I come of rebellious blood on both sides,” Will

ended, smiling brightly at Dorothea, while she was still looking with

serious intentness before her, like a child seeing a drama for the

first time.

But her face, too, broke into a smile as she said, “That is your

apology, I suppose, for having yourself been rather rebellious; I mean,

to Mr. Casaubon’s wishes. You must remember that you have not done what

he thought best for you. And if he dislikes you—you were speaking of

dislike a little while ago—but I should rather say, if he has shown any

painful feelings towards you, you must consider how sensitive he has

become 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

and can bear things, to think much of small offences from those who

carry a weight of trial.”

“You teach me better,” said Will. “I will never grumble on that subject

again.” There was a gentleness in his tone which came from the

unutterable contentment of perceiving—what Dorothea was hardly

conscious of—that she was travelling into the remoteness of pure pity

and loyalty towards her husband. Will was ready to adore her pity and

loyalty, if she would associate himself with her in manifesting them.

“I have really sometimes been a perverse fellow,” he went on, “but I

will never 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 will

soon go away, out of my rule, I imagine. You will soon be tired of

staying at the Grange.”

“That is a point I wanted to mention to you—one of the reasons why I

wished to speak to you alone. Mr. Brooke proposes that I should stay in

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?” said

Dorothea.

“Perhaps; but I have always been blamed for thinking of prospects, and

not settling to anything. And here is something offered to me. If you

would not like me to accept it, I will give it up. Otherwise I would

rather stay in this part of the country than go away. I belong to

nobody anywhere else.”

“I should like you to stay very much,” said Dorothea, at once, as

simply and readily as she had spoken at Rome. There was not the shadow

of a reason in her mind at the moment why she should not say so.

“Then I _will_ stay,” said Ladislaw, shaking his head backward, rising

and going towards the window, as if to see whether the rain had ceased.

But the next moment, Dorothea, according to a habit which was getting

continually stronger, began to reflect that her husband felt

differently from herself, and she colored deeply under the double

embarrassment of having expressed what might be in opposition to her

husband’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 think you

should be guided by Mr. Casaubon. I spoke without thinking of anything

else than my own feeling, which has nothing to do with the real

question. But it now occurs to me—perhaps Mr. Casaubon might see that

the proposal was not wise. Can you not wait now and mention it to him?”

“I can’t wait to-day,” said Will, inwardly seared by the possibility

that Mr. 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 shall

strike across Halsell Common, and see the gleams on the wet grass. I

like that.”

He approached her to shake hands quite hurriedly, longing but not

daring to say, “Don’t mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon.” No, he

dared not, could not say it. To ask her to be less simple and direct

would be like breathing on the crystal that you want to see the light

through. And there was always the other great dread—of himself becoming

dimmed and forever ray-shorn in her eyes.

“I wish you could have stayed,” said Dorothea, with a touch of

mournfulness, as she rose and put out her hand. She also had her

thought which she did not like to express:—Will certainly ought to lose

no time in consulting Mr. Casaubon’s wishes, but for her to urge this

might seem an undue dictation.

So they only said “Good-by,” and Will quitted the house, striking

across the fields so as not to run any risk of encountering Mr.

Casaubon’s carriage, which, however, did not appear at the gate until

four o’clock. That was an unpropitious hour for coming home: it was too

early to gain the moral support under ennui of dressing his person for

dinner, and too late to undress his mind of the day’s frivolous

ceremony and affairs, so as to be prepared for a good plunge into the

serious business of study. On such occasions he usually threw into an

easy-chair in 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 upon him; but he spoke more cheerfully than usual, when Dorothea

asked about his fatigue, and added with that air of formal effort which

never forsook 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 worthy

recipient of praise. He spoke very handsomely of my late tractate on

the Egyptian Mysteries,—using, in fact, terms which it would not become

me to repeat.” In uttering the last clause, Mr. Casaubon leaned over

the elbow of his chair, and swayed his head up and down, apparently as

a muscular outlet instead of that recapitulation which would not have

been becoming.

“I am very glad you have had that pleasure,” said Dorothea, delighted

to see her husband less weary than usual at this hour. “Before you came

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 of

my uncle’s which I should like to know your opinion of.” Her husband

she felt was really concerned in this question. Even with her ignorance

of the world she had a vague impression that the position offered to

Will was out of keeping with his family connections, and certainly 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 has bought

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 first

blinked and finally closed his eyes, as if to save them; while his lips

became 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 at

Dorothea. 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 ask

your opinion. But when he mentioned the proposal, he of course expected

me to tell you of it.”

Mr. Casaubon was silent.

“I feared that you might feel some objection. But certainly a young man

with so much talent might be very useful to my uncle—might help him to

do good in a better way. And Mr. Ladislaw wishes to have some fixed

occupation. He has been blamed, he says, for not seeking something of

that kind, and he would like to stay in this neighborhood because 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. Spanning

and the Archdeacon’s breakfast. But there was no longer sunshine on

these subjects.

The next morning, without Dorothea’s knowledge, Mr. Casaubon despatched

the following letter, beginning “Dear Mr. Ladislaw” (he had always

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 the further

embitterment of her husband; dwelling, with a sympathy that grew to

agitation, on what Will had told her about his parents and

grandparents. Any private hours in her day were usually spent in her

blue-green boudoir, and she had come to be very fond of its pallid

quaintness. Nothing had been outwardly altered there; but while the

summer had gradually advanced over the western fields beyond the avenue

of elms, the bare room had gathered within it those memories of an

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

spiritual falls. She had been so used to struggle for and to find

resolve in looking along the avenue towards the arch of western light

that the vision itself had gained a communicating power. Even the pale

stag seemed to have reminding glances and to mean mutely, “Yes, we

know.” And the group of delicately touched miniatures had made an

audience 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 had

gathered round that Aunt Julia who was Will’s grandmother; the presence

of that delicate miniature, so like a living face that she knew,

helping to concentrate her feelings. What a wrong, to cut off the girl

from the family protection and inheritance only because she had chosen

a man who was poor! Dorothea, early troubling her elders with questions

about the facts around her, had wrought herself into some independent

clearness as to the historical, political reasons why eldest sons had

superior rights, and why land should be entailed: those reasons,

impressing her with a certain awe, might be weightier than she knew,

but here was a question of ties which left them uninfringed. Here was a

daughter whose child—even according to the ordinary aping of

aristocratic institutions by people who are no more aristocratic than

retired grocers, and who have no more land to “keep together” than a

lawn and a paddock—would have a prior claim. Was inheritance a question

of liking or of responsibility? All the energy of Dorothea’s nature

went on the side of responsibility—the fulfilment of claims founded on

our own deeds, such as marriage and parentage.

It was true, she said to herself, that Mr. Casaubon had a debt to the

Ladislaws—that he had to pay back what the Ladislaws had been wronged

of. And now she began to think of her husband’s will, which had been

made at the time of their marriage, leaving the bulk of his property to

her, with proviso in case of her having children. That ought to be

altered; and no time ought to be lost. This very question which had

just arisen about Will Ladislaw’s occupation, was the occasion for

placing things on a new, right footing. Her husband, she felt sure,

according to all his previous conduct, would be ready to take the just

view, if she proposed it—she, in whose interest an unfair concentration

of the property had been urged. His sense of right had surmounted and

would continue to surmount anything that might be called antipathy. She

suspected that her uncle’s scheme was disapproved by Mr. Casaubon, and

this made it seem all the more opportune that a fresh understanding

should be begun, so that instead of Will’s starting penniless and

accepting the first function that offered itself, he should find

himself in possession of a rightful income which should be paid by her

husband during his life, and, by an immediate alteration of the will,

should be secured at his death. The vision of all this as what ought to

be done seemed to Dorothea like a sudden letting in of daylight, waking

her from her previous stupidity and incurious self-absorbed ignorance

about her husband’s relation to others. Will Ladislaw had refused Mr.

Casaubon’s future aid on a ground that no longer appeared right to her;

and Mr. Casaubon had never himself seen fully what was the claim upon

him. “But he will!” said Dorothea. “The great strength of his character

lies here. And what are we doing with our money? We make no use of half

of our income. My own money buys me nothing but an uneasy conscience.”

There was a peculiar fascination for Dorothea in this division of

property intended for herself, and always regarded by her as excessive.

She was blind, you see, to many things obvious to others—likely to

tread in the wrong places, as Celia had warned her; yet her blindness

to whatever did not lie in her own pure purpose carried her safely by

the side of precipices where vision would have been perilous with fear.

The thoughts which had gathered vividness in the solitude of her

boudoir occupied her incessantly through the day on which Mr. Casaubon

had sent his letter to Will. Everything seemed hindrance to her till

she could find an opportunity of opening her heart to her husband. To

his preoccupied mind all subjects were to be approached gently, and she

had never since his illness lost from her consciousness the dread of

agitating him. But when young ardor is set brooding over the conception

of a prompt deed, the deed itself seems to start forth with independent

life, mastering ideal obstacles. The day passed in a sombre fashion,

not unusual, though Mr. Casaubon was perhaps unusually silent; but

there were hours of the night which might be counted on as

opportunities of conversation; for Dorothea, when aware of her

husband’s sleeplessness, had established a habit of rising, lighting a

candle, and reading him to sleep again. And this night she was from the

beginning sleepless, excited by resolves. He slept as usual for a few

hours, but she had risen softly and had sat in the darkness for nearly

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 will

read 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 too

much, 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, it

seems to me that the divine voice which tells us to set that wrong

right must be obeyed.”

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

“That you have been too liberal in arrangements for me—I mean, with

regard 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 left

in poverty only because she married a poor man, an act which was not

disgraceful, 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 her

onward. 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 to

the 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 we

are 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 any

motive for his accepting it.”

“Mr. Ladislaw has probably been speaking to you on this subject?” said

Mr. Casaubon, with a certain biting quickness not habitual to him.

“Indeed, no!” said Dorothea, earnestly. “How can you imagine it, since

he has so lately declined everything from you? I fear you think too

hardly of him, dear. He only told me a little about his parents and

grandparents, and almost all in answer to my questions. You are so

good, so just—you have done everything you thought to be right. But it

seems to me clear that more than that is right; and I must speak about

it, since I am the person who would get what is called benefit by that

‘more’ not being done.”

There was a perceptible pause before Mr. Casaubon replied, not quickly

as before, but with a still more biting emphasis.

“Dorothea, my love, this is not the first occasion, but it were well

that it should be the last, on which you have assumed a judgment on

subjects beyond your scope. Into the question how far conduct,

especially in the matter of alliances, constitutes a forfeiture of

family claims, I do not now enter. Suffice it, that you are not here

qualified to discriminate. What I now wish you to understand is, that I

accept no revision, still less dictation within that range of affairs

which I have deliberated upon as distinctly and properly mine. It is

not for you to interfere between me and Mr. Ladislaw, and still less to

encourage communications from him to you which constitute a criticism

on my procedure.”

Poor Dorothea, shrouded in the darkness, was in a tumult of conflicting

emotions. Alarm at the possible effect on himself of her husband’s

strongly manifested anger, would have checked any expression of her own

resentment, even if she had been quite free from doubt and compunction

under the consciousness that there might be some justice in his last

insinuation. Hearing him breathe quickly after he had spoken, she sat

listening, frightened, wretched—with a dumb inward cry for help to bear

this nightmare of a life in which every energy was arrested by dread.

But nothing else happened, except that they both remained a long while

sleepless, without speaking again.

The next day, Mr. Casaubon received the following answer from Will

Ladislaw:—

“DEAR MR. CASAUBON,—I have given all due consideration to your letter

of yesterday, but I am unable to take precisely your view of our mutual

position. With the fullest acknowledgment of your generous conduct to

me in the past, I must still maintain that an obligation of this kind

cannot fairly fetter me as you appear to expect that it should. Granted

that a benefactor’s wishes may constitute a claim; there must always be

a reservation as to the quality of those wishes. They may possibly

clash with more imperative considerations. Or a benefactor’s veto might

impose such a negation on a man’s life that the consequent blank might

be more cruel than the benefaction was generous. I am merely using

strong illustrations. In the present case I am unable to take your view

of the bearing which my acceptance of occupation—not enriching

certainly, but not dishonorable—will have on your own position which

seems to me too substantial to be affected in that shadowy manner. And

though I do not believe that any change in our relations will occur

(certainly none has yet occurred) which can nullify the obligations

imposed on me by the past, pardon me for not seeing that those

obligations should restrain me from using the ordinary freedom of

living where I choose, and maintaining myself by any lawful occupation

I may choose. Regretting that there exists this difference between us

as to a relation in which the conferring of benefits 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 him

a little?) that no man had juster cause for disgust and suspicion than

he. Young Ladislaw, he was sure, meant to defy and annoy him, meant to

win Dorothea’s confidence and sow her mind with disrespect, and perhaps

aversion, towards her husband. Some motive beneath the surface had been

needed to account for Will’s sudden change of course in rejecting Mr.

Casaubon’s aid and quitting his travels; and this defiant determination

to fix himself in the neighborhood by taking up something so much at

variance with his former choice as Mr. Brooke’s Middlemarch projects,

revealed clearly enough that the undeclared motive had relation to

Dorothea. Not for one moment did Mr. Casaubon suspect Dorothea of any

doubleness: he had no suspicions of her, but he had (what was little

less uncomfortable) the positive knowledge that her tendency to form

opinions about her husband’s conduct was accompanied with a disposition

to regard Will Ladislaw favorably and be influenced by what he said.

His own proud reticence had prevented him from ever being undeceived in

the supposition that Dorothea had originally asked her uncle to invite

Will to his house.

And now, on receiving Will’s letter, Mr. Casaubon had to consider his

duty. He would never have been easy to call his action anything else

than duty; but in this case, contending motives thrust him back into

negations.

Should he apply directly to Mr. Brooke, and demand of that troublesome

gentleman to revoke his proposal? Or should he consult Sir James

Chettam, and get him to concur in remonstrance against a step which

touched the whole family? In either case Mr. Casaubon was aware that

failure was just as probable as success. It was impossible for him to

mention Dorothea’s name in the matter, and without some alarming

urgency Mr. Brooke was as likely as not, after meeting all

representations with apparent assent, to wind up by saying, “Never

fear, 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 Sir

James Chettam, between whom and himself there had never been any

cordiality, and who would immediately think of Dorothea without any

mention 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 jealous

would be to admit their (suspected) view of his disadvantages: to let

them know that he did not find marriage particularly blissful would

imply his conversion to their (probably) earlier disapproval. It would

be as bad as letting Carp, and Brasenose generally, know how backward

he was in organizing the matter for his “Key to all Mythologies.” All

through his life Mr. Casaubon had been trying not to admit even to

himself the inward sores of self-doubt and jealousy. And on the most

delicate of all personal subjects, the habit of proud suspicious

reticence told doubly.

Thus Mr. Casaubon remained proudly, bitterly silent. But he had

forbidden Will to come to Lowick Manor, and he was mentally preparing

other measures of frustration.