Middlemarch

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

On the second morning after Dorothea’s visit to Rosamond, she has had two nights of sound sleep, has lost all traces of fatigue, and feels a great deal of superfluous strength. The day before she had taken long walks outside the grounds and paid two visits to the Parsonage, but she never told any one the reason why she spent her time in that fruitless manner. This morning she is rather angry with herself for her childish restlessness. To-day is to be spent differently. She sits down in the library before her little heap of books on political economy, trying to get light on the best way of spending money so as to do the most good. But her mind slips off it for a whole hour, and at the end she finds herself reading sentences twice over.

She resolves to do something to which she must go doggedly—the geography of Asia Minor. She unrolls a map and sets earnestly to work, bending close, uttering the names in an audible subdued tone, nodding her head and marking names off on her fingers with a little pursing of her lip, and now and then breaking off to say, “Oh dear! oh dear!” This is interrupted by the announcement of Miss Noble, the little old lady whose bonnet hardly reaches Dorothea’s shoulder. She has left a friend in the churchyard and unconsciously draws forth the tortoise-shell lozenge-box, Mr. Ladislaw’s present. Dorothea feels the color mounting to her cheeks.

“Mr. Ladislaw fears he has offended you, and has begged me to ask if you will see him for a few minutes.” Dorothea does not answer on the instant; it crosses her mind that she cannot receive him in this library, where her husband’s prohibition seems to dwell. But she cannot go out to meet him in the grounds; the sky is heavy, the trees shivering. “Do see him, Mrs. Casaubon,” says Miss Noble, pathetically. “Yes, I will see him,” says Dorothea.

When the little lady has trotted away, Dorothea stands in the middle of the library with her hands falling clasped before her. What she is least conscious of just then is her own body; she is thinking of what is likely to be in Will’s mind. The possibility of seeing him has thrust itself insistently between her and every other object. When the door is opened and she sees Will before her, he comes toward her with more doubt and timidity in his face than she has ever seen before. He is in a state of uncertainty which makes him afraid lest some look or word should condemn him to a new distance from her.

“I am so grateful to you for seeing me,” he says. “I wanted to see you,” Dorothea replies, having no other words at command. He goes on to say he fears she thinks him foolish for coming back so soon, that the painful story about his parentage is matter of gossip now, and that something which happened before he went away helped to bring him down again—the idea of getting Bulstrode to apply some money to a public purpose, some money which had been thought of giving to him. He did not choose to accept an income from such a source; he was sure she would not think well of him if he did so. “You acted as I should have expected you to act,” Dorothea says, her face brightening.

“If it were a new hardship it would be a new reason for me to cling to you,” she says, fervidly. “Nothing could have changed me but—but thinking that you were different—not so good as I had believed you to be.” Will, giving way to his own feeling, says, “You are sure to believe me better than I am in everything but one. I mean, in my truth to you. When I thought you doubted of that, I didn’t care about anything that was left.” “I don’t doubt you any longer,” says Dorothea, putting out her hand. He takes her hand and raises it to his lips with something like a sob.

They stand silent, looking at the evergreens which are being tossed against the blackening sky. Will never enjoyed the prospect of a storm so much; it delivered him from the necessity of going away. Leaves and branches are hurled about, and the thunder is getting nearer. There comes a flash of lightning which makes them start and look at each other and smile. Dorothea begins to speak of how she had felt the most wretched and yet seemed to see more clearly that other people’s good would remain and is worth trying for. Will says he had felt the misery of knowing she must despise him. “We may at least have the comfort of speaking to each other without disguise,” he says. “Since I must go away—since we must always be divided—you may think of me as one on the brink of the grave.”

A vivid flash of lightning lights them up for the other. Dorothea darts from the window; Will follows, seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; they stand with their hands clasped like two children looking out on the storm, while the thunder rolls above them and the rain begins to pour down. Then they turn their faces toward each other. “There is no hope for me,” says Will. “It is impossible for us ever to belong to each other.” “Don’t be sorry,” says Dorothea. “I would rather share all the trouble of our parting.” Their lips tremble. It is never known which lips were first to move toward the other lips; but they kiss tremblingly and then move apart.

When the rain is quiet, Dorothea turns to look at Will. With passionate exclamation he starts up and says, “It is impossible!” He goes and leans on the back of the chair and seems to be battling with his own anger. “It is as fatal as a murder,” he bursts out, “it is more intolerable—to have our life maimed by petty accidents.” Dorothea says gently, “No—don’t say that—your life need not be maimed.” He answers angrily, “We can never be married.” “Some time—we might,” says Dorothea in a trembling voice. “When?” says Will, bitterly.

Dorothea’s heart is full of something she wants to say, and yet the words are too difficult. Will is looking out of the window angrily. At last he turns, stretching his hand automatically toward his hat, and says, “Good-by.” “Oh, I cannot bear it—my heart will break,” says Dorothea, starting from her seat, the flood of her young passion bearing down all the obstructions which had kept her silent—the great tears rising and falling in an instant. “I don’t mind about poverty—I hate my wealth.”