I may not have another opportunity of speaking to you about what has occurred," said Will, rising with a movement of impatience, and holding the back of his chair with both hands.
"Pray tell me what it is," said Dorothea, anxiously, also rising and going to the open window, where Monk was looking in, panting and wagging his tail.
She leaned her back against the window-frame, and laid her hand on the dog's head; for though, as we know, she was not fond of pets that must be held in the hands or trodden on, she was always attentive to the feelings of dogs, and very polite if she had to decline their advances.
Will followed her only with his eyes and said,
"I presume you know that Mr. Casaubon has forbidden me to go to his house."
"No, I did not," said Dorothea, after a moment's pause. She was evidently much moved.
"I am very, very sorry," she added, mournfully. She was thinking of what Will had no knowledge of—the conversation between her and her husband in the darkness; and she was anew smitten with hopelessness that she could influence Mr. Casaubon's action.
But the marked expression of her sorrow convinced Will that it was not all given to him personally, and that Dorothea had not been visited by the idea that Mr. Casaubon's dislike and jealousy of him turned upon herself.
He felt an odd mixture of delight and vexation: of delight that he could dwell and be cherished in her thought as in a pure home, without suspicion and without stint—of vexation because he was of too little account with her, was not formidable enough, was treated with an unhesitating benevolence which did not flatter him.
But his dread of any change in Dorothea was stronger than his discontent, and he began to speak again in a tone of mere explanation.
"Mr. Casaubon's reason is, his displeasure at my taking a position here which he considers unsuited to my rank as his cousin.
I have told him that I cannot give way on this point.
It is a little too hard on me to expect that my course in life is to be hampered by prejudices which I think ridiculous.
Obligation may be stretched till it is no better than a brand of slavery stamped on us when we were too young to know its meaning.
I would not have accepted the position if I had not meant to make it useful and honorable.
I am not bound to regard family dignity in any other light."
Dorothea felt wretched.
She thought her husband altogether in the wrong, on more grounds than Will had mentioned.
"It is better for us not to speak on the subject," she said, with a tremulousness not common in her voice, "since you and Mr. Casaubon disagree.
You intend to remain?" She was looking out on the lawn, with melancholy meditation.
"Yes; but I shall hardly ever see you now," said Will, in a tone of almost boyish complaint.
"No," said Dorothea, turning her eyes full upon him, "hardly ever.
But I shall hear of you.
I shall know what you are doing for my uncle."
"I shall know hardly anything about you," said Will.
"No one will tell me anything."
"Oh, my life is very simple," said Dorothea, her lips curling with an exquisite smile, which irradiated her melancholy.
"I am always at Lowick."
"That is a dreadful imprisonment," said Will, impetuously.
"No, don't think that," said Dorothea.
"I have no longings."
He did not speak, but she replied to some change in his expression.
"I mean, for myself.
Except that I should like not to have so much more than my share without doing anything for others.
But I have a belief of my own, and it comforts me."
"What is that?" said Will, rather jealous of the belief.
"That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don't quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against evil—widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower."
"That is a beautiful mysticism—it is a—"
"Please not to call it by any name," said Dorothea, putting out her hands entreatingly.
"You will say it is Persian, or something else geographical.
It is my life.
I have found it out, and cannot part with it.
I have always been finding out my religion since I was a little girl.
I used to pray so much—now I hardly ever pray.
I try not to have desires merely for myself, because they may not be good for others, and I have too much already.
I only told you, that you might know quite well how my days go at Lowick."
"God bless you for telling me!" said Will, ardently, and rather wondering at himself.
They were looking at each other like two fond children who were talking confidentially of birds.
"What is your religion?" said Dorothea.
"I mean—not what you know about religion, but the belief that helps you most?"