It must be admitted to be a ghostly kind of wooing.
But Dorothea's mind was rapidly going over the past with quite another vision than his.
The thought that she herself might be what Will most cared for did throb through her an instant, but then came doubt: the memory of the little they had lived through together turned pale and shrank before the memory which suggested how much fuller might have been the intercourse between Will and some one else with whom he had had constant companionship.
Everything he had said might refer to that other relation, and whatever had passed between him and herself was thoroughly explained by what she had always regarded as their simple friendship and the cruel obstruction thrust upon it by her husband's injurious act.
Dorothea stood silent, with her eyes cast down dreamily, while images crowded upon her which left the sickening certainty that Will was referring to Mrs. Lydgate.
But why sickening?
He wanted her to know that here too his conduct should be above suspicion.
Will was not surprised at her silence.
His mind also was tumultuously busy while he watched her, and he was feeling rather wildly that something must happen to hinder their parting—some miracle, clearly nothing in their own deliberate speech.
Yet, after all, had she any love for him?—he could not pretend to himself that he would rather believe her to be without that pain. He could not deny that a secret longing for the assurance that she loved him was at the root of all his words.
Neither of them knew how long they stood in that way.
Dorothea was raising her eyes, and was about to speak, when the door opened and her footman came to say—
"The horses are ready, madam, whenever you like to start."
"Presently," said Dorothea.
Then turning to Will, she said, "I have some memoranda to write for the housekeeper."
"I must go," said Will, when the door had closed again—advancing towards 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 without speaking, for her words had seemed to him cruelly cold and unlike herself.
Their eyes met, but there was discontent in his, and in hers there was only sadness.
He turned away and took his portfolio under his arm.
"I have never done you injustice.
Please remember me," said Dorothea, repressing a rising sob.
"Why should you say that?" said Will, with irritation.
"As if I were not in danger of forgetting everything else."
He had really a movement of anger against her at that moment, and it impelled him to go away without pause.
It was all one flash to Dorothea—his last words—his distant bow to her as he reached the door—the sense that he was no longer there.
She sank into the chair, and for a few moments sat like a statue, while images and emotions were hurrying upon her.
Joy came first, in spite of the threatening train behind it—joy in the impression that it was really herself whom Will loved and was renouncing, that there was really no other love less permissible, more blameworthy, which honor was hurrying him away from.
They were parted all the same, but—Dorothea drew a deep breath and felt her strength return—she could think of him unrestrainedly.
At that moment the parting was easy to bear: the first sense of loving and being loved excluded sorrow.
It was as if some hard icy pressure had melted, and her consciousness had room to expand: her past was come back to her with larger interpretation.
The joy was not the less—perhaps it was the more complete just then—because of the irrevocable parting; for there was no reproach, no contemptuous wonder to imagine in any eye or from any lips.
He had acted so as to defy reproach, and make wonder respectful.
Any one watching her might have seen that there was a fortifying thought within her.
Just as when inventive power is working with glad ease some small claim on the attention is fully met as if it were only a cranny opened to the sunlight, it was easy now for Dorothea to write her memoranda.
She spoke her last words to the housekeeper in cheerful tones, and when she seated herself in the carriage her eyes were bright and her cheeks blooming under the dismal bonnet.
She threw back the heavy "weepers," and looked before her, wondering which road Will had taken.
It was in her nature to be proud that he was blameless, and through 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 his desk, and wanting to get to the end of all journeys; and Dorothea was now bowled along quickly.
Driving was pleasant, for rain in the night had laid the dust, and the blue sky looked far off, away from the region of the great clouds that sailed in masses.
The earth looked like a happy place under the vast heavens, and Dorothea was wishing that she might overtake Will and see him once more.
After a turn of the road, there he was with the portfolio under his arm; 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, leaving him behind.
She could not look back at him.
It was as if a crowd of indifferent objects had thrust them asunder, and forced them along different paths, taking them farther and farther away from each other, and making it useless to look back.
She could no more make any sign that would seem to say,
"Need we part?" than she could stop the carriage to wait for him.
Nay, what a world of reasons crowded upon her against any movement of her thought towards a future that might reverse the decision of this day!
"I only wish I had known before—I wish he knew—then we could be quite happy in thinking of each other, though we are forever parted.
And if I could but have given him the money, and made things easier for him!"—were the longings that came back the most persistently.