In the week-days when she went to see the ladies at the Rectory, she

listened in vain for some word that they might let fall about Will; but

it seemed to her that Mrs. Farebrother talked of every one else in the

neighborhood and out of it.

"Probably some of Mr. Farebrother's Middlemarch hearers may follow him

to Lowick sometimes. Do you not think so?" said Dorothea, rather

despising herself for having a secret motive in asking the question.

"If they are wise they will, Mrs. Casaubon," said the old lady. "I see

that you set a right value on my son's preaching. His grandfather on

my side was an excellent clergyman, but his father was in the law:--most

exemplary and honest nevertheless, which is a reason for our never

being rich. They say Fortune is a woman and capricious. But sometimes

she is a good woman and gives to those who merit, which has been the

case with you, Mrs. Casaubon, who have given a living to my son."

Mrs. Farebrother recurred to her knitting with a dignified satisfaction

in her neat little effort at oratory, but this was not what Dorothea

wanted to hear. Poor thing! she did not even know whether Will

Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and there was no one whom she dared

to ask, unless it were Lydgate. But just now she could not see Lydgate

without sending for him or going to seek him. Perhaps Will Ladislaw,

having heard of that strange ban against him left by Mr. Casaubon, had

felt it better that he and she should not meet again, and perhaps she

was wrong to wish for a meeting that others might find many good

reasons against. Still "I do wish it" came at the end of those wise

reflections as naturally as a sob after holding the breath. And the

meeting did happen, but in a formal way quite unexpected by her.

One morning, about eleven, Dorothea was seated in her boudoir with a

map of the land attached to the manor and other papers before her,

which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself of her

income and affairs. She had not yet applied herself to her work, but

was seated with her hands folded on her lap, looking out along the

avenue of limes to the distant fields. Every leaf was at rest in the

sunshine, the familiar scene was changeless, and seemed to represent

the prospect of her life, full of motiveless ease--motiveless, if her

own energy could not seek out reasons for ardent action. The widow's

cap of those times made an oval frame for the face, and had a crown

standing up; the dress was an experiment in the utmost laying on of

crape; but this heavy solemnity of clothing made her face look all the

younger, with its recovered bloom, and the sweet, inquiring candor of

her eyes.




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