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.




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