those germinal ideas of making his mind tell upon the world at
large which had been present in him from his younger years, but had

hitherto lain in some obstruction, had been sprouting under cover.
The development was much furthered by a delight in his guest which

proved greater even than he had anticipated. For it seemed that Will
was not only at home in all those artistic and literary subjects

which Mr. Brooke had gone into at one time, but that he was strikingly
ready at seizing the points of the political situation, and dealing

with them in that large spirit which, aided by adequate memory,
lends itself to quotation and general effectiveness of treatment.

"He seems to me a kind of Shelley, you know," Mr. Brooke took
an opportunity of saying, for the gratification of Mr. Casaubon.

"I don't mean as to anything objectionable--laxities or atheism,
or anything of that kind, you know--Ladislaw's sentiments in every

way I am sure are good--indeed, we were talking a great deal
together last night. But he has the same sort of enthusiasm

for liberty, freedom, emancipation--a fine thing under guidance--
under guidance, you know. I think I shall be able to put him on

the right tack; and I am the more pleased because he is a relation
of yours, Casaubon."

If the right tack implied anything more precise than the rest
of Mr. Brooke's speech, Mr. Casaubon silently hoped that it

referred to some occupation at a great distance from Lowick.
He had disliked Will while he helped him, but he had begun to dislike

him still more now that Will had declined his help. That is the
way with us when we have any uneasyjealousy in our disposition:

if our talents are chiefly of the burrowing kind, our honey-sipping
cousin (whom we have grave reasons for objecting to) is likely

to have a secret contempt for us, and any one who admires him
passes an obliquecriticism on ourselves. Having the scruples of

rectitude in our souls, we are above the meanness of injuring him--
rather we meet all his claims on us by active benefits; and the drawing

of cheeks for him, being a superiority which he must recognize,
gives our bitterness a milder infusion. Now Mr. Casaubon had been

deprived of that superiority (as anything more than a remembrance)
in a sudden, capricious manner. His antipathy to Will did

not spring from the common jealousy of a winter-worn husband:
it was something deeper, bred by his lifelong claims and discontents;

but Dorothea, now that she was present--Dorothea, as a young
wife who herself had shown an offensive capability of criticism,

necessarily gave concentration to the uneasiness which had before
been vague.

Will Ladislaw on his side felt that his dislike was flourishing
at the expense of his gratitude, and spent much inwarddiscourse in

justifying the dislike. Casaubon hated him--he knew that very well;
on his first entrance he could discern a bitterness in the mouth

and a venom in the glance which would almost justify declaring war
in spite of past benefits. He was much obliged to Casaubon in the past,

but really the act of marrying this wife was a set-off against
the obligation It was a question whether gratitude which refers

to what is done for one's self ought not to give way to indignation
at what is done against another. And Casaubon had done a wrong

to Dorothea in marrying her. A man was bound to know himself better
than that, and if he chose to grow gray crunching bones in a cavern,

he had no business to be luring a girl into his companionship.
"It is the most horrible of virgin-sacrifices," said Will; and he

painted to himself what were Dorothea's inward sorrows as if he had
been writing a choric wail. But he would never lose sight of her:

he would watch over her--if he gave up everything else in life
he would watch over her, and she should know that she had one

slave in the world, Will had--to use Sir Thomas Browne's phrase--
a "passionate prodigality" of statement both to himself and others.

The simple truth was that nothing then invited him so strongly as the
presence of Dorothea.

Invitations of the formal kind had been wanting, however, for Will
had never been asked to go to Lowick. Mr. Brooke, indeed, confident of

doing everything agreeable which Casaubon, poor fellow, was too much
absorbed to think of, had arranged to bring Ladislaw to Lowick

several times (not neglecting meanwhile to introduce him elsewhere
on every opportunity as "a young relative of Casaubon's"). And

though Will had not seen Dorothea alone, their interviews had been
enough to restore her former sense of young companionship with one

who was cleverer than herself, yet seemed ready to be swayed by her.
Poor Dorothea before her marriage had never found much room

in other minds for what she cared most to say; and she had not,
as we know, enjoyed her husband's superior instruction so much

as she had expected. If she spoke with any keenness of interest
to Mr. Casaubon, he heard her with an air of patience as if she

had given a quotation from the Delectus familiar to him from his
tender years, and sometimes mentioned curtly what ancient sects

or personages had held similar ideas, as if there were too much
of that sort in stock already; at other times he would inform

her that she was mistaken, and reassert what her remark had questioned.
But Will Ladislaw always seemed to see more in what she said than she

herself saw. Dorothea had little vanity, but she had the ardent
woman's need to rule beneficently by making the joy of another soul.

Hence the mere chance of seeing Will occasionally was like a lunette
opened in the wall of her prison, giving her a glimpse of the sunny air;

and this pleasure began to nullify her original alarm at what her husband
might think about the introduction of Will as her uncle's guest.

On this subject Mr. Casaubon had remained dumb.
But Will wanted to talk with Dorothea alone, and was impatient

of slow circumstance. However slight the terrestrial intercourse
between Dante and Beatrice or Petrarch and Laura, time changes

the proportion of things, and in later days it is preferable to have
fewer sonnets and more conversation. Necessity excused stratagem,

but stratagem was limited by the dread of offending Dorothea.
He found out at last that he wanted to take a particular sketch

at Lowick; and one morning when Mr. Brooke had to drive along
the Lowick road on his way to the county town, Will asked to be set

down with his sketch-book and camp-stool at Lowick, and without
announcing himself at the Manor settled himself to sketch in a

position where he must see Dorothea if she came out to walk--
and he knew that she usually walked an hour in the morning.

But the stratagem was defeated by the weather. Clouds gathered with
treacherous quickness, the rain came down, and Will was obliged to take

shelter in the house. He intended, on the strength of relationship,
to go into the drawing-room and wait there without being announced;

and seeing his old acquaintance the butler in the hall, he said,
"Don't mention that I am here, Pratt; I will wait till luncheon;

I know Mr. Casaubon does not like to be disturbed when he is in
the library."

"Master is out, sir; there's only Mrs. Casaubon in the library.
I'd better tell her you're here, sir," said Pratt, a red-cheeked

man given to livelyconverse with Tantripp, and often agreeing with
her that it must be dull for Madam.

"Oh, very well; this confounded rain has hindered me from sketching,"
said Will, feeling so happy that he affectedindifference with

delightful ease.
In another minute he was in the library, and Dorothea was meeting

him with her sweet unconstrained smile.
"Mr. Casaubon has gone to the Archdeacon's," she said, at once.

"I don't know whether he will be at home again long before dinner.
He was uncertain how long he should be. Did you want to say anything

particular to him?"
"No; I came to sketch, but the rain drove me in. Else I would

not have disturbed you yet. I supposed that Mr. Casaubon was here,
and I know he dislikes interruption at this hour."

"I am indebted to the rain, then. I am so glad to see you."
Dorothea uttered these common words with the simple sincerity of an