Mr. Casaubon was silent.
"I feared that you might feel some objection. But certainly

a young man with so much talent might be very useful to my uncle--
might help him to do good in a better way. And Mr. Ladislaw wishes

to have some fixed occupation. He has been blamed, he says,
for not seeking something of that kind, and he would like to stay

in this neighborhood because no one cares for him elsewhere."
Dorothea felt that this was a consideration to soften her husband.

However, he did not speak, and she presently recurred to Dr. Spanning
and the Archdeacon's breakfast. But there was no longer sunshine

on these subjects.
The next morning, without Dorothea's knowledge, Mr. Casaubon

despatched the following letter, beginning "Dear Mr. Ladislaw"
(he had always before addressed him as "Will"):--

"Mrs. Casaubon informs me that a proposal has been made to you,
and (according to an inference by no means stretched) has on your

part been in some degree entertained, which involves your residence
in this neighborhood in a capacity which I am justified in saying

touches my own position in such a way as renders it not only natural
and warrantable IN me when that effect is viewed under the

influence of legitimate feeling, but incumbent on me when the same
effect is considered in the light of my responsibilities, to state

at once that your acceptance of the proposal above indicated would
be highly offensive to me. That I have some claim to the exercise

of a veto here, would not, I believe, be denied by any reasonable
person cognizant of the relations between us: relations which,

though thrown into the past by your recent procedure, are not
thereby annulled in their character of determining antecedents.

I will not here make reflections on any person's judgment.
It is enough for me to point out to yourself that there are certain

social fitnesses and proprieties which should hinder a somewhat
near relative of mine from becoming any wise conspicuous in this

vicinity in a status not only much beneath my own, but associated
at best with the sciolism of literary or political adventurers.

At any rate, the contrary issue must exclude you from further
reception at my house.

Yours faithfully,
"EDWARD CASAUBON."

Meanwhile Dorothea's mind was innocently at work towards the further
embitterment of her husband; dwelling, with a sympathy that grew to

agitation, on what Will had told her about his parents and grandparents.
Any private hours in her day were usually spent in her blue-green

boudoir, and she had come to be very fond of its pallid quaintness.
Nothing had been outwardly altered there; but while the summer had

gradually advanced over the western fields beyond the avenue of elms,
the bare room had gathered within it those memories of an inward life

which fill the air as with a cloud of good or had angels, the invisible
yet active forms of our spiritual triumphs or our spiritual falls.

She had been so used to struggle for and to find resolve in looking
along the avenue towards the arch of western light that the vision

itself had gained a communicating power. Even the pale stag seemed
to have reminding glances and to mean mutely, "Yes, we know."

And the group of delicately" target="_blank" title="ad.精美地；微妙地">delicately touched miniatures had made an audience
as of beings no longer disturbed about their own earthly lot,

but still humanly interested. Especially the mysterious "Aunt Julia"
about whom Dorothea had never found it easy to question her husband.

And now, since her conversation with Will, many fresh images
had gathered round that Aunt Julia who was Will's grandmother;

the presence of that delicateminiature, so like a living face
that she knew, helping to concentrate her feelings. What a wrong,

to cut off the girl from the family protection and inheritance only
because she had chosen a man who was poor! Dorothea, early troubling

her elders with questions about the facts around her, had wrought
herself into some independent clearness as to the historical,

political reasons why eldest sons had superior rights, and why land
should be entailed: those reasons, impressing her with a certain awe,

might be weightier than she knew, but here was a question of ties
which left them uninfringed. Here was a daughter whose child--

even according to the ordinary aping of aristocratic institutions
by people who are no more aristocratic than retired grocers,

and who have no more land to "keep together" than a lawn and a paddock--
would have a prior claim. Was inheritance a question of liking

or of responsibility? All the energy of Dorothea's nature went on
the side of responsibility--the fulfilment of claims founded on our

own deeds, such as marriage and parentage.
It was true, she said to herself, that Mr. Casaubon had a debt

to the Ladislaws--that he had to pay back what the Ladislaws had
been wronged of. And now she began to think of her husband's will,

which had been made at the time of their marriage, leaving the bulk
of his property to her, with proviso in case of her having children.

That ought to be altered; and no time ought to be lost. This very
question which had just arisen about Will Ladislaw's occupation,

was the occasion for placing things on a new, right footing.
Her husband, she felt sure, according to all his previous conduct,

would be ready to take the just view, if she proposed it--she, in whose
interest an unfairconcentration of the property had been urged.

His sense of right had surmounted and would continue to surmount
anything that might be called antipathy. She suspected that her

uncle's scheme was disapproved by Mr. Casaubon, and this made it seem
all the more opportune that a fresh understanding should be begun,

so that instead of Will's starting penniless and accepting the first
function that offered itself, he should find himself in possession

of a rightfulincome which should be paid by her husband during
his life, and, by an immediate alteration of the will, should

be secured at his death. The vision of all this as what ought
to be done seemed to Dorothea like a sudden letting in of daylight,

waking her from her previous stupidity and incurious self-absorbed
ignorance about her husband's relation to others. Will Ladislaw

had refused Mr. Casaubon's future aid on a ground that no longer
appeared right to her; and Mr. Casaubon had never himself seen

fully what was the claim upon him. "But he will!" said Dorothea.
"The great strength of his character lies here. And what are we

doing with our money? We make no use of half of our income. My own
money buys me nothing but an uneasy conscience."

There was a peculiarfascination for Dorothea in this division of
property intended for herself, and always regarded by her as excessive.

She was blind, you see, to many things obvious to others--
likely to tread in the wrong places, as Celia had warned her;

yet her blindness to whatever did not lie in her own pure purpose
carried her safely by the side of precipices where vision would

have been perilous with fear.
The thoughts which had gathered vividness in the solitude of her

boudoir occupied her incessantly through the day on which Mr. Casaubon
had sent his letter to Will. Everything seemed hindrance to her till

she could find an opportunity of opening her heart to her husband.
To his preoccupied mind all subjects were to be approached gently,

and she had never since his illness lost from her consciousness
the dread of agitating him. Bat when young ardor is set brooding

over the conception of a prompt deed, the deed itself seems
to start forth with independent life, mastering ideal obstacles.

The day passed in a sombre fashion, not unusual, though Mr. Casaubon
was perhaps unusually silent; but there were hours of the night which

might be counted on as opportunities of conversation; for Dorothea,
when aware of her husband's sleeplessness, had established a habit

of rising, lighting a candle, and reading him to sleep again. And this
night she was from the beginningsleepless, excited by resolves.

He slept as usual for a few hours, but she had risen softly and had
sat in the darkness for nearly an hour before he said--

"Dorothea, since you are up, will you light a candle?"
"Do you feel ill, dear?" was her first question, as she obeyed him.

"No, not at all; but I shall be obliged, since you are up, if you
will read me a few pages of Lowth."

"May I talk to you a little instead?" said Dorothea.
"Certainly."

"I have been thinking about money all day--that I have always
had too much, and especially the prospect of too much."

"These, my dear Dorothea, are providential arrangements."
"But if one has too much in consequence of others being wronged,

it seems to me that the divine voice which tells us to set that wrong
right must be obeyed."