prompt:
Chapter: Pues no podemos haber aquello que queremos, queramos
    aquello que podremos.

    Since we cannot get what we like, let us like
    what we can get.
                                     --Spanish Proverb.

While Lydgate, safely married and with the Hospital under his command,
felt himself struggling for Medical Reform against Middlemarch,
Middlemarch was becoming more and more conscious of the national
struggle for another kind of Reform.

By the time that Lord John Russell's measure was being debated in the
House of Commons, there was a new political animation in Middlemarch,
and a new definition of parties which might show a decided change of
balance if a new election came.  And there were some who already
predicted this event, declaring that a Reform Bill would never be
carried by the actual Parliament.  This was what Will Ladislaw dwelt on
to Mr. Brooke as a reason for congratulation that he had not yet tried
his strength at the hustings.

"Things will grow and ripen as if it were a comet year," said Will.
"The public temper will soon get to a cometary heat, now the question
of Reform has set in.  There is likely to be another election before
long, and by that time Middlemarch will have got more ideas into its
head.  What we have to work at now is the 'Pioneer' and political
meetings."

"Quite right, Ladislaw; we shall make a new thing of opinion here,"
said Mr. Brooke.  "Only I want to keep myself independent about Reform,
you know; I don't want to go too far.  I want to take up
Wilberforce's and Romilly's line, you know, and work at Negro
Emancipation, Criminal Law--that kind of thing.  But of course I should
support Grey."

"If you go in for the principle of Reform, you must be prepared to take
what the situation offers," said Will.  "If everybody pulled for his
own bit against everybody else, the whole question would go to tatters."

"Yes, yes, I agree with you--I quite take that point of view.  I should
put it in that light.  I should support Grey, you know.  But I don't
want to change the balance of the constitution, and I don't think Grey
would."

"But that is what the country wants," said Will.  "Else there would be
no meaning in political unions or any other movement that knows what
it's about.  It wants to have a House of Commons which is not weighted
with nominees of the landed class, but with representatives of the
other interests.  And as to contending for a reform short of that, it
is like asking for a bit of an avalanche which has already begun to
thunder."

"That is fine, Ladislaw: that is the way to put it.  Write that down,
now.  We must begin to get documents about the feeling of the country,
as well as the machine-breaking and general distress."

"As to documents," said Will, "a two-inch card will hold plenty.  A few
rows of figures are enough to deduce misery from, and a few more will
show the rate at which the political determination of the people is
growing."

"Good: draw that out a little more at length, Ladislaw.  That is an
idea, now: write it out in the 'Pioneer.' Put the figures and deduce
the misery, you know; and put the other figures and deduce--and so on.
You have a way of putting things.  Burke, now:--when I think of Burke,
I can't help wishing somebody had a pocket-borough to give you,
Ladislaw.  You'd never get elected, you know.  And we shall always want
talent in the House: reform as we will, we shall always want talent.
That avalanche and the thunder, now, was really a little like Burke.  I
want that sort of thing--not ideas, you know, but a way of putting
them."

"Pocket-boroughs would be a fine thing," said Ladislaw, "if they were
always in the right pocket, and there were always a Burke at hand."

Will was not displeased with that complimentary comparison, even from
Mr. Brooke; for it is a little too trying to human flesh to be
conscious of expressing one's self better than others and never to have
it noticed, and in the general dearth of admiration for the right
thing, even a chance bray of applause falling exactly in time is rather
fortifying.  Will felt that his literary refinements were usually
beyond the limits of Middlemarch perception; nevertheless, he was
beginning thoroughly to like the work of which when he began he had
said to himself rather languidly, "Why not?"--and he studied the
political situation with as ardent an interest as he had ever given to
poetic metres or mediaevalism.  It is undeniable that but for the
desire to be where Dorothea was, and perhaps the want of knowing what
else to do, Will would not at this time have been meditating on the
needs of the English people or criticising English statesmanship: he
would probably have been rambling in Italy sketching plans for several
dramas, trying prose and finding it too jejune, trying verse and
finding it too artificial, beginning to copy "bits" from old pictures,
leaving off because they were "no good," and observing that, after all,
self-culture was the principal point; while in politics he would have
been sympathizing warmly with liberty and progress in general.  Our
sense of duty must often wait for some work which shall take the place
of dilettanteism and make us feel that the quality of our action is not
a matter of indifference.

Ladislaw had now accepted his bit of work, though it was not that
indeterminate loftiest thing which he had once dreamed of as alone
worthy of continuous effort.  His nature warmed easily in the presence
of subjects which were visibly mixed with life and action, and the
easily stirred rebellion in him helped the glow of public spirit.  In
spite of Mr. Casaubon and the banishment from Lowick, he was rather
happy; getting a great deal of fresh knowledge in a vivid way and for
practical purposes, and making the "Pioneer" celebrated as far as
Brassing (never mind the smallness of the area; the writing was not
worse than much that reaches the four corners of the earth).

Mr. Brooke was occasionally irritating; but Will's impatience was
relieved by the division of his time between visits to the Grange and
retreats to his Middlemarch lodgings, which gave variety to his life.

"Shift the pegs a little," he said to himself, "and Mr. Brooke might be
in the Cabinet, while I was Under-Secretary. That is the common order
of things: the little waves make the large ones and are of the same
pattern.  I am better here than in the sort of life Mr. Casaubon would
have trained me for, where the doing would be all laid down by a
precedent too rigid for me to react upon.  I don't care for prestige or
high pay."

As Lydgate had said of him, he was a sort of gypsy, rather enjoying the
sense of belonging to no class; he had a feeling of romance in his
position, and a pleasant consciousness of creating a little surprise
wherever he went.  That sort of enjoyment had been disturbed when he
had felt some new distance between himself and Dorothea in their
accidental meeting at Lydgate's, and his irritation had gone out
towards Mr. Casaubon, who had declared beforehand that Will would lose
caste.  "I never had any caste," he would have said, if that prophecy
had been uttered to him, and the quick blood would have come and gone
like breath in his transparent skin.  But it is one thing to like
defiance, and another thing to like its consequences.

Meanwhile, the town opinion about the new editor of the "Pioneer" was
tending to confirm Mr. Casaubon's view.  Will's relationship in that
distinguished quarter did not, like Lydgate's high connections, serve
as an advantageous introduction: if it was rumored that young Ladislaw
was Mr. Casaubon's nephew or cousin, it was also rumored that "Mr.
Casaubon would have nothing to do with him."

"Brooke has taken him up," said Mr. Hawley, "because that is what no
man in his senses could have expected.  Casaubon has devilish good
reasons, you may be sure, for turning the cold shoulder on a young
fellow whose bringing-up he paid for.  Just like Brooke--one of those
fellows who would praise a cat to sell a horse."

And some oddities of Will's, more or less poetical, appeared to support
Mr. Keck, the editor of the "Trumpet," in asserting that Ladislaw, if
the truth were known, was not only a Polish emissary but crack-brained,
which accounted for the preternatural quickness and glibness of his
speech when he got on to a platform--as he did whenever he had an
opportunity, speaking with a facility which cast reflections on solid
Englishmen generally.  It was disgusting to Keck to see a strip of a
fellow, with light curls round his head, get up and speechify by the
hour against institutions "which had existed when he was in his
cradle."  And in a leading article of the "Trumpet," Keck characterized
Ladislaw's speech at a Reform meeting as "the violence of an
energumen--a miserable effort to shroud in the brilliancy of fireworks
the daring of irresponsible statements and the poverty of a knowledge
which was of the cheapest and most recent description."

"That was a rattling article yesterday, Keck," said Dr. Sprague, with
sarcastic intentions.  "But what is an energumen?"

"Oh, a term that came up in the French Revolution," said Keck.

This dangerous aspect of Ladislaw was strangely contrasted with other
habits which became matter of remark.  He had a fondness, half
artistic, half affectionate, for little children--the smaller they were
on tolerably active legs, and the funnier their clothing, the better
Will liked to surprise and please them.  We know that in Rome he was
given to ramble about among the poor people, and the taste did not quit
him in Middlemarch.

He had somehow picked up a troop of droll children, little hatless boys
with their galligaskins much worn and scant shirting to hang out,
little girls who tossed their hair out of their eyes to look at him,
and guardian brothers at the mature age of seven.  This troop he had
led out on gypsy excursions to Halsell Wood at nutting-time, and since
the cold weather had set in he had taken them on a clear day to gather
sticks for a bonfire in the hollow of a hillside, where he drew out a
small feast of gingerbread for them, and improvised a Punch-and-Judy
drama with some private home-made puppets.  Here was one oddity.
Another was, that in houses where he got friendly, he was given to
stretch himself at full length on the rug while he talked, and was apt
to be discovered in this attitude by occasional callers for whom such
an irregularity was likely to confirm the notions of his dangerously
mixed blood and general laxity.

But Will's articles and speeches naturally recommended him in families
which the new strictness of party division had marked off on the side
of Reform.  He was invited to Mr. Bulstrode's; but here he could not
lie down on the rug, and Mrs. Bulstrode felt that his mode of talking
about Catholic countries, as if there were any truce with Antichrist,
illustrated the usual tendency to unsoundness in intellectual men.

At Mr. Farebrother's, however, whom the irony of events had brought on
the same side with Bulstrode in the national movement, Will became a
favorite with the ladies; especially with little Miss Noble, whom it
was one of his oddities to escort when he met her in the street with
her little basket, giving her his arm in the eyes of the town, and
insisting on going with her to pay some call where she distributed her
small filchings from her own share of sweet things.

But the house where he visited oftenest and lay most on the rug was
Lydgate's. The two men were not at all alike, but they agreed none the
worse.  Lydgate was abrupt but not irritable, taking little notice of
megrims in healthy people; and Ladislaw did not usually throw away his
susceptibilities on those who took no notice of them.  With Rosamond,
on the other hand, he pouted and was wayward--nay, often
uncomplimentary, much to her inward surprise; nevertheless he was
gradually becoming necessary to her entertainment by his companionship
in her music, his varied talk, and his freedom from the grave
preoccupation which, with all her husband's tenderness and indulgence,
often made his manners unsatisfactory to her, and confirmed her dislike
of the medical profession.

Lydgate, inclined to be sarcastic on the superstitious faith of the
people in the efficacy of "the bill," while nobody cared about the low
state of pathology, sometimes assailed Will with troublesome questions.
One evening in March, Rosamond in her cherry-colored dress with
swansdown trimming about the throat sat at the tea-table; Lydgate,
lately come in tired from his outdoor work, was seated sideways on an
easy-chair by the fire with one leg over the elbow, his brow looking a
little troubled as his eyes rambled over the columns of the "Pioneer,"
while Rosamond, having noticed that he was perturbed, avoided looking
at him, and inwardly thanked heaven that she herself had not a moody
disposition.  Will Ladislaw was stretched on the rug contemplating the
curtain-pole abstractedly, and humming very low the notes of "When
first I saw thy face;" while the house spaniel, also stretched out with
small choice of room, looked from between his paws at the usurper of
the rug with silent but strong objection.

Rosamond bringing Lydgate his cup of tea, he threw down the paper, and
said to Will, who had started up and gone to the table--

"It's no use your puffing Brooke as a reforming landlord, Ladislaw:
they only pick the more holes in his coat in the 'Trumpet.'"

"No matter; those who read the 'Pioneer' don't read the 'Trumpet,'"
said Will, swallowing his tea and walking about.  "Do you suppose the
public reads with a view to its own conversion?  We should have a
witches' brewing with a vengeance then--'Mingle, mingle, mingle,
mingle, You that mingle may'--and nobody would know which side he was
going to take."

"Farebrother says, he doesn't believe Brooke would get elected if the
opportunity came: the very men who profess to be for him would bring
another member out of the bag at the right moment."

"There's no harm in trying.  It's good to have resident members."

"Why?" said Lydgate, who was much given to use that inconvenient word
in a curt tone.

"They represent the local stupidity better," said Will, laughing, and
shaking his curls; "and they are kept on their best behavior in the
neighborhood.  Brooke is not a bad fellow, but he has done some good
things on his estate that he never would have done but for this
Parliamentary bite."

"He's not fitted to be a public man," said Lydgate, with contemptuous
decision.  "He would disappoint everybody who counted on him: I can see
that at the Hospital.  Only, there Bulstrode holds the reins and drives
him."

"That depends on how you fix your standard of public men," said Will.
"He's good enough for the occasion: when the people have made up their
mind as they are making it up now, they don't want a man--they only
want a vote."

"That is the way with you political writers, Ladislaw--crying up a
measure as if it were a universal cure, and crying up men who are a
part of the very disease that wants curing."

"Why not?  Men may help to cure themselves off the face of the land
without knowing it," said Will, who could find reasons impromptu, when
he had not thought of a question beforehand.

"That is no excuse for encouraging the superstitious exaggeration of
hopes about this particular measure, helping the cry to swallow it
whole and to send up voting popinjays who are good for nothing but to
carry it.  You go against rottenness, and there is nothing more
thoroughly rotten than making people believe that society can be cured
by a political hocus-pocus."

"That's very fine, my dear fellow.  But your cure must begin somewhere,
and put it that a thousand things which debase a population can never
be reformed without this particular reform to begin with.  Look what
Stanley said the other day--that the House had been tinkering long
enough at small questions of bribery, inquiring whether this or that
voter has had a guinea when everybody knows that the seats have been
sold wholesale.  Wait for wisdom and conscience in public
agents--fiddlestick!  The only conscience we can trust to is the
massive sense of wrong in a class, and the best wisdom that will work
is the wisdom of balancing claims.  That's my text--which side is
injured?  I support the man who supports their claims; not the virtuous
upholder of the wrong."

"That general talk about a particular case is mere question begging,
Ladislaw.  When I say, I go in for the dose that cures, it doesn't
follow that I go in for opium in a given case of gout."

"I am not begging the question we are upon--whether we are to try for
nothing till we find immaculate men to work with.  Should you go on
that plan?  If there were one man who would carry you a medical reform
and another who would oppose it, should you inquire which had the
better motives or even the better brains?"

"Oh, of course," said Lydgate, seeing himself checkmated by a move
which he had often used himself, "if one did not work with such men as
are at hand, things must come to a dead-lock. Suppose the worst opinion
in the town about Bulstrode were a true one, that would not make it
less true that he has the sense and the resolution to do what I think
ought to be done in the matters I know and care most about; but that is
the only ground on which I go with him," Lydgate added rather proudly,
bearing in mind Mr. Farebrother's remarks.  "He is nothing to me
otherwise; I would not cry him up on any personal ground--I would keep
clear of that."

"Do you mean that I cry up Brooke on any personal ground?" said Will
Ladislaw, nettled, and turning sharp round.  For the first time he felt
offended with Lydgate; not the less so, perhaps, because he would have
declined any close inquiry into the growth of his relation to Mr.
Brooke.

"Not at all," said Lydgate, "I was simply explaining my own action.  I
meant that a man may work for a special end with others whose motives
and general course are equivocal, if he is quite sure of his personal
independence, and that he is not working for his private
interest--either place or money."

"Then, why don't you extend your liberality to others?" said Will,
still nettled.  "My personal independence is as important to me as
yours is to you.  You have no more reason to imagine that I have
personal expectations from Brooke, than I have to imagine that you have
personal expectations from Bulstrode.  Motives are points of honor, I
suppose--nobody can prove them.  But as to money and place in the
world." Will ended, tossing back his head, "I think it is pretty clear
that I am not determined by considerations of that sort."

"You quite mistake me, Ladislaw," said Lydgate, surprised.  He had been
preoccupied with his own vindication, and had been blind to what
Ladislaw might infer on his own account.  "I beg your pardon for
unintentionally annoying you.  In fact, I should rather attribute to
you a romantic disregard of your own worldly interests.  On the
political question, I referred simply to intellectual bias."

"How very unpleasant you both are this evening!" said Rosamond.  "I
cannot conceive why money should have been referred to.  Polities and
Medicine are sufficiently disagreeable to quarrel upon.  You can both
of you go on quarrelling with all the world and with each other on
those two topics."

Rosamond looked mildly neutral as she said this, rising to ring the
bell, and then crossing to her work-table.

"Poor Rosy!" said Lydgate, putting out his hand to her as she was
passing him.  "Disputation is not amusing to cherubs.  Have some music.
Ask Ladislaw to sing with you."

When Will was gone Rosamond said to her husband, "What put you out of
temper this evening, Tertius?"

"Me?  It was Ladislaw who was out of temper.  He is like a bit of
tinder."

"But I mean, before that.  Something had vexed you before you came in,
you looked cross.  And that made you begin to dispute with Mr.
Ladislaw.  You hurt me very much when you look so, Tertius."

"Do I?  Then I am a brute," said Lydgate, caressing her penitently.

"What vexed you?"

"Oh, outdoor things--business."  It was really a letter insisting on
the payment of a bill for furniture.  But Rosamond was expecting to
have a baby, and Lydgate wished to save her from any perturbation.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Middlemarch folk had earlier treated Lydgates reforms, and local scandals as major controversies. Gradually, they become aware of massive political changes taking place at the national level. This is the epoch of the first Reform Bill of 1832 floated by Lord John Russell. This Bill was a reflection of a tremendous shift in power in Britain from the old landed gentry to the industrialists and traders. It had a revolutionary potential, and classes as well as political parties found themselves taking sides on the provisions of the Reform Bill. In Middlemarch, the Pioneer, the paper owned by Brooke is seen as pro-reform, while the Trumpet, its sworn enemy, defends the old order. Brooke himself of the gentry, vacillates on the question of Reform, and annoys Ladislaw. Yet Brooke has made it possible for him to stay in Middlemarch, close to Dorothea, and to immerse himself in interesting work, which he has never done before. Will is considered a brilliant writer and an effective speaker by the townspeople, but he is also looked upon suspiciously, as he is a stranger. Also, he is thought of as eccentric. Lydgate calls him "a gypsy." Being contemptuous of class distinctions Will has formed a small band of poor children, whom he often takes out on picnics. He is also very friendly with Lydgate and Rosamond, Mr. Farebrother and his family, and visits Bulstrode. Thus he has made a life for himself though it does not include meeting Dorothea. One day, Lydgate and Will get into a heated argument about the fitness of Brooke to represent Middlemarch as a political representative. Lydgate feels that he would disappoint his constituency and is not reliable. Will is more cynical feels the vote for reform is essential, regardless of the ethical fitness of the politicians who fight for it. He is resentful about Lydgate, feeling the doctor is accusing him of selfish personal motives. The argument ends when Lydgate realizes that he could be said to side with Bulstrode for selfish reasons whereas he only regards him as a means of continuing his pioneering work. One reason for Lydgates anger has been the arrival of an outstanding bill for furniture. He is disturbed about their expenses but doesnt wish to disturb Rosamond, as she is pregnant.


prompt:
Chapter: Was never true love loved in vain,
    For truest love is highest gain.
    No art can make it: it must spring
    Where elements are fostering.
        So in heaven's spot and hour
        Springs the little native flower,
        Downward root and upward eye,
        Shapen by the earth and sky.

It happened to be on a Saturday evening that Will Ladislaw had that
little discussion with Lydgate.  Its effect when he went to his own
rooms was to make him sit up half the night, thinking over again, under
a new irritation, all that he had before thought of his having settled
in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Brooke.  Hesitations
before he had taken the step had since turned into susceptibility to
every hint that he would have been wiser not to take it; and hence came
his heat towards Lydgate--a heat which still kept him restless.  Was he
not making a fool of himself?--and at a time when he was more than
ever conscious of being something better than a fool?  And for what end?

Well, for no definite end.  True, he had dreamy visions of
possibilities: there is no human being who having both passions and
thoughts does not think in consequence of his passions--does not find
images rising in his mind which soothe the passion with hope or sting
it with dread.  But this, which happens to us all, happens to some with
a wide difference; and Will was not one of those whose wit "keeps the
roadway:" he had his bypaths where there were little joys of his own
choosing, such as gentlemen cantering on the highroad might have
thought rather idiotic.  The way in which he made a sort of happiness
for himself out of his feeling for Dorothea was an example of this.  It
may seem strange, but it is the fact, that the ordinary vulgar vision
of which Mr. Casaubon suspected him--namely, that Dorothea might become
a widow, and that the interest he had established in her mind might
turn into acceptance of him as a husband--had no tempting, arresting
power over him; he did not live in the scenery of such an event, and
follow it out, as we all do with that imagined "otherwise" which is our
practical heaven.  It was not only that he was unwilling to entertain
thoughts which could be accused of baseness, and was already uneasy in
the sense that he had to justify himself from the charge of
ingratitude--the latent consciousness of many other barriers between
himself and Dorothea besides the existence of her husband, had helped
to turn away his imagination from speculating on what might befall Mr.
Casaubon.  And there were yet other reasons.  Will, we know, could not
bear the thought of any flaw appearing in his crystal: he was at once
exasperated and delighted by the calm freedom with which Dorothea
looked at him and spoke to him, and there was something so exquisite in
thinking of her just as she was, that he could not long for a change
which must somehow change her.  Do we not shun the street version of a
fine melody?--or shrink from the news that the rarity--some bit of
chiselling or engraving perhaps--which we have dwelt on even with
exultation in the trouble it has cost us to snatch glimpses of it, is
really not an uncommon thing, and may be obtained as an every-day
possession?  Our good depends on the quality and breadth of our
emotion; and to Will, a creature who cared little for what are called
the solid things of life and greatly for its subtler influences, to
have within him such a feeling as he had towards Dorothea, was like the
inheritance of a fortune.  What others might have called the futility
of his passion, made an additional delight for his imagination: he was
conscious of a generous movement, and of verifying in his own
experience that higher love-poetry which had charmed his fancy.
Dorothea, he said to himself, was forever enthroned in his soul: no
other woman could sit higher than her footstool; and if he could have
written out in immortal syllables the effect she wrought within him, he
might have boasted after the example of old Drayton, that,--

        "Queens hereafter might be glad to live
         Upon the alms of her superfluous praise."

But this result was questionable.  And what else could he do for
Dorothea?  What was his devotion worth to her?  It was impossible to
tell.  He would not go out of her reach.  He saw no creature among her
friends to whom he could believe that she spoke with the same simple
confidence as to him.  She had once said that she would like him to
stay; and stay he would, whatever fire-breathing dragons might hiss
around her.

This had always been the conclusion of Will's hesitations.  But he was
not without contradictoriness and rebellion even towards his own
resolve.  He had often got irritated, as he was on this particular
night, by some outside demonstration that his public exertions with Mr.
Brooke as a chief could not seem as heroic as he would like them to be,
and this was always associated with the other ground of
irritation--that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for
Dorothea's sake, he could hardly ever see her.  Whereupon, not being
able to contradict these unpleasant facts, he contradicted his own
strongest bias and said, "I am a fool."

Nevertheless, since the inward debate necessarily turned on Dorothea,
he ended, as he had done before, only by getting a livelier sense of
what her presence would be to him; and suddenly reflecting that the
morrow would be Sunday, he determined to go to Lowick Church and see
her.  He slept upon that idea, but when he was dressing in the rational
morning light, Objection said--

"That will be a virtual defiance of Mr. Casaubon's prohibition to visit
Lowick, and Dorothea will be displeased."

"Nonsense!" argued Inclination, "it would be too monstrous for him to
hinder me from going out to a pretty country church on a spring
morning.  And Dorothea will be glad."

"It will be clear to Mr. Casaubon that you have come either to annoy
him or to see Dorothea."

"It is not true that I go to annoy him, and why should I not go to see
Dorothea?  Is he to have everything to himself and be always
comfortable?  Let him smart a little, as other people are obliged to
do.  I have always liked the quaintness of the church and congregation;
besides, I know the Tuckers: I shall go into their pew."

Having silenced Objection by force of unreason, Will walked to Lowick
as if he had been on the way to Paradise, crossing Halsell Common and
skirting the wood, where the sunlight fell broadly under the budding
boughs, bringing out the beauties of moss and lichen, and fresh green
growths piercing the brown.  Everything seemed to know that it was
Sunday, and to approve of his going to Lowick Church.  Will easily felt
happy when nothing crossed his humor, and by this time the thought of
vexing Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to him, making his face
break into its merry smile, pleasant to see as the breaking of sunshine
on the water--though the occasion was not exemplary.  But most of us
are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is
odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his
personality excites in ourselves.  Will went along with a small book
under his arm and a hand in each side-pocket, never reading, but
chanting a little, as he made scenes of what would happen in church and
coming out.  He was experimenting in tunes to suit some words of his
own, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes improvising.  The
words were not exactly a hymn, but they certainly fitted his Sunday
experience:--

        "O me, O me, what frugal cheer
           My love doth feed upon!
         A touch, a ray, that is not here,
           A shadow that is gone:

        "A dream of breath that might be near,
           An inly-echoed tone,
         The thought that one may think me dear,
           The place where one was known,

        "The tremor of a banished fear,
           An ill that was not done--
         O me, O me, what frugal cheer
           My love doth feed upon!"

Sometimes, when he took off his hat, shaking his head backward, and
showing his delicate throat as he sang, he looked like an incarnation
of the spring whose spirit filled the air--a bright creature, abundant
in uncertain promises.

The bells were still ringing when he got to Lowick, and he went into
the curate's pew before any one else arrived there.  But he was still
left alone in it when the congregation had assembled.  The curate's pew
was opposite the rector's at the entrance of the small chancel, and
Will had time to fear that Dorothea might not come while he looked
round at the group of rural faces which made the congregation from year
to year within the white-washed walls and dark old pews, hardly with
more change than we see in the boughs of a tree which breaks here and
there with age, but yet has young shoots.  Mr. Rigg's frog-face was
something alien and unaccountable, but notwithstanding this shock to
the order of things, there were still the Waules and the rural stock of
the Powderells in their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had
the same purple round as ever, and the three generations of decent
cottagers came as of old with a sense of duty to their betters
generally--the smaller children regarding Mr. Casaubon, who wore the
black gown and mounted to the highest box, as probably the chief of all
betters, and the one most awful if offended.  Even in 1831 Lowick was
at peace, not more agitated by Reform than by the solemn tenor of the
Sunday sermon.  The congregation had been used to seeing Will at church
in former days, and no one took much note of him except the choir, who
expected him to make a figure in the singing.

Dorothea did at last appear on this quaint background, walking up the
short aisle in her white beaver bonnet and gray cloak--the same she had
worn in the Vatican.  Her face being, from her entrance, towards the
chancel, even her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Will, but there was
no outward show of her feeling except a slight paleness and a grave bow
as she passed him.  To his own surprise Will felt suddenly
uncomfortable, and dared not look at her after they had bowed to each
other.  Two minutes later, when Mr. Casaubon came out of the vestry,
and, entering the pew, seated himself in face of Dorothea, Will felt
his paralysis more complete.  He could look nowhere except at the choir
in the little gallery over the vestry-door: Dorothea was perhaps
pained, and he had made a wretched blunder.  It was no longer amusing
to vex Mr. Casaubon, who had the advantage probably of watching him and
seeing that he dared not turn his head.  Why had he not imagined this
beforehand?--but he could not expect that he should sit in that square
pew alone, unrelieved by any Tuckers, who had apparently departed from
Lowick altogether, for a new clergyman was in the desk.  Still he
called himself stupid now for not foreseeing that it would be
impossible for him to look towards Dorothea--nay, that she might feel
his coming an impertinence.  There was no delivering himself from his
cage, however; and Will found his places and looked at his book as if
he had been a school-mistress, feeling that the morning service had
never been so immeasurably long before, that he was utterly ridiculous,
out of temper, and miserable.  This was what a man got by worshipping
the sight of a woman!  The clerk observed with surprise that Mr.
Ladislaw did not join in the tune of Hanover, and reflected that he
might have a cold.

Mr. Casaubon did not preach that morning, and there was no change in
Will's situation until the blessing had been pronounced and every one
rose.  It was the fashion at Lowick for "the betters" to go out first.
With a sudden determination to break the spell that was upon him, Will
looked straight at Mr. Casaubon.  But that gentleman's eyes were on the
button of the pew-door, which he opened, allowing Dorothea to pass, and
following her immediately without raising his eyelids.  Will's glance
had caught Dorothea's as she turned out of the pew, and again she
bowed, but this time with a look of agitation, as if she were
repressing tears.  Will walked out after them, but they went on towards
the little gate leading out of the churchyard into the shrubbery, never
looking round.

It was impossible for him to follow them, and he could only walk back
sadly at mid-day along the same road which he had trodden hopefully in
the morning.  The lights were all changed for him both without and
within.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: So far Will has tried to content himself with friends and activities far away from Dorothea. Now he begins to chafe at the separation from her and the tyranny of her hated husband. As a result, he decides to attend Lowick Church on Sunday morning sure of seeing the Casaubons there. He has none of the dishonest intentions of which Casaubon suspects him, but longs just to see her. Believing that she lives like a prisoner at Lowick, he feels his sympathy and support was necessary to her. At the church, he finds himself alone in the pew of some friends who are absent. Dorothea sees him and bows formally. Casaubon presides over the prayers and ignores him throughout. They both leave for their home. Will is crushed.


prompt:
Chapter: Surely the golden hours are turning gray
    And dance no more, and vainly strive to run:
    I see their white locks streaming in the wind--
    Each face is haggard as it looks at me,
    Slow turning in the constant clasping round
    Storm-driven.

Dorothea's distress when she was leaving the church came chiefly from
the perception that Mr. Casaubon was determined not to speak to his
cousin, and that Will's presence at church had served to mark more
strongly the alienation between them.  Will's coming seemed to her
quite excusable, nay, she thought it an amiable movement in him towards
a reconciliation which she herself had been constantly wishing for.  He
had probably imagined, as she had, that if Mr. Casaubon and he could
meet easily, they would shake hands and friendly intercourse might
return.  But now Dorothea felt quite robbed of that hope.  Will was
banished further than ever, for Mr. Casaubon must have been newly
embittered by this thrusting upon him of a presence which he refused to
recognize.

He had not been very well that morning, suffering from some difficulty
in breathing, and had not preached in consequence; she was not
surprised, therefore, that he was nearly silent at luncheon, still less
that he made no allusion to Will Ladislaw.  For her own part she felt
that she could never again introduce that subject.  They usually spent
apart the hours between luncheon and dinner on a Sunday; Mr. Casaubon
in the library dozing chiefly, and Dorothea in her boudoir, where she
was wont to occupy herself with some of her favorite books.  There was
a little heap of them on the table in the bow-window--of various sorts,
from Herodotus, which she was learning to read with Mr. Casaubon, to
her old companion Pascal, and Keble's "Christian Year." But to-day
opened one after another, and could read none of them.  Everything
seemed dreary: the portents before the birth of Cyrus--Jewish
antiquities--oh dear!--devout epigrams--the sacred chime of favorite
hymns--all alike were as flat as tunes beaten on wood: even the spring
flowers and the grass had a dull shiver in them under the afternoon
clouds that hid the sun fitfully; even the sustaining thoughts which
had become habits seemed to have in them the weariness of long future
days in which she would still live with them for her sole companions.
It was another or rather a fuller sort of companionship that poor
Dorothea was hungering for, and the hunger had grown from the perpetual
effort demanded by her married life.  She was always trying to be what
her husband wished, and never able to repose on his delight in what she
was.  The thing that she liked, that she spontaneously cared to have,
seemed to be always excluded from her life; for if it was only granted
and not shared by her husband it might as well have been denied.  About
Will Ladislaw there had been a difference between them from the first,
and it had ended, since Mr. Casaubon had so severely repulsed
Dorothea's strong feeling about his claims on the family property, by
her being convinced that she was in the right and her husband in the
wrong, but that she was helpless.  This afternoon the helplessness was
more wretchedly benumbing than ever: she longed for objects who could
be dear to her, and to whom she could be dear.  She longed for work
which would be directly beneficent like the sunshine and the rain, and
now it appeared that she was to live more and more in a virtual tomb,
where there was the apparatus of a ghastly labor producing what would
never see the light.  Today she had stood at the door of the tomb and
seen Will Ladislaw receding into the distant world of warm activity and
fellowship--turning his face towards her as he went.

Books were of no use.  Thinking was of no use.  It was Sunday, and she
could not have the carriage to go to Celia, who had lately had a baby.
There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness and discontent, and
Dorothea had to bear her bad mood, as she would have borne a headache.

After dinner, at the hour when she usually began to read aloud, Mr.
Casaubon proposed that they should go into the library, where, he said,
he had ordered a fire and lights.  He seemed to have revived, and to be
thinking intently.

In the library Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a row of
his note-books on a table, and now he took up and put into her hand a
well-known volume, which was a table of contents to all the others.

"You will oblige me, my dear," he said, seating himself, "if instead of
other reading this evening, you will go through this aloud, pencil in
hand, and at each point where I say 'mark,' will make a cross with your
pencil.  This is the first step in a sifting process which I have long
had in view, and as we go on I shall be able to indicate to you certain
principles of selection whereby you will, I trust, have an intelligent
participation in my purpose."

This proposal was only one more sign added to many since his memorable
interview with Lydgate, that Mr. Casaubon's original reluctance to let
Dorothea work with him had given place to the contrary disposition,
namely, to demand much interest and labor from her.

After she had read and marked for two hours, he said, "We will take the
volume up-stairs--and the pencil, if you please--and in case of
reading in the night, we can pursue this task.  It is not wearisome to
you, I trust, Dorothea?"

"I prefer always reading what you like best to hear," said Dorothea,
who told the simple truth; for what she dreaded was to exert herself in
reading or anything else which left him as joyless as ever.

It was a proof of the force with which certain characteristics in
Dorothea impressed those around her, that her husband, with all his
jealousy and suspicion, had gathered implicit trust in the integrity of
her promises, and her power of devoting herself to her idea of the
right and best.  Of late he had begun to feel that these qualities were
a peculiar possession for himself, and he wanted to engross them.

The reading in the night did come.  Dorothea in her young weariness had
slept soon and fast: she was awakened by a sense of light, which seemed
to her at first like a sudden vision of sunset after she had climbed a
steep hill: she opened her eyes and saw her husband wrapped in his warm
gown seating himself in the arm-chair near the fire-place where the
embers were still glowing.  He had lit two candles, expecting that
Dorothea would awake, but not liking to rouse her by more direct means.

"Are you ill, Edward?" she said, rising immediately.

"I felt some uneasiness in a reclining posture.  I will sit here for a
time."  She threw wood on the fire, wrapped herself up, and said, "You
would like me to read to you?"

"You would oblige me greatly by doing so, Dorothea," said Mr. Casaubon,
with a shade more meekness than usual in his polite manner.  "I am
wakeful: my mind is remarkably lucid."

"I fear that the excitement may be too great for you," said Dorothea,
remembering Lydgate's cautions.

"No, I am not conscious of undue excitement.  Thought is easy."
Dorothea dared not insist, and she read for an hour or more on the same
plan as she had done in the evening, but getting over the pages with
more quickness.  Mr. Casaubon's mind was more alert, and he seemed to
anticipate what was coming after a very slight verbal indication,
saying, "That will do--mark that"--or "Pass on to the next head--I omit
the second excursus on Crete." Dorothea was amazed to think of the
bird-like speed with which his mind was surveying the ground where it
had been creeping for years.  At last he said--

"Close the book now, my dear.  We will resume our work to-morrow.  I
have deferred it too long, and would gladly see it completed.  But you
observe that the principle on which my selection is made, is to give
adequate, and not disproportionate illustration to each of the theses
enumerated in my introduction, as at present sketched.  You have
perceived that distinctly, Dorothea?"

"Yes," said Dorothea, rather tremulously.  She felt sick at heart.

"And now I think that I can take some repose," said Mr. Casaubon.  He
laid down again and begged her to put out the lights.  When she had
lain down too, and there was a darkness only broken by a dull glow on
the hearth, he said--

"Before I sleep, I have a request to make, Dorothea."

"What is it?" said Dorothea, with dread in her mind.

"It is that you will let me know, deliberately, whether, in case of my
death, you will carry out my wishes: whether you will avoid doing what
I should deprecate, and apply yourself to do what I should desire."

Dorothea was not taken by surprise: many incidents had been leading her
to the conjecture of some intention on her husband's part which might
make a new yoke for her.  She did not answer immediately.

"You refuse?" said Mr. Casaubon, with more edge in his tone.

"No, I do not yet refuse," said Dorothea, in a clear voice, the need of
freedom asserting itself within her; "but it is too solemn--I think it
is not right--to make a promise when I am ignorant what it will bind me
to.  Whatever affection prompted I would do without promising."

"But you would use your own judgment: I ask you to obey mine; you
refuse."

"No, dear, no!" said Dorothea, beseechingly, crushed by opposing fears.
"But may I wait and reflect a little while?  I desire with my whole
soul to do what will comfort you; but I cannot give any pledge
suddenly--still less a pledge to do I know not what."

"You cannot then confide in the nature of my wishes?"

"Grant me till to-morrow," said Dorothea, beseechingly.

"Till to-morrow then," said Mr. Casaubon.

Soon she could hear that he was sleeping, but there was no more sleep
for her.  While she constrained herself to lie still lest she should
disturb him, her mind was carrying on a conflict in which imagination
ranged its forces first on one side and then on the other.  She had no
presentiment that the power which her husband wished to establish over
her future action had relation to anything else than his work.  But it
was clear enough to her that he would expect her to devote herself to
sifting those mixed heaps of material, which were to be the doubtful
illustration of principles still more doubtful.  The poor child had
become altogether unbelieving as to the trustworthiness of that Key
which had made the ambition and the labor of her husband's life.  It
was not wonderful that, in spite of her small instruction, her judgment
in this matter was truer than his: for she looked with unbiassed
comparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which he had risked
all his egoism.  And now she pictured to herself the days, and months,
and years which she must spend in sorting what might be called
shattered mummies, and fragments of a tradition which was itself a
mosaic wrought from crushed ruins--sorting them as food for a theory
which was already withered in the birth like an elfin child.  Doubtless
a vigorous error vigorously pursued has kept the embryos of truth
a-breathing: the quest of gold being at the same time a questioning of
substances, the body of chemistry is prepared for its soul, and
Lavoisier is born.  But Mr. Casaubon's theory of the elements which
made the seed of all tradition was not likely to bruise itself unawares
against discoveries: it floated among flexible conjectures no more
solid than those etymologies which seemed strong because of likeness in
sound until it was shown that likeness in sound made them impossible:
it was a method of interpretation which was not tested by the necessity
of forming anything which had sharper collisions than an elaborate
notion of Gog and Magog: it was as free from interruption as a plan for
threading the stars together.  And Dorothea had so often had to check
her weariness and impatience over this questionable riddle-guessing, as
it revealed itself to her instead of the fellowship in high knowledge
which was to make life worthier!  She could understand well enough now
why her husband had come to cling to her, as possibly the only hope
left that his labors would ever take a shape in which they could be
given to the world.  At first it had seemed that he wished to keep even
her aloof from any close knowledge of what he was doing; but gradually
the terrible stringency of human need--the prospect of a too speedy
death--

And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own future to her husband's
past--nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which had grown out
of that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathing hardly under the
pressure of self-distrust; the goal receding, and the heavier limbs;
and now at last the sword visibly trembling above him!  And had she not
wished to marry him that she might help him in his life's labor?--But
she had thought the work was to be something greater, which she could
serve in devoutly for its own sake.  Was it right, even to soothe his
grief--would it be possible, even if she promised--to work as in a
treadmill fruitlessly?

And yet, could she deny him?  Could she say, "I refuse to content this
pining hunger?"  It would be refusing to do for him dead, what she was
almost sure to do for him living.  If he lived as Lydgate had said he
might, for fifteen years or more, her life would certainly be spent in
helping him and obeying him.

Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to the living
and that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead.  While he lived,
he could claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrate
against, and even to refuse.  But--the thought passed through her mind
more than once, though she could not believe in it--might he not mean
to demand something more from her than she had been able to imagine,
since he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes without telling her
exactly what they were?  No; his heart was bound up in his work only:
that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked out by hers.

And now, if she were to say, "No! if you die, I will put no finger to
your work"--it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised heart.

For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt ill and
bewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely.  Helpless as a child
which has sobbed and sought too long, she fell into a late morning
sleep, and when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up.  Tantripp told
her that he had read prayers, breakfasted, and was in the library.

"I never saw you look so pale, madam," said Tantripp, a solid-figured
woman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne.

"Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?" said Dorothea, smiling faintly.

"Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose.
But always smelling those leather books, what can be expected?  Do rest
a little this morning, madam.  Let me say you are ill and not able to
go into that close library."

"Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea.  "Mr. Casaubon wants me
particularly."

When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil his
wishes; but that would be later in the day--not yet.

As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round from the
table where he had been placing some books, and said--

"I was waiting for your appearance, my dear.  I had hoped to set to
work at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition,
probably from too much excitement yesterday.  I am going now to take a
turn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder."

"I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea.  "Your mind, I feared, was too
active last night."

"I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke of,
Dorothea.  You can now, I hope, give me an answer."

"May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea, winning
a little breathing space in that way.

"I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour," said Mr.
Casaubon, and then he left her.

Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bring her some
wraps.  She had been sitting still for a few minutes, but not in any
renewal of the former conflict: she simply felt that she was going to
say "Yes" to her own doom: she was too weak, too full of dread at the
thought of inflicting a keen-edged blow on her husband, to do anything
but submit completely.  She sat still and let Tantripp put on her
bonnet and shawl, a passivity which was unusual with her, for she liked
to wait on herself.

"God bless you, madam!" said Tantripp, with an irrepressible movement
of love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom she felt unable
to do anything more, now that she had finished tying the bonnet.

This was too much for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, and she burst
into tears, sobbing against Tantripp's arm.  But soon she checked
herself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass door into the
shrubbery.

"I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom for your
master," said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in the
breakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities, as
we know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but
"your master," when speaking to the other servants.

Pratt laughed.  He liked his master very well, but he liked Tantripp
better.

When Dorothea was out on the gravel walks, she lingered among the
nearer clumps of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before, though
from a different cause.  Then she had feared lest her effort at
fellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spot where
she foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship from which she
shrank.  Neither law nor the world's opinion compelled her to
this--only her husband's nature and her own compassion, only the ideal
and not the real yoke of marriage.  She saw clearly enough the whole
situation, yet she was fettered: she could not smite the stricken soul
that entreated hers.  If that were weakness, Dorothea was weak.  But
the half-hour was passing, and she must not delay longer.  When she
entered the Yew-tree Walk she could not see her husband; but the walk
had bends, and she went, expecting to catch sight of his figure wrapped
in a blue cloak, which, with a warm velvet cap, was his outer garment
on chill days for the garden.  It occurred to her that he might be
resting in the summer-house, towards which the path diverged a little.
Turning the angle, she could see him seated on the bench, close to a
stone table.  His arms were resting on the table, and his brow was
bowed down on them, the blue cloak being dragged forward and screening
his face on each side.

"He exhausted himself last night," Dorothea said to herself, thinking
at first that he was asleep, and that the summer-house was too damp a
place to rest in.  But then she remembered that of late she had seen
him take that attitude when she was reading to him, as if he found it
easier than any other; and that he would sometimes speak, as well as
listen, with his face down in that way.  She went into the summerhouse
and said, "I am come, Edward; I am ready."

He took no notice, and she thought that he must be fast asleep.  She
laid her hand on his shoulder, and repeated, "I am ready!" Still he was
motionless; and with a sudden confused fear, she leaned down to him,
took off his velvet cap, and leaned her cheek close to his head, crying
in a distressed tone--

"Wake, dear, wake!  Listen to me.  I am come to answer." But Dorothea
never gave her answer.

Later in the day, Lydgate was seated by her bedside, and she was
talking deliriously, thinking aloud, and recalling what had gone
through her mind the night before.  She knew him, and called him by his
name, but appeared to think it right that she should explain everything
to him; and again, and again, begged him to explain everything to her
husband.

"Tell him I shall go to him soon: I am ready to promise.  Only,
thinking about it was so dreadful--it has made me ill.  Not very ill.
I shall soon be better.  Go and tell him."

But the silence in her husband's ear was never more to be broken.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Distressed by Casaubons total rejection of Will, Dorothea is restless all day. She feels worn out by "the perpetual effort demanded by her married life." As his illness gets worse, Casaubon relies on her assistance more, and she feels she is "in a virtual tomb, where there was the apparatus of a ghastly labor producing what would never see the light." After resting, Casaubon begins his work again after dinner and asks for her help, so that she "will have an intelligent participation in my purpose." Even in his jealous obsessive state, her husband believes in her devotion and integrity and that they were "a peculiar possession for himself, and he wanted to engross them." After a short nap, he is uneasy, and they begin reading again. After some more work, he lies down. Then he asks her to promise that if he dies, she will do what he wishes and avoid what he dislikes. Dorothea is filled with dread. She is already crushed by the burden of assisting in his work. She believes he will ask her to continue with it alone after his death, and is horrified at the task. She asks him to give her time to consider until the next day. After agonizing over his request, Dorothea wakes up to find Casaubon is up and awaits her in the library. She buys some more time. He then moves to the garden, where she is to join him and answer his question. When she does go, she finds him seated in the summerhouse, dead. That day she is prostrate and delirious and has to be attended by Lydgate.


prompt:
Chapter: A task too strong for wizard spells
    This squire had brought about;
    'T is easy dropping stones in wells,
    But who shall get them out?"

"I wish to God we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this," said Sir
James Chettam, with a little frown on his brow, and an expression of
intense disgust about his mouth.

He was standing on the hearth-rug in the library at Lowick Grange, and
speaking to Mr. Brooke.  It was the day after Mr. Casaubon had been
buried, and Dorothea was not yet able to leave her room.

"That would be difficult, you know, Chettam, as she is an executrix,
and she likes to go into these things--property, land, that kind of
thing.  She has her notions, you know," said Mr. Brooke, sticking his
eye-glasses on nervously, and exploring the edges of a folded paper
which he held in his hand; "and she would like to act--depend upon it,
as an executrix Dorothea would want to act.  And she was twenty-one
last December, you know.  I can hinder nothing."

Sir James looked at the carpet for a minute in silence, and then
lifting his eyes suddenly fixed them on Mr. Brooke, saying, "I will
tell you what we can do.  Until Dorothea is well, all business must be
kept from her, and as soon as she is able to be moved she must come to
us.  Being with Celia and the baby will be the best thing in the world
for her, and will pass away the time.  And meanwhile you must get rid
of Ladislaw: you must send him out of the country." Here Sir James's
look of disgust returned in all its intensity.

Mr. Brooke put his hands behind him, walked to the window and
straightened his back with a little shake before he replied.

"That is easily said, Chettam, easily said, you know."

"My dear sir," persisted Sir James, restraining his indignation within
respectful forms, "it was you who brought him here, and you who keep
him here--I mean by the occupation you give him."

"Yes, but I can't dismiss him in an instant without assigning reasons,
my dear Chettam.  Ladislaw has been invaluable, most satisfactory.  I
consider that I have done this part of the country a service by
bringing him--by bringing him, you know."  Mr. Brooke ended with a nod,
turning round to give it.

"It's a pity this part of the country didn't do without him, that's all
I have to say about it.  At any rate, as Dorothea's brother-in-law, I
feel warranted in objecting strongly to his being kept here by any
action on the part of her friends.  You admit, I hope, that I have a
right to speak about what concerns the dignity of my wife's sister?"

Sir James was getting warm.

"Of course, my dear Chettam, of course.  But you and I have different
ideas--different--"

"Not about this action of Casaubon's, I should hope," interrupted Sir
James.  "I say that he has most unfairly compromised Dorothea.  I say
that there never was a meaner, more ungentlemanly action than this--a
codicil of this sort to a will which he made at the time of his
marriage with the knowledge and reliance of her family--a positive
insult to Dorothea!"

"Well, you know, Casaubon was a little twisted about Ladislaw.
Ladislaw has told me the reason--dislike of the bent he took, you
know--Ladislaw didn't think much of Casaubon's notions, Thoth and
Dagon--that sort of thing: and I fancy that Casaubon didn't like the
independent position Ladislaw had taken up.  I saw the letters between
them, you know.  Poor Casaubon was a little buried in books--he didn't
know the world."

"It's all very well for Ladislaw to put that color on it," said Sir
James.  "But I believe Casaubon was only jealous of him on Dorothea's
account, and the world will suppose that she gave him some reason; and
that is what makes it so abominable--coupling her name with this young
fellow's."

"My dear Chettam, it won't lead to anything, you know," said Mr.
Brooke, seating himself and sticking on his eye-glass again.  "It's all
of a piece with Casaubon's oddity.  This paper, now, 'Synoptical
Tabulation' and so on, 'for the use of Mrs. Casaubon,' it was locked up
in the desk with the will.  I suppose he meant Dorothea to publish his
researches, eh? and she'll do it, you know; she has gone into his
studies uncommonly."

"My dear sir," said Sir James, impatiently, "that is neither here nor
there.  The question is, whether you don't see with me the propriety of
sending young Ladislaw away?"

"Well, no, not the urgency of the thing.  By-and-by, perhaps, it may
come round.  As to gossip, you know, sending him away won't hinder
gossip.  People say what they like to say, not what they have chapter
and verse for," said Mr Brooke, becoming acute about the truths that
lay on the side of his own wishes.  "I might get rid of Ladislaw up to
a certain point--take away the 'Pioneer' from him, and that sort of
thing; but I couldn't send him out of the country if he didn't choose
to go--didn't choose, you know."

Mr. Brooke, persisting as quietly as if he were only discussing the
nature of last year's weather, and nodding at the end with his usual
amenity, was an exasperating form of obstinacy.

"Good God!" said Sir James, with as much passion as he ever showed,
"let us get him a post; let us spend money on him.  If he could go in
the suite of some Colonial Governor!  Grampus might take him--and I
could write to Fulke about it."

"But Ladislaw won't be shipped off like a head of cattle, my dear
fellow; Ladislaw has his ideas.  It's my opinion that if he were to
part from me to-morrow, you'd only hear the more of him in the country.
With his talent for speaking and drawing up documents, there are few
men who could come up to him as an agitator--an agitator, you know."

"Agitator!" said Sir James, with bitter emphasis, feeling that the
syllables of this word properly repeated were a sufficient exposure of
its hatefulness.

"But be reasonable, Chettam.  Dorothea, now.  As you say, she had
better go to Celia as soon as possible.  She can stay under your roof,
and in the mean time things may come round quietly.  Don't let us be
firing off our guns in a hurry, you know.  Standish will keep our
counsel, and the news will be old before it's known.  Twenty things may
happen to carry off Ladislaw--without my doing anything, you know."

"Then I am to conclude that you decline to do anything?"

"Decline, Chettam?--no--I didn't say decline.  But I really don't see
what I could do.  Ladislaw is a gentleman."

"I am glad to hear it!" said Sir James, his irritation making him
forget himself a little.  "I am sure Casaubon was not."

"Well, it would have been worse if he had made the codicil to hinder
her from marrying again at all, you know."

"I don't know that," said Sir James.  "It would have been less
indelicate."

"One of poor Casaubon's freaks!  That attack upset his brain a little.
It all goes for nothing.  She doesn't _want_ to marry Ladislaw."

"But this codicil is framed so as to make everybody believe that she
did.  I don't believe anything of the sort about Dorothea," said Sir
James--then frowningly, "but I suspect Ladislaw.  I tell you frankly,
I suspect Ladislaw."

"I couldn't take any immediate action on that ground, Chettam.  In
fact, if it were possible to pack him off--send him to Norfolk
Island--that sort of thing--it would look all the worse for Dorothea
to those who knew about it.  It would seem as if we distrusted
her--distrusted her, you know."

That Mr. Brooke had hit on an undeniable argument, did not tend to
soothe Sir James.  He put out his hand to reach his hat, implying that
he did not mean to contend further, and said, still with some heat--

"Well, I can only say that I think Dorothea was sacrificed once,
because her friends were too careless.  I shall do what I can, as her
brother, to protect her now."

"You can't do better than get her to Freshitt as soon as possible,
Chettam.  I approve that plan altogether," said Mr. Brooke, well
pleased that he had won the argument.  It would have been highly
inconvenient to him to part with Ladislaw at that time, when a
dissolution might happen any day, and electors were to be convinced of
the course by which the interests of the country would be best served.
Mr. Brooke sincerely believed that this end could be secured by his own
return to Parliament: he offered the forces of his mind honestly to the
nation.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It is the day after Casaubons burial and Dorothea is still ill. Chettam and Brooke are talking in the library at Lowick. Chettam is livid with anger at a codicil added to Casaubons will. After leaving the bulk of his property to Dorothea, her husband has added a proviso that she will inherent nothing if she marries Ladislaw. It is this that provokes Chettam to denounce the dead man as "no gentleman." He is furious at the slur on Dorotheas good name, and demands that Brook sends away Ladislaw. Brooke, whose political career depends in Ladislaws writing skills, has no intention of obliging. Finally, Chettam admits defeat at the suggestion that dispatching Will may arouse much more scandalous gossip. They agree that Dorothea should not know of the will until later. Immediately, she is to stay with Celia and the baby until she recovers her health.


prompt:
Chapter: "'This Loller here wol precilen us somewhat.'
     'Nay by my father's soule! that schal he nat,'
      Sayde the Schipman, 'here schal he not preche,
      We schal no gospel glosen here ne teche.
      We leven all in the gret God,' quod he.
      He wolden sowen some diffcultee."
                                 Canterbury Tales.

Dorothea had been safe at Freshitt Hall nearly a week before she had
asked any dangerous questions.  Every morning now she sat with Celia in
the prettiest of up-stairs sitting-rooms, opening into a small
conservatory--Celia all in white and lavender like a bunch of mixed
violets, watching the remarkable acts of the baby, which were so
dubious to her inexperienced mind that all conversation was interrupted
by appeals for their interpretation made to the oracular nurse.
Dorothea sat by in her widow's dress, with an expression which rather
provoked Celia, as being much too sad; for not only was baby quite
well, but really when a husband had been so dull and troublesome while
he lived, and besides that had--well, well!  Sir James, of course, had
told Celia everything, with a strong representation how important it
was that Dorothea should not know it sooner than was inevitable.

But Mr. Brooke had been right in predicting that Dorothea would not
long remain passive where action had been assigned to her; she knew the
purport of her husband's will made at the time of their marriage, and
her mind, as soon as she was clearly conscious of her position, was
silently occupied with what she ought to do as the owner of Lowick
Manor with the patronage of the living attached to it.

One morning when her uncle paid his usual visit, though with an unusual
alacrity in his manner which he accounted for by saying that it was now
pretty certain Parliament would be dissolved forthwith, Dorothea said--

"Uncle, it is right now that I should consider who is to have the
living at Lowick.  After Mr. Tucker had been provided for, I never
heard my husband say that he had any clergyman in his mind as a
successor to himself.  I think I ought to have the keys now and go to
Lowick to examine all my husband's papers.  There may be something that
would throw light on his wishes."

"No hurry, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, quietly.  "By-and-by, you know,
you can go, if you like.  But I cast my eyes over things in the desks
and drawers--there was nothing--nothing but deep subjects, you
know--besides the will.  Everything can be done by-and-by. As to the
living, I have had an application for interest already--I should say
rather good.  Mr. Tyke has been strongly recommended to me--I had
something to do with getting him an appointment before.  An apostolic
man, I believe--the sort of thing that would suit you, my dear."

"I should like to have fuller knowledge about him, uncle, and judge for
myself, if Mr. Casaubon has not left any expression of his wishes.  He
has perhaps made some addition to his will--there may be some
instructions for me," said Dorothea, who had all the while had this
conjecture in her mind with relation to her husband's work.

"Nothing about the rectory, my dear--nothing," said Mr. Brooke, rising
to go away, and putting out his hand to his nieces: "nor about his
researches, you know.  Nothing in the will."

Dorothea's lip quivered.

"Come, you must not think of these things yet, my dear.  By-and-by, you
know."

"I am quite well now, uncle; I wish to exert myself."

"Well, well, we shall see.  But I must run away now--I have no end of
work now--it's a crisis--a political crisis, you know.  And here is
Celia and her little man--you are an aunt, you know, now, and I am a
sort of grandfather," said Mr. Brooke, with placid hurry, anxious to
get away and tell Chettam that it would not be his (Mr. Brooke's) fault
if Dorothea insisted on looking into everything.

Dorothea sank back in her chair when her uncle had left the room, and
cast her eyes down meditatively on her crossed hands.

"Look, Dodo! look at him!  Did you ever see anything like that?" said
Celia, in her comfortable staccato.

"What, Kitty?" said Dorothea, lifting her eyes rather absently.

"What? why, his upper lip; see how he is drawing it down, as if he
meant to make a face.  Isn't it wonderful!  He may have his little
thoughts.  I wish nurse were here.  Do look at him."

A large tear which had been for some time gathering, rolled down
Dorothea's cheek as she looked up and tried to smile.

"Don't be sad, Dodo; kiss baby.  What are you brooding over so?  I am
sure you did everything, and a great deal too much.  You should be
happy now."

"I wonder if Sir James would drive me to Lowick.  I want to look over
everything--to see if there were any words written for me."

"You are not to go till Mr. Lydgate says you may go.  And he has not
said so yet (here you are, nurse; take baby and walk up and down the
gallery). Besides, you have got a wrong notion in your head as usual,
Dodo--I can see that: it vexes me."

"Where am I wrong, Kitty?" said Dorothea, quite meekly.  She was almost
ready now to think Celia wiser than herself, and was really wondering
with some fear what her wrong notion was.  Celia felt her advantage,
and was determined to use it.  None of them knew Dodo as well as she
did, or knew how to manage her.  Since Celia's baby was born, she had
had a new sense of her mental solidity and calm wisdom.  It seemed
clear that where there was a baby, things were right enough, and that
error, in general, was a mere lack of that central poising force.

"I can see what you are thinking of as well as can be, Dodo," said
Celia.  "You are wanting to find out if there is anything uncomfortable
for you to do now, only because Mr. Casaubon wished it.  As if you had
not been uncomfortable enough before.  And he doesn't deserve it, and
you will find that out.  He has behaved very badly.  James is as angry
with him as can be.  And I had better tell you, to prepare you."

"Celia," said Dorothea, entreatingly, "you distress me.  Tell me at
once what you mean."  It glanced through her mind that Mr. Casaubon
had left the property away from her--which would not be so very
distressing.

"Why, he has made a codicil to his will, to say the property was all to
go away from you if you married--I mean--"

"That is of no consequence," said Dorothea, breaking in impetuously.

"But if you married Mr. Ladislaw, not anybody else," Celia went on with
persevering quietude.  "Of course that is of no consequence in one
way--you never _would_ marry Mr. Ladislaw; but that only makes it worse
of Mr. Casaubon."

The blood rushed to Dorothea's face and neck painfully.  But Celia was
administering what she thought a sobering dose of fact.  It was taking
up notions that had done Dodo's health so much harm.  So she went on in
her neutral tone, as if she had been remarking on baby's robes.

"James says so.  He says it is abominable, and not like a gentleman.
And there never was a better judge than James.  It is as if Mr.
Casaubon wanted to make people believe that you would wish to marry Mr.
Ladislaw--which is ridiculous.  Only James says it was to hinder Mr.
Ladislaw from wanting to marry you for your money--just as if he ever
would think of making you an offer.  Mrs. Cadwallader said you might as
well marry an Italian with white mice!  But I must just go and look at
baby," Celia added, without the least change of tone, throwing a light
shawl over her, and tripping away.

Dorothea by this time had turned cold again, and now threw herself back
helplessly in her chair.  She might have compared her experience at
that moment to the vague, alarmed consciousness that her life was
taking on a new form, that she was undergoing a metamorphosis in which
memory would not adjust itself to the stirring of new organs.
Everything was changing its aspect: her husband's conduct, her own
duteous feeling towards him, every struggle between them--and yet
more, her whole relation to Will Ladislaw.  Her world was in a state of
convulsive change; the only thing she could say distinctly to herself
was, that she must wait and think anew.  One change terrified her as if
it had been a sin; it was a violent shock of repulsion from her
departed husband, who had had hidden thoughts, perhaps perverting
everything she said and did.  Then again she was conscious of another
change which also made her tremulous; it was a sudden strange yearning
of heart towards Will Ladislaw.  It had never before entered her mind
that he could, under any circumstances, be her lover: conceive the
effect of the sudden revelation that another had thought of him in that
light--that perhaps he himself had been conscious of such a
possibility,--and this with the hurrying, crowding vision of unfitting
conditions, and questions not soon to be solved.

It seemed a long while--she did not know how long--before she heard
Celia saying, "That will do, nurse; he will be quiet on my lap now.
You can go to lunch, and let Garratt stay in the next room." "What I
think, Dodo," Celia went on, observing nothing more than that Dorothea
was leaning back in her chair, and likely to be passive, "is that Mr.
Casaubon was spiteful.  I never did like him, and James never did.  I
think the corners of his mouth were dreadfully spiteful.  And now he
has behaved in this way, I am sure religion does not require you to
make yourself uncomfortable about him.  If he has been taken away, that
is a mercy, and you ought to be grateful.  We should not grieve, should
we, baby?" said Celia confidentially to that unconscious centre and
poise of the world, who had the most remarkable fists all complete even
to the nails, and hair enough, really, when you took his cap off, to
make--you didn't know what:--in short, he was Bouddha in a Western
form.

At this crisis Lydgate was announced, and one of the first things he
said was, "I fear you are not so well as you were, Mrs. Casaubon; have
you been agitated? allow me to feel your pulse."  Dorothea's hand was
of a marble coldness.

"She wants to go to Lowick, to look over papers," said Celia.  "She
ought not, ought she?"

Lydgate did not speak for a few moments.  Then he said, looking at
Dorothea.  "I hardly know.  In my opinion Mrs. Casaubon should do what
would give her the most repose of mind.  That repose will not always
come from being forbidden to act."

"Thank you," said Dorothea, exerting herself, "I am sure that is wise.
There are so many things which I ought to attend to.  Why should I sit
here idle?"  Then, with an effort to recall subjects not connected with
her agitation, she added, abruptly, "You know every one in Middlemarch,
I think, Mr. Lydgate.  I shall ask you to tell me a great deal.  I have
serious things to do now.  I have a living to give away.  You know Mr.
Tyke and all the--" But Dorothea's effort was too much for her; she
broke off and burst into sobs.  Lydgate made her drink a dose of sal
volatile.

"Let Mrs. Casaubon do as she likes," he said to Sir James, whom he
asked to see before quitting the house.  "She wants perfect freedom, I
think, more than any other prescription."

His attendance on Dorothea while her brain was excited, had enabled him
to form some true conclusions concerning the trials of her life.  He
felt sure that she had been suffering from the strain and conflict of
self-repression; and that she was likely now to feel herself only in
another sort of pinfold than that from which she had been released.

Lydgate's advice was all the easier for Sir James to follow when he
found that Celia had already told Dorothea the unpleasant fact about
the will.  There was no help for it now--no reason for any further
delay in the execution of necessary business.  And the next day Sir
James complied at once with her request that he would drive her to
Lowick.

"I have no wish to stay there at present," said Dorothea; "I could
hardly bear it.  I am much happier at Freshitt with Celia.  I shall be
able to think better about what should be done at Lowick by looking at
it from a distance.  And I should like to be at the Grange a little
while with my uncle, and go about in all the old walks and among the
people in the village."

"Not yet, I think.  Your uncle is having political company, and you are
better out of the way of such doings," said Sir James, who at that
moment thought of the Grange chiefly as a haunt of young Ladislaw's.
But no word passed between him and Dorothea about the objectionable
part of the will; indeed, both of them felt that the mention of it
between them would be impossible.  Sir James was shy, even with men,
about disagreeable subjects; and the one thing that Dorothea would have
chosen to say, if she had spoken on the matter at all, was forbidden to
her at present because it seemed to be a further exposure of her
husband's injustice.  Yet she did wish that Sir James could know what
had passed between her and her husband about Will Ladislaw's moral
claim on the property: it would then, she thought, be apparent to him
as it was to her, that her husband's strange indelicate proviso had
been chiefly urged by his bitter resistance to that idea of claim, and
not merely by personal feelings more difficult to talk about.  Also, it
must be admitted, Dorothea wished that this could be known for Will's
sake, since her friends seemed to think of him as simply an object of
Mr. Casaubon's charity.  Why should he be compared with an Italian
carrying white mice?  That word quoted from Mrs. Cadwallader seemed
like a mocking travesty wrought in the dark by an impish finger.

At Lowick Dorothea searched desk and drawer--searched all her husband's
places of deposit for private writing, but found no paper addressed
especially to her, except that "Synoptical Tabulation," which was
probably only the beginning of many intended directions for her
guidance.  In carrying out this bequest of labor to Dorothea, as in all
else, Mr. Casaubon had been slow and hesitating, oppressed in the plan
of transmitting his work, as he had been in executing it, by the sense
of moving heavily in a dim and clogging medium: distrust of Dorothea's
competence to arrange what he had prepared was subdued only by distrust
of any other redactor.  But he had come at last to create a trust for
himself out of Dorothea's nature: she could do what she resolved to do:
and he willingly imagined her toiling under the fetters of a promise to
erect a tomb with his name upon it.  (Not that Mr. Casaubon called the
future volumes a tomb; he called them the Key to all Mythologies.) But
the months gained on him and left his plans belated: he had only had
time to ask for that promise by which he sought to keep his cold grasp
on Dorothea's life.

The grasp had slipped away.  Bound by a pledge given from the depths of
her pity, she would have been capable of undertaking a toil which her
judgment whispered was vain for all uses except that consecration of
faithfulness which is a supreme use.  But now her judgment, instead of
being controlled by duteous devotion, was made active by the
imbittering discovery that in her past union there had lurked the
hidden alienation of secrecy and suspicion.  The living, suffering man
was no longer before her to awaken her pity: there remained only the
retrospect of painful subjection to a husband whose thoughts had been
lower than she had believed, whose exorbitant claims for himself had
even blinded his scrupulous care for his own character, and made him
defeat his own pride by shocking men of ordinary honor.  As for the
property which was the sign of that broken tie, she would have been
glad to be free from it and have nothing more than her original fortune
which had been settled on her, if there had not been duties attached to
ownership, which she ought not to flinch from.  About this property
many troublous questions insisted on rising: had she not been right in
thinking that the half of it ought to go to Will Ladislaw?--but was it
not impossible now for her to do that act of justice?  Mr. Casaubon had
taken a cruelly effective means of hindering her: even with indignation
against him in her heart, any act that seemed a triumphant eluding of
his purpose revolted her.

After collecting papers of business which she wished to examine, she
locked up again the desks and drawers--all empty of personal words for
her--empty of any sign that in her husband's lonely brooding his heart
had gone out to her in excuse or explanation; and she went back to
Freshitt with the sense that around his last hard demand and his last
injurious assertion of his power, the silence was unbroken.

Dorothea tried now to turn her thoughts towards immediate duties, and
one of these was of a kind which others were determined to remind her
of.  Lydgate's ear had caught eagerly her mention of the living, and as
soon as he could, he reopened the subject, seeing here a possibility of
making amends for the casting-vote he had once given with an
ill-satisfied conscience.  "Instead of telling you anything about Mr.
Tyke," he said, "I should like to speak of another man--Mr.
Farebrother, the Vicar of St. Botolph's.  His living is a poor one, and
gives him a stinted provision for himself and his family.  His mother,
aunt, and sister all live with him, and depend upon him.  I believe he
has never married because of them.  I never heard such good preaching
as his--such plain, easy eloquence.  He would have done to preach at
St. Paul's Cross after old Latimer.  His talk is just as good about all
subjects: original, simple, clear.  I think him a remarkable fellow: he
ought to have done more than he has done."

"Why has he not done more?" said Dorothea, interested now in all who
had slipped below their own intention.

"That's a hard question," said Lydgate.  "I find myself that it's
uncommonly difficult to make the right thing work: there are so many
strings pulling at once.  Farebrother often hints that he has got into
the wrong profession; he wants a wider range than that of a poor
clergyman, and I suppose he has no interest to help him on.  He is very
fond of Natural History and various scientific matters, and he is
hampered in reconciling these tastes with his position.  He has no
money to spare--hardly enough to use; and that has led him into
card-playing--Middlemarch is a great place for whist.  He does play for
money, and he wins a good deal.  Of course that takes him into company
a little beneath him, and makes him slack about some things; and yet,
with all that, looking at him as a whole, I think he is one of the most
blameless men I ever knew.  He has neither venom nor doubleness in him,
and those often go with a more correct outside."

"I wonder whether he suffers in his conscience because of that habit,"
said Dorothea; "I wonder whether he wishes he could leave it off."

"I have no doubt he would leave it off, if he were transplanted into
plenty: he would be glad of the time for other things."

"My uncle says that Mr. Tyke is spoken of as an apostolic man," said
Dorothea, meditatively.  She was wishing it were possible to restore
the times of primitive zeal, and yet thinking of Mr. Farebrother with a
strong desire to rescue him from his chance-gotten money.

"I don't pretend to say that Farebrother is apostolic," said Lydgate.
"His position is not quite like that of the Apostles: he is only a
parson among parishioners whose lives he has to try and make better.
Practically I find that what is called being apostolic now, is an
impatience of everything in which the parson doesn't cut the principal
figure.  I see something of that in Mr. Tyke at the Hospital: a good
deal of his doctrine is a sort of pinching hard to make people
uncomfortably aware of him.  Besides, an apostolic man at Lowick!--he
ought to think, as St. Francis did, that it is needful to preach to the
birds."

"True," said Dorothea.  "It is hard to imagine what sort of notions our
farmers and laborers get from their teaching.  I have been looking into
a volume of sermons by Mr. Tyke: such sermons would be of no use at
Lowick--I mean, about imputed righteousness and the prophecies in the
Apocalypse.  I have always been thinking of the different ways in which
Christianity is taught, and whenever I find one way that makes it a
wider blessing than any other, I cling to that as the truest--I mean
that which takes in the most good of all kinds, and brings in the most
people as sharers in it.  It is surely better to pardon too much, than
to condemn too much.  But I should like to see Mr. Farebrother and hear
him preach."

"Do," said Lydgate; "I trust to the effect of that.  He is very much
beloved, but he has his enemies too: there are always people who can't
forgive an able man for differing from them.  And that money-winning
business is really a blot.  You don't, of course, see many Middlemarch
people: but Mr. Ladislaw, who is constantly seeing Mr. Brooke, is a
great friend of Mr. Farebrother's old ladies, and would be glad to sing
the Vicar's praises.  One of the old ladies--Miss Noble, the aunt--is a
wonderfully quaint picture of self-forgetful goodness, and Ladislaw
gallants her about sometimes.  I met them one day in a back street: you
know Ladislaw's look--a sort of Daphnis in coat and waistcoat; and this
little old maid reaching up to his arm--they looked like a couple
dropped out of a romantic comedy.  But the best evidence about
Farebrother is to see him and hear him."

Happily Dorothea was in her private sitting-room when this conversation
occurred, and there was no one present to make Lydgate's innocent
introduction of Ladislaw painful to her.  As was usual with him in
matters of personal gossip, Lydgate had quite forgotten Rosamond's
remark that she thought Will adored Mrs. Casaubon.  At that moment he
was only caring for what would recommend the Farebrother family; and he
had purposely given emphasis to the worst that could be said about the
Vicar, in order to forestall objections.  In the weeks since Mr.
Casaubon's death he had hardly seen Ladislaw, and he had heard no rumor
to warn him that Mr. Brooke's confidential secretary was a dangerous
subject with Mrs. Casaubon.  When he was gone, his picture of Ladislaw
lingered in her mind and disputed the ground with that question of the
Lowick living.  What was Will Ladislaw thinking about her?  Would he
hear of that fact which made her cheeks burn as they never used to do?
And how would he feel when he heard it?--But she could see as well as
possible how he smiled down at the little old maid.  An Italian with
white mice!--on the contrary, he was a creature who entered into every
one's feelings, and could take the pressure of their thought instead of
urging his own with iron resistance.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Dorothea is restless after a week of domestic bliss at Celias house with the new baby. She broods over what that last demand of her husbands had referred to. Brooke resists her request to be taken to Lowick Manor. Then Celia tells her all about the codicil in the will, and Lydgate agrees that she should do whatever gives her mental peace. The way is clear for her to take up the threads of her life again. She searches for further instructions all over the library but can find nothing. Her earlier feeling that Casaubons work is futile is compounded by his perverse will. The will casts a new light on her entire marriage and on his mind, which perhaps perverted everything she said and did. She wonders whether it would now be impossible for her to divide the property with Will, as she had earlier suggested to her husband. She also wonders whether Will has ever thought of her as a lover would. Celia, meanwhile, firmly declares that she should give up mourning for a spiteful man, whom she is well rid of. Dorothea tries to get involved in practical matters, the first of which was - who would succeed her husband as clergyman at Lowick. She has mentioned this to Lydgate. He takes it up eagerly, recommending Farebrother for the post. Lowick is a much better paid living than his present one, and Lydgate wants to make amends for promoting Tyke at Farebrothers cost, at the hospital. He tells Dorothea all about Farebrother and his old ladies, including his playing whist for money. Her interest is at once caught by the idea of one, who has potential, and which circumstances prevent him from fulfilling. Lydgate innocently mentions that Will, as a friend who could recommend the vicar, is closely associated with Farebrothers aunt and her charitable work. Dorothea is embarrassed, but also touched at Wills sensitivity. She indignantly remembers Mrs. Cadwalladers insulting remarks about him.