If the right tack implied anything more precise than the rest of Mr. Brooke’s speech, Mr. Casaubon silently hoped that it referred to some occupation at a great distance from Lowick.  He had disliked Will while he helped him, but he had begun to dislike him still more now that Will had declined his help.  That is the way with us when we have any uneasy jealousy in our disposition:  if our talents are chiefly of the burrowing kind, our honey-sipping cousin (whom we have grave reasons for objecting to) is likely to have a secret contempt for us, and any one who admires him passes an oblique criticism on ourselves.  Having the scruples of rectitude in our souls, we are above the meanness of injuring him—­ rather we meet all his claims on us by active benefits; and the drawing of cheques for him, being a superiority which he must recognize, gives our bitterness a milder infusion.  Now Mr. Casaubon had been deprived of that superiority (as anything more than a remembrance) in a sudden, capricious manner.  His antipathy to Will did not spring from the common jealousy of a winter-worn husband:  it was something deeper, bred by his lifelong claims and discontents; but Dorothea, now that she was present—­Dorothea, as a young wife who herself had shown an offensive capability of criticism, necessarily gave concentration to the uneasiness which had before been vague.

Will Ladislaw on his side felt that his dislike was flourishing at the expense of his gratitude, and spent much inward discourse in justifying the dislike.  Casaubon hated him—­he knew that very well; on his first entrance he could discern a bitterness in the mouth and a venom in the glance which would almost justify declaring war in spite of past benefits.  He was much obliged to Casaubon in the past, but really the act of marrying this wife was a set-off against the obligation.  It was a question whether gratitude which refers to what is done for one’s self ought not to give way to indignation at what is done against another.  And Casaubon had done a wrong to Dorothea in marrying her.  A man was bound to know himself better than that, and if he chose to grow gray crunching bones in a cavern, he had no business to be luring a girl into his companionship.  “It is the most horrible of virgin-sacrifices,” said Will; and he painted to himself what were Dorothea’s inward sorrows as if he had been writing a choric wail.  But he would never lose sight of her:  he would watch over her—­if he gave up everything else in life he would watch over her, and she should know that she had one slave in the world, Will had—­to use Sir Thomas Browne’s phrase—­ a “passionate prodigality” of statement both to himself and others.  The simple truth was that nothing then invited him so strongly as the presence of Dorothea.