Dorothea drove along between the berried hedgerows and the shorn corn-fields, not seeing or hearing anything around.  The tears came and rolled down her cheeks, but she did not know it.  The world, it seemed, was turning ugly and hateful, and there was no place for her trustfulness.  “It is not true—­it is not true!” was the voice within her that she listened to; but all the while a remembrance to which there had always clung a vague uneasiness would thrust itself on her attention—­the remembrance of that day when she had found Will Ladislaw with Mrs. Lydgate, and had heard his voice accompanied by the piano.

“He said he would never do anything that I disapproved—­I wish I could have told him that I disapproved of that,” said poor Dorothea, inwardly, feeling a strange alternation between anger with Will and the passionate defence of him.  “They all try to blacken him before me; but I will care for no pain, if he is not to blame.  I always believed he was good.”—­These were her last thoughts before she felt that the carriage was passing under the archway of the lodge-gate at the Grange, when she hurriedly pressed her handkerchief to her face and began to think of her errands.  The coachman begged leave to take out the horses for half an hour as there was something wrong with a shoe; and Dorothea, having the sense that she was going to rest, took off her gloves and bonnet, while she was leaning against a statue in the entrance-hall, and talking to the housekeeper.  At last she said—­

“I must stay here a little, Mrs. Kell.  I will go into the library and write you some memoranda from my uncle’s letter, if you will open the shutters for me.”

“The shutters are open, madam,” said Mrs. Kell, following Dorothea, who had walked along as she spoke.  “Mr. Ladislaw is there, looking for something.”

(Will had come to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he had missed in the act of packing his movables, and did not choose to leave behind.)

Dorothea’s heart seemed to turn over as if it had had a blow, but she was not perceptibly checked:  in truth, the sense that Will was there was for the moment all-satisfying to her, like the sight of something precious that one has lost.  When she reached the door she said to Mrs. Kell—­

“Go in first, and tell him that I am here.”

Will had found his portfolio, and had laid it on the table at the far end of the room, to turn over the sketches and please himself by looking at the memorable piece of art which had a relation to nature too mysterious for Dorothea.  He was smiling at it still, and shaking the sketches into order with the thought that he might find a letter from her awaiting him at Middlemarch, when Mrs. Kell close to his elbow said—­

“Mrs. Casaubon is coming in, sir.”

Will turned round quickly, and the next moment Dorothea was entering.  As Mrs. Kell closed the door behind her they met:  each was looking at the other, and consciousness was overflowed by something that suppressed utterance.  It was not confusion that kept them silent, for they both felt that parting was near, and there is no shamefacedness in a sad parting.