The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far off as ever; nay, it seemed blocked out by the sense of unsuccessful effort.  They lived on from day to day with their thoughts still apart, Lydgate going about what work he had in a mood of despair, and Rosamond feeling, with some justification, that he was behaving cruelly.  It was of no use to say anything to Tertius; but when Will Ladislaw came, she was determined to tell him everything.  In spite of her general reticence, she needed some one who would recognize her wrongs.

CHAPTER LXXVI.

“To mercy, pity, peace, and love
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight,
Return their thankfulness.
. . . . . . 
For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face;
And Love, the human form divine;
And Peace, the human dress. 
—­WILLIAM BLAKE:  Songs of Innocence.

Some days later, Lydgate was riding to Lowick Manor, in consequence of a summons from Dorothea.  The summons had not been unexpected, since it had followed a letter from Mr. Bulstrode, in which he stated that he had resumed his arrangements for quitting Middlemarch, and must remind Lydgate of his previous communications about the Hospital, to the purport of which he still adhered.  It had been his duty, before taking further steps, to reopen the subject with Mrs. Casaubon, who now wished, as before, to discuss the question with Lydgate.  “Your views may possibly have undergone some change,” wrote Mr. Bulstrode; “but, in that case also, it is desirable that you should lay them before her.”

Dorothea awaited his arrival with eager interest.  Though, in deference to her masculine advisers, she had refrained from what Sir James had called “interfering in this Bulstrode business,” the hardship of Lydgate’s position was continually in her mind, and when Bulstrode applied to her again about the hospital, she felt that the opportunity was come to her which she had been hindered from hastening.  In her luxurious home, wandering under the boughs of her own great trees, her thought was going out over the lot of others, and her emotions were imprisoned.  The idea of some active good within her reach, “haunted her like a passion,” and another’s need having once come to her as a distinct image, preoccupied her desire with the yearning to give relief, and made her own ease tasteless.  She was full of confident hope about this interview with Lydgate, never heeding what was said of his personal reserve; never heeding that she was a very young woman.  Nothing could have seemed more irrelevant to Dorothea than insistence on her youth and sex when she was moved to show her human fellowship.