She did not move, and he came towards her with more doubt and timidity in his face than she had ever seen before.  He was in a state of uncertainty which made him afraid lest some look or word of his should condemn him to a new distance from her; and Dorothea was afraid of her own emotion.  She looked as if there were a spell upon her, keeping her motionless and hindering her from unclasping her hands, while some intense, grave yearning was imprisoned within her eyes.  Seeing that she did not put out her hand as usual, Will paused a yard from her and said with embarrassment, “I am so grateful to you for seeing me.”

“I wanted to see you,” said Dorothea, having no other words at command.  It did not occur to her to sit down, and Will did not give a cheerful interpretation to this queenly way of receiving him; but he went on to say what he had made up his mind to say.

“I fear you think me foolish and perhaps wrong for coming back so soon.  I have been punished for my impatience.  You know—­ every one knows now—–­a painful story about my parentage.  I knew of it before I went away, and I always meant to tell you of it if—­ if we ever met again.”

There was a slight movement in Dorothea, and she unclasped her hands, but immediately folded them over each other.

“But the affair is matter of gossip now,” Will continued.  “I wished you to know that something connected with it—­something which happened before I went away, helped to bring me down here again.  At least I thought it excused my coming.  It was the idea of getting Bulstrode to apply some money to a public purpose—­some money which he had thought of giving me.  Perhaps it is rather to Bulstrode’s credit that he privately offered me compensation for an old injury:  he offered to give me a good income to make amends; but I suppose you know the disagreeable story?”

Will looked doubtfully at Dorothea, but his manner was gathering some of the defiant courage with which he always thought of this fact in his destiny.  He added, “You know that it must be altogether painful to me.”

“Yes—­yes—­I know,” said Dorothea, hastily.

“I did not choose to accept an income from such a source.  I was sure that you would not think well of me if I did so,” said Will.  Why should he mind saying anything of that sort to her now?  She knew that he had avowed his love for her.  “I felt that”—­ he broke off, nevertheless.

“You acted as I should have expected you to act,” said Dorothea, her face brightening and her head becoming a little more erect on its beautiful stem.

“I did not believe that you would let any circumstance of my birth create a prejudice in you against me, though it was sure to do so in others,” said Will, shaking his head backward in his old way, and looking with a grave appeal into her eyes.

“If it were a new hardship it would be a new reason for me to cling to you,” said Dorothea, fervidly.  “Nothing could have changed me but—­” her heart was swelling, and it was difficult to go on; she made a great effort over herself to say in a low tremulous voice, “but thinking that you were different—­not so good as I had believed you to be.”