book7.xml

<A NAME="chap63"></A>
<H2 ALIGN="center">
BOOK VII.
</H2>

<BR/>

<H2 ALIGN="center">
TWO TEMPTATIONS.
</H2>

<BR/><BR/>

<H3 ALIGN="center">
CHAPTER LXIII.
</H3>

<P CLASS="intro">
These little things are great to little man.—GOLDSMITH.
</P>

<BR/>

<P>
<said who="#MrToller">Have you seen much of your scientific phoenix, Lydgate, lately?</said> said
Mr. Toller at one of his Christmas dinner-parties, speaking to Mr.
Farebrother on his right hand.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Not much, I am sorry to say,</said> answered the Vicar, accustomed to parry
Mr. Toller's banter about his belief in the new medical light.  <said who="#FB">I am
out of the way and he is too busy.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Minchin">Is he?  I am glad to hear it,</said> said Dr. Minchin, with mingled suavity
and surprise.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">He gives a great deal of time to the New Hospital,</said> said Mr.
Farebrother, who had his reasons for continuing the subject: <said who="#FB">I hear of
that from my neighbor, Mrs. Casaubon, who goes there often.  She says
Lydgate is indefatigable, and is making a fine thing of Bulstrode's
institution.  He is preparing a new ward in case of the cholera coming
to us.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrToller">And preparing theories of treatment to try on the patients, I
suppose,</said> said Mr. Toller.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Come, Toller, be candid,</said> said Mr. Farebrother.  <said who="#FB">You are too clever
not to see the good of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as well as in
everything else; and as to cholera, I fancy, none of you are very sure
what you ought to do.  If a man goes a little too far along a new road,
it is usually himself that he harms more than any one else.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Minchin">I am sure you and Wrench ought to be obliged to him,</said> said Dr.
Minchin, looking towards Toller, <said who="#Minchin">for he has sent you the cream of
Peacock's patients.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrToller">Lydgate has been living at a great rate for a young beginner,</said> said
Mr. Harry Toller, the brewer.  <said who="#MrToller">I suppose his relations in the North
back him up.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Chicely"> I hope so,</said> said Mr. Chichely, <said who="#Chicely">else he ought not to have married that
nice girl we were all so fond of.  Hang it, one has a grudge against a
man who carries off the prettiest girl in the town.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Standish">Ay, by God! and the best too,</said> said Mr. Standish.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Chicely">My friend Vincy didn't half like the marriage, I know that,</said> said Mr.
Chichely.  <said who="#Chicely"><I>He</I> wouldn't do much.  How the relations on the other side
may have come down I can't say.</said>  There was an emphatic kind of
reticence in Mr. Chichely's manner of speaking.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrToller">Oh, I shouldn't think Lydgate ever looked to practice for a living,</said>
said Mr. Toller, with a slight touch of sarcasm, and there the subject
was dropped.
</P>

<P>
This was not the first time that Mr. Farebrother had heard hints of
Lydgate's expenses being obviously too great to be met by his practice,
but he thought it not unlikely that there were resources or
expectations which excused the large outlay at the time of Lydgate's
marriage, and which might hinder any bad consequences from the
disappointment in his practice.  One evening, when he took the pains to
go to Middlemarch on purpose to have a chat with Lydgate as of old, he
noticed in him an air of excited effort quite unlike his usual easy way
of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever he had
anything to say.  Lydgate talked persistently when they were in his
work-room, putting arguments for and against the probability of certain
biological views; but he had none of those definite things to say or to
show which give the waymarks of a patient uninterrupted pursuit, such
as he used himself to insist on, saying that <said who="#Lyd">there must be a systole
and diastole in all inquiry,</said> and that <said who="#Lyd">a man's mind must be
continually expanding and shrinking between the whole human horizon and
the horizon of an object-glass.</said> That evening he seemed to be talking
widely for the sake of resisting any personal bearing; and before long
they went into the drawing room, where Lydgate, having asked Rosamond
to give them music, sank back in his chair in silence, but with a
strange light in his eyes.  <said who="#FB">He may have been taking an opiate,</said> was a
thought that crossed Mr. Farebrother's mind—<said who="#FB"> tic-douloureux
perhaps—or medical worries.</said>
</P>

<P>
It did not occur to him that Lydgate's marriage was not delightful: he
believed, as the rest did, that Rosamond was an amiable, docile
creature, though he had always thought her rather uninteresting—<FID who="#FB"> a
little too much the pattern-card of the finishing-school; and his
mother could not forgive Rosamond because she never seemed to see that
Henrietta Noble was in the room.</FID>  <said who="#FB">However, Lydgate fell in love with
her,</said> said the Vicar to himself, <said who="#FB">and she must be to his taste.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Farebrother was aware that Lydgate was a proud man, but having very
little corresponding fibre in himself, and perhaps too little care
about personal dignity, except the dignity of not being mean or
foolish, he could hardly allow enough for the way in which Lydgate
shrank, as from a burn, from the utterance of any word about his
private affairs.  And soon after that conversation at Mr. Toller's, the
Vicar learned something which made him watch the more eagerly for an
opportunity of indirectly letting Lydgate know that if he wanted to
open himself about any difficulty there was a friendly ear ready.
</P>

<P>
The opportunity came at Mr. Vincy's, where, on New Year's Day, there
was a party, to which Mr. Farebrother was irresistibly invited, on the
plea that he must not forsake his old friends on the first new year of
his being a greater man, and Rector as well as Vicar.  And this party
was thoroughly friendly: all the ladies of the Farebrother family were
present; the Vincy children all dined at the table, and Fred had
persuaded his mother that if she did not invite Mary Garth, the
Farebrothers would regard it as a slight to themselves, Mary being
their particular friend.  Mary came, and Fred was in high spirits,
though his enjoyment was of a checkered kind—triumph that his mother
should see Mary's importance with the chief personages in the party
being much streaked with jealousy when Mr. Farebrother sat down by her.
Fred used to be much more easy about his own accomplishments in the
days when he had not begun to dread being <said who="#F">bowled out by Farebrother,</said>
and this terror was still before him.  Mrs. Vincy, in her fullest
matronly bloom, looked at Mary's little figure, rough wavy hair, and
visage quite without lilies and roses, and wondered; trying
unsuccessfully to fancy herself caring about Mary's appearance in
wedding clothes, or feeling complacency in grandchildren who would
"feature" the Garths. <FID who="#M"> However, the party was a merry one, and Mary was
particularly bright; being glad, for Fred's sake, that his friends were
getting kinder to her, and being also quite willing that they should
see how much she was valued by others whom they must admit to be judges. </FID>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Farebrother noticed that Lydgate seemed bored, and that Mr. Vincy
spoke as little as possible to his son-in-law. Rosamond was perfectly
graceful and calm, and only a subtle observation such as the Vicar had
not been roused to bestow on her would have perceived the total absence
of that interest in her husband's presence which a loving wife is sure
to betray, even if etiquette keeps her aloof from him.  When Lydgate
was taking part in the conversation, she never looked towards him any
more than if she had been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look another
way: and when, after being called out for an hour or two, he re-entered
the room, she seemed unconscious of the fact, which eighteen months
before would have had the effect of a numeral before ciphers.  In
reality, however, she was intensely aware of Lydgate's voice and
movements; and her pretty good-tempered air of unconsciousness was a
studied negation by which she satisfied her inward opposition to him
without compromise of propriety.  When the ladies were in the
drawing-room after Lydgate had been called away from the dessert, Mrs.
Farebrother, when Rosamond happened to be near her, said—<said who="#MFB"> You have to
give up a great deal of your husband's society, Mrs. Lydgate.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Yes, the life of a medical man is very arduous: especially when he is
so devoted to his profession as Mr. Lydgate is,</said> said Rosamond, who was
standing, and moved easily away at the end of this correct little
speech.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsV">It is dreadfully dull for her when there is no company,</said> said Mrs.
Vincy, who was seated at the old lady's side.  <said who="#MrsV">I am sure I thought so
when Rosamond was ill, and I was staying with her.  You know, Mrs.
Farebrother, ours is a cheerful house.  I am of a cheerful disposition
myself, and Mr. Vincy always likes something to be going on.  That is
what Rosamond has been used to.  Very different from a husband out at
odd hours, and never knowing when he will come home, and of a close,
proud disposition, <I>I</I> think"—indiscreet Mrs. Vincy did lower her tone
slightly with this parenthesis.  "But Rosamond always had an angel of a
temper; her brothers used very often not to please her, but she was
never the girl to show temper; from a baby she was always as good as
good, and with a complexion beyond anything.  But my children are all
good-tempered, thank God.</said>
</P>

<P>
This was easily credible to any one looking at Mrs. Vincy as she threw
back her broad cap-strings, and smiled towards her three little girls,
aged from seven to eleven.  But in that smiling glance she was obliged
to include Mary Garth, whom the three girls had got into a corner to
make her tell them stories.  Mary was just finishing the delicious tale
of Rumpelstiltskin, which she had well by heart, because Letty was
never tired of communicating it to her ignorant elders from a favorite
red volume.  Louisa, Mrs. Vincy's darling, now ran to her with
wide-eyed serious excitement, crying, <said who="#Louisa">Oh mamma, mamma, the little man
stamped so hard on the floor he couldn't get his leg out again!</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsV">Bless you, my cherub!</said> said mamma; <said who="#MrsV">you shall tell me all about it
to-morrow. Go and listen!</said> and then, as her eyes followed Louisa back
towards the attractive corner, she thought that if Fred wished her to
invite Mary again she would make no objection, the children being so
pleased with her.
</P>

<P>
But presently the corner became still more animated, for Mr.
Farebrother came in, and seating himself behind Louisa, took her on his
lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he must hear
Rumpelstiltskin, and Mary must tell it over again.  He insisted too,
and Mary, without fuss, began again in her neat fashion, with precisely
the same words as before.  Fred, who had also seated himself near,
would have felt unmixed triumph in Mary's effectiveness if Mr.
Farebrother had not been looking at her with evident admiration, while
he dramatized an intense interest in the tale to please the children.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">You will never care any more about my one-eyed giant, Loo,</said> said Fred
at the end.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Louisa">Yes, I shall.  Tell about him now,</said> said Louisa.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Oh, I dare say; I am quite cut out.  Ask Mr. Farebrother.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#M">Yes,</said> added Mary; <said who="#M">ask Mr. Farebrother to tell you about the ants
whose beautiful house was knocked down by a giant named Tom, and he
thought they didn't mind because he couldn't hear them cry, or see them
use their pocket-handkerchiefs.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Louisa">Please,</said> said Louisa, looking up at the Vicar.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB"> No, no, I am a grave old parson.  If I try to draw a story out of my
bag a sermon comes instead.  Shall I preach you a sermon?</said> said he,
putting on his short-sighted glasses, and pursing up his lips.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Louisa">Yes,</said> said Louisa, falteringly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Let me see, then.  Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, especially
if they are sweet and have plums in them.</said>
</P>

<P>
Louisa took the affair rather seriously, and got down from the Vicar's
knee to go to Fred.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Ah, I see it will not do to preach on New Year's Day,</said> said Mr.
Farebrother, rising and walking away.  He had discovered of late that
Fred had become jealous of him, and also that he himself was not losing
his preference for Mary above all other women.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MFB">A delightful young person is Miss Garth,</said> said Mrs. Farebrother, who
had been watching her son's movements.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsV">Yes,</said> said Mrs. Vincy, obliged to reply, as the old lady turned to her
expectantly.  <said who="#MrsV">It is a pity she is not better-looking.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MFB">I cannot say that,</said> said Mrs. Farebrother, decisively.  <said who="#MFB">I like her
countenance.  We must not always ask for beauty, when a good God has
seen fit to make an excellent young woman without it.  I put good
manners first, and Miss Garth will know how to conduct herself in any
station.</said>
</P>

<P>
The old lady was a little sharp in her tone, having a prospective
reference to Mary's becoming her daughter-in-law; <FID who="#MFB"> for there was this
inconvenience in Mary's position with regard to Fred, that it was not
suitable to be made public, and hence the three ladies at Lowick
Parsonage were still hoping that Camden would choose Miss Garth. </FID>
</P>

<P>
New visitors entered, and the drawing-room was given up to music and
games, while whist-tables were prepared in the quiet room on the other
side of the hall.  Mr. Farebrother played a rubber to satisfy his
mother, who regarded her occasional whist as a protest against scandal
and novelty of opinion, in which light even a revoke had its dignity.
But at the end he got Mr. Chichely to take his place, and left the
room.  As he crossed the hall, Lydgate had just come in and was taking
off his great-coat.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">You are the man I was going to look for,</said> said the Vicar; and instead
of entering the drawing-room, they walked along the hall and stood
against the fireplace, where the frosty air helped to make a glowing
bank.  <said who="#FB">You see, I can leave the whist-table easily enough,</said> he went
on, smiling at Lydgate, <said who="#FB">now I don't play for money.  I owe that to
you, Mrs. Casaubon says.</said>
</P>

<P>
<sai who="#Lyd"d>How?</said> said Lydgate, coldly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Ah, you didn't mean me to know it; I call that ungenerous reticence.
You should let a man have the pleasure of feeling that you have done
him a good turn.  I don't enter into some people's dislike of being
under an obligation: upon my word, I prefer being under an obligation
to everybody for behaving well to me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I can't tell what you mean,</said> said Lydgate, <said who="#Lyd">unless it is that I once
spoke of you to Mrs. Casaubon.  But I did not think that she would
break her promise not to mention that I had done so,</said> said Lydgate,
leaning his back against the corner of the mantel-piece, and showing no
radiance in his face.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">It was Brooke who let it out, only the other day.  He paid me the
compliment of saying that he was very glad I had the living though you
had come across his tactics, and had praised me up as a Ken and a
Tillotson, and that sort of thing, till Mrs. Casaubon would hear of no
one else.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Oh, Brooke is such a leaky-minded fool,</said> said Lydgate, contemptuously.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Well, I was glad of the leakiness then.  I don't see why you shouldn't
like me to know that you wished to do me a service, my dear fellow.
And you certainly have done me one.  It's rather a strong check to
one's self-complacency to find how much of one's right doing depends on
not being in want of money.  A man will not be tempted to say the
Lord's Prayer backward to please the devil, if he doesn't want the
devil's services.  I have no need to hang on the smiles of chance now.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I don't see that there's any money-getting without chance,</said> said
Lydgate; <said who="#Lyd">if a man gets it in a profession, it's pretty sure to come by
chance.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Farebrother thought he could account for this speech, in striking
contrast with Lydgate's former way of talking, as the perversity which
will often spring from the moodiness of a man ill at ease in his
affairs.  He answered in a tone of good-humored admission—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Ah, there's enormous patience wanted with the way of the world.  But
it is the easier for a man to wait patiently when he has friends who
love him, and ask for nothing better than to help him through, so far
as it lies in their power.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Oh yes,</said> said Lydgate, in a careless tone, changing his attitude and
looking at his watch.  <said who="#Lyd">People make much more of their difficulties
than they need to do.</said>
</P>

<P>
He knew as distinctly as possible that this was an offer of help to
himself from Mr. Farebrother, and he could not bear it. <first> So strangely
determined are we mortals, that, after having been long gratified with
the sense that he had privately done the Vicar a service, the
suggestion that the Vicar discerned his need of a service in return
made him shrink into unconquerable reticence. </first> Besides, behind all
making of such offers what else must come?—that he should <said who="#Lyd">mention his
case,</said> imply that he wanted specific things.  At that moment, suicide
seemed easier.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man not to know the meaning of that
reply, <FID who="#FB"> and there was a certain massiveness in Lydgate's manner and
tone, corresponding with his physique, which if he repelled your
advances in the first instance seemed to put persuasive devices out of
question. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">What time are you?</said> said the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">After eleven,</said> said Lydgate.  And they went into the drawing-room.
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="64"><head>CHAPTER LXIV.</head>

<epigraph>
        1st Gent. Where lies the power, there let the blame lie too.
        2d Gent.  Nay, power is relative; you cannot fright
                  The coming pest with border fortresses,
                      Or catch your carp with subtle argument.
                      All force is twain in one: cause is not cause
                      Unless effect be there; and action's self
                      Must needs contain a passive.  So command
                      Exists but with obedience.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Even if Lydgate had been inclined to be quite open about his affairs,
he knew that it would have hardly been in Mr. Farebrother's power to
give him the help he immediately wanted. <FID who="#Lyd"> With the year's bills coming
in from his tradesmen, with Dover's threatening hold on his furniture,
and with nothing to depend on but slow dribbling payments from patients
who must not be offended—for the handsome fees he had had from
Freshitt Hall and Lowick Manor had been easily absorbed—nothing less
than a thousand pounds would have freed him from actual embarrassment, </FID>
and left a residue which, according to the favorite phrase of
hopefulness in such circumstances, would have given him <said>time to look
about him.</said>
</P>

<P>
Naturally, the merry Christmas bringing the happy New Year, when
fellow-citizens expect to be paid for the trouble and goods they have
smilingly bestowed on their neighbors, had so tightened the pressure of
sordid cares on Lydgate's mind that it was hardly possible for him to
think unbrokenly of any other subject, even the most habitual and
soliciting.  He was not an ill-tempered man; his intellectual activity,
the ardent kindness of his heart, as well as his strong frame, would
always, under tolerably easy conditions, have kept him above the petty
uncontrolled susceptibilities which make bad temper.  But he was now a
prey to that worst irritation which arises not simply from annoyances,
but from the second consciousness underlying those annoyances, of
wasted energy and a degrading preoccupation, which was the reverse of
all his former purposes.  <said who="#Lyd"><I>This</I> is what I am thinking of; and <I>that</I>
is what I might have been thinking of,</said> was the bitter incessant murmur
within him, making every difficulty a double goad to impatience.
</P>

<P>
Some gentlemen have made an amazing figure in literature by general
discontent with the universe as a trap of dulness into which their
great souls have fallen by mistake; but the sense of a stupendous self
and an insignificant world may have its consolations.  Lydgate's
discontent was much harder to bear: it was the sense that there was a
grand existence in thought and effective action lying around him, while
his self was being narrowed into the miserable isolation of egoistic
fears, and vulgar anxieties for events that might allay such fears.
His troubles will perhaps appear miserably sordid, and beneath the
attention of lofty persons who can know nothing of debt except on a
magnificent scale.  Doubtless they were sordid; and for the majority,
who are not lofty, there is no escape from sordidness but by being free
from money-craving, with all its base hopes and temptations, its
watching for death, its hinted requests, its horse-dealer's desire to
make bad work pass for good, its seeking for function which ought to be
another's, its compulsion often to long for Luck in the shape of a wide
calamity.
</P>

<P>
It was because Lydgate writhed under the idea of getting his neck
beneath this vile yoke that he had fallen into a bitter moody state
which was continually widening Rosamond's alienation from him.  After
the first disclosure about the bill of sale, he had made many efforts
to draw her into sympathy with him about possible measures for
narrowing their expenses, and with the threatening approach of
Christmas his propositions grew more and more definite.  <said who="#Lyd">We two can do
with only one servant, and live on very little,</said> he said, <said who="#Lyd">and I shall
manage with one horse.</said> <first> For Lydgate, as we have seen, had begun to
reason, with a more distinct vision, about the expenses of living, and
any share of pride he had given to appearances of that sort was meagre
compared with the pride which made him revolt from exposure as a
debtor, or from asking men to help him with their money. </first>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Of course you can dismiss the other two servants, if you like,</said> said
Rosamond; <said who="#R">but I should have thought it would be very injurious to your
position for us to live in a poor way.  You must expect your practice
to be lowered.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">My dear Rosamond, it is not a question of choice.  We have begun too
expensively.  Peacock, you know, lived in a much smaller house than
this.  It is my fault: I ought to have known better, and I deserve a
thrashing—if there were anybody who had a right to give it me—for
bringing you into the necessity of living in a poorer way than you have
been used to.  But we married because we loved each other, I suppose.
And that may help us to pull along till things get better.  Come, dear,
put down that work and come to me.</said>
</P>

<P>
He was really in chill gloom about her at that moment, but he dreaded a
future without affection, and was determined to resist the oncoming of
division between them.  Rosamond obeyed him, and he took her on his
knee, but in her secret soul she was utterly aloof from him.  The poor
thing saw only that the world was not ordered to her liking, and
Lydgate was part of that world.  But he held her waist with one hand
and laid the other gently on both of hers; for this rather abrupt man
had much tenderness in his manners towards women, seeming to have
always present in his imagination the weakness of their frames and the
delicate poise of their health both in body and mind.  And he began
again to speak persuasively.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I find, now I look into things a little, Rosy, that it is wonderful
what an amount of money slips away in our housekeeping.  I suppose the
servants are careless, and we have had a great many people coming.  But
there must be many in our rank who manage with much less: they must do
with commoner things, I suppose, and look after the scraps.  It seems,
money goes but a little way in these matters, for Wrench has everything
as plain as possible, and he has a very large practice.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Oh, if you think of living as the Wrenches do!</said> said Rosamond, with a
little turn of her neck.  <said who="#R">But I have heard you express your disgust at
that way of living.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Yes, they have bad taste in everything—they make economy look ugly.
We needn't do that.  I only meant that they avoid expenses, although
Wrench has a capital practice.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Why should not you have a good practice, Tertius?  Mr. Peacock had.
You should be more careful not to offend people, and you should send
out medicines as the others do.  I am sure you began well, and you got
several good houses.  It cannot answer to be eccentric; you should
think what will be generally liked,</said> said Rosamond, in a decided little
tone of admonition.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate's anger rose: he was prepared to be indulgent towards feminine
weakness, but not towards feminine dictation. <FID who="#Lyd"> The shallowness of a
waternixie's soul may have a charm until she becomes didactic. </FID> But he
controlled himself, and only said, with a touch of despotic firmness—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">What I am to do in my practice, Rosy, it is for me to judge.  That is
not the question between us.  It is enough for you to know that our
income is likely to be a very narrow one—hardly four hundred, perhaps
less, for a long time to come, and we must try to re-arrange our lives
in accordance with that fact.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond was silent for a moment or two, looking before her, and then
said, <said who="#R">My uncle Bulstrode ought to allow you a salary for the time you
give to the Hospital: it is not right that you should work for nothing.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">It was understood from the beginning that my services would be
gratuitous.  That, again, need not enter into our discussion.  I have
pointed out what is the only probability,</said> said Lydgate, impatiently.
Then checking himself, he went on more quietly—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I think I see one resource which would free us from a good deal of the
present difficulty.  I hear that young Ned Plymdale is going to be
married to Miss Sophy Toller.  They are rich, and it is not often that
a good house is vacant in Middlemarch.  I feel sure that they would be
glad to take this house from us with most of our furniture, and they
would be willing to pay handsomely for the lease.  I can employ
Trumbull to speak to Plymdale about it.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond left her husband's knee and walked slowly to the other end of
the room; when she turned round and walked towards him it was evident
that the tears had come, and that she was biting her under-lip and
clasping her hands to keep herself from crying.  Lydgate was
wretched—shaken with anger and yet feeling that it would be unmanly to
vent the anger just now.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I am very sorry, Rosamond; I know this is painful.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I thought, at least, when I had borne to send the plate back and have
that man taking an inventory of the furniture—I should have thought
<I>that</I> would suffice.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I explained it to you at the time, dear.  That was only a security and
behind that security there is a debt.  And that debt must be paid
within the next few months, else we shall have our furniture sold.  If
young Plymdale will take our house and most of our furniture, we shall
be able to pay that debt, and some others too, and we shall be quit of
a place too expensive for us.  We might take a smaller house: Trumbull,
I know, has a very decent one to let at thirty pounds a-year, and this
is ninety.</said>  <first> Lydgate uttered this speech in the curt hammering way with
which we usually try to nail down a vague mind to imperative facts. </first>
Tears rolled silently down Rosamond's cheeks; she just pressed her
handkerchief against them, and stood looking at the large vase on the
mantel-piece. It was a moment of more intense bitterness than she had
ever felt before.  At last she said, without hurry and with careful
emphasis—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I never could have believed that you would like to act in that way.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Like it?</said> burst out Lydgate, rising from his chair, thrusting his
hands in his pockets and stalking away from the hearth; <said who="#Lyd">it's not a
question of liking.  Of course, I don't like it; it's the only thing I
can do.</said>  He wheeled round there, and turned towards her.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I should have thought there were many other means than that,</said> said
Rosamond.  <said who="#R">Let us have a sale and leave Middlemarch altogether.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">To do what?  What is the use of my leaving my work in Middlemarch to
go where I have none?  We should be just as penniless elsewhere as we
are here,</said> said Lydgate still more angrily.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">If we are to be in that position it will be entirely your own doing,
Tertius,</said> said Rosamond, turning round to speak with the fullest
conviction.  <said who="#R">You will not behave as you ought to do to your own
family.  You offended Captain Lydgate.  Sir Godwin was very kind to me
when we were at Quallingham, and I am sure if you showed proper regard
to him and told him your affairs, he would do anything for you.  But
rather than that, you like giving up our house and furniture to Mr. Ned
Plymdale.</said>
</P>

<P>
There was something like fierceness in Lydgate's eyes, as he answered
with new violence, <said who="#Lyd">Well, then, if you will have it so, I do like it.
I admit that I like it better than making a fool of myself by going to
beg where it's of no use.  Understand then, that it is what I <I>like to
do.</I></said>
</P>

<P>
There was a tone in the last sentence which was equivalent to the
clutch of his strong hand on Rosamond's delicate arm. <FID who="#R"> But for all
that, his will was not a whit stronger than hers.</FID>  She immediately
walked out of the room in silence, but with an intense determination to
hinder what Lydgate liked to do.
</P>

<P>
He went out of the house, but as his blood cooled he felt that the
chief result of the discussion was a deposit of dread within him at the
idea of opening with his wife in future subjects which might again urge
him to violent speech. <FID who="#Lyd"> It was as if a fracture in delicate crystal had
begun, and he was afraid of any movement that might make it fatal.  His
marriage would be a mere piece of bitter irony if they could not go on
loving each other. He had long ago made up his mind to what he thought
was her negative character—her want of sensibility, which showed
itself in disregard both of his specific wishes and of his general
aims.  The first great disappointment had been borne: the tender
devotedness and docile adoration of the ideal wife must be renounced,
and life must be taken up on a lower stage of expectation, as it is by
men who have lost their limbs.  But the real wife had not only her
claims, she had still a hold on his heart, and it was his intense
desire that the hold should remain strong. </FID> In marriage, the certainty,
<said who="#Lyd">She will never love me much,</said> is easier to bear than the fear, <said "#Lyd">I
shall love her no more.</said>  Hence, after that outburst, his inward effort
was entirely to excuse her, and to blame the hard circumstances which
were partly his fault.  He tried that evening, by petting her, to heal
the wound he had made in the morning, and it was not in Rosamond's
nature to be repellent or sulky; indeed, she welcomed the signs that
her husband loved her and was under control. <FID who="#R"> But this was something
quite distinct from loving <I>him</I>.</FID> Lydgate would not have chosen soon to
recur to the plan of parting with the house; he was resolved to carry
it out, and say as little more about it as possible.  But Rosamond
herself touched on it at breakfast by saying, mildly—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Have you spoken to Trumbull yet?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No,</said> said Lydgate, <said who="#Lyd">but I shall call on him as I go by this morning.
No time must be lost.</said>  He took Rosamond's question as a sign that she
withdrew her inward opposition, and kissed her head caressingly when he
got up to go away.
</P>

<P>
As soon as it was late enough to make a call, Rosamond went to Mrs.
Plymdale, Mr. Ned's mother, and entered with pretty congratulations
into the subject of the coming marriage.  Mrs. Plymdale's maternal view
was, that Rosamond might possibly now have retrospective glimpses of
her own folly; and feeling the advantages to be at present all on the
side of her son, was too kind a woman not to behave graciously.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsPlymdale">Yes, Ned is most happy, I must say.  And Sophy Toller is all I could
desire in a daughter-in-law. Of course her father is able to do
something handsome for her—that is only what would be expected with a
brewery like his.  And the connection is everything we should desire.
But that is not what I look at.  She is such a very nice girl—no airs,
no pretensions, though on a level with the first.  I don't mean with
the titled aristocracy.  I see very little good in people aiming out of
their own sphere.  I mean that Sophy is equal to the best in the town,
and she is contented with that.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I have always thought her very agreeable,</said> said Rosamond.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsPlymdale">I look upon it as a reward for Ned, who never held his head too high,
that he should have got into the very best connection,</said> continued Mrs.
Plymdale, her native sharpness softened by a fervid sense that she was
taking a correct view.  <said who="#MrsPlymdale">And such particular people as the Tollers are,
they might have objected because some of our friends are not theirs.
It is well known that your aunt Bulstrode and I have been intimate from
our youth, and Mr. Plymdale has been always on Mr. Bulstrode's side.
And I myself prefer serious opinions.  But the Tollers have welcomed
Ned all the same.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I am sure he is a very deserving, well-principled young man,</said> said
Rosamond, with a neat air of patronage in return for Mrs. Plymdale's
wholesome corrections.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsPlymdale">Oh, he has not the style of a captain in the army, or that sort of
carriage as if everybody was beneath him, or that showy kind of
talking, and singing, and intellectual talent.  But I am thankful he
has not.  It is a poor preparation both for here and Hereafter.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Oh dear, yes; appearances have very little to do with happiness,</said> said
Rosamond.  <said who="#R">I think there is every prospect of their being a happy
couple.  What house will they take?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsPlymdale">Oh, as for that, they must put up with what they can get.  They have
been looking at the house in St. Peter's Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt's;
it belongs to him, and he is putting it nicely in repair.  I suppose
they are not likely to hear of a better.  Indeed, I think Ned will
decide the matter to-day.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I should think it is a nice house; I like St. Peter's Place.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsPlymdale">Well, it is near the Church, and a genteel situation.  But the windows
are narrow, and it is all ups and downs.  You don't happen to know of
any other that would be at liberty?</said> said Mrs. Plymdale, fixing her
round black eyes on Rosamond with the animation of a sudden thought in
them.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Oh no; I hear so little of those things.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond had not foreseen that question and answer in setting out to
pay her visit; she had simply meant to gather any information which
would help her to avert the parting with her own house under
circumstances thoroughly disagreeable to her.  As to the untruth in her
reply, she no more reflected on it than she did on the untruth there
was in her saying that appearances had very little to do with
happiness.  Her object, she was convinced, was thoroughly justifiable:
<FID who="#R">it was Lydgate whose intention was inexcusable; and there was a plan in
her mind which, when she had carried it out fully, would prove how very
false a step it would have been for him to have descended from his
position. </FID>
</P>

<P>
She returned home by Mr. Borthrop Trumbull's office, meaning to call
there.  It was the first time in her life that Rosamond had thought of
doing anything in the form of business, but she felt equal to the
occasion.  That she should be obliged to do what she intensely
disliked, was an idea which turned her quiet tenacity into active
invention. <FID who="#R"> Here was a case in which it could not be enough simply to
disobey and be serenely, placidly obstinate: she must act according to
her judgment, </FID>and she said to herself that her judgment was
right—<said who="#R"> indeed, if it had not been, she would not have wished to act on
it.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Trumbull was in the back-room of his office, and received Rosamond
with his finest manners, not only because he had much sensibility to
her charms, but <FID who="#MrTrumbull"> because the good-natured fibre in him was stirred by
his certainty that Lydgate was in difficulties, and that this
uncommonly pretty woman—this young lady with the highest personal
attractions—was likely to feel the pinch of trouble—to find herself
involved in circumstances beyond her control. </FID> He begged her to do him
the honor to take a seat, and stood before her trimming and comporting
himself with an eager solicitude, which was chiefly benevolent.
Rosamond's first question was, whether her husband had called on Mr.
Trumbull that morning, to speak about disposing of their house.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">Yes, ma'am, yes, he did; he did so,</said> said the good auctioneer, trying
to throw something soothing into his iteration.  <said who="#MrTrumbull">I was about to fulfil
his order, if possible, this afternoon.  He wished me not to
procrastinate.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I called to tell you not to go any further, Mr. Trumbull; and I beg of
you not to mention what has been said on the subject.  Will you oblige
me?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">Certainly I will, Mrs. Lydgate, certainly.  Confidence is sacred with
me on business or any other topic.  I am then to consider the
commission withdrawn?</said> said Mr. Trumbull, adjusting the long ends of
his blue cravat with both hands, and looking at Rosamond deferentially.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Yes, if you please.  I find that Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house—the
one in St. Peter's Place next to Mr. Hackbutt's. Mr. Lydgate would be
annoyed that his orders should be fulfilled uselessly.  And besides
that, there are other circumstances which render the proposal
unnecessary.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrTrumbull">Very good, Mrs. Lydgate, very good.  I am at your commands, whenever
you require any service of me,</said> said Mr. Trumbull, who felt pleasure in
conjecturing that some new resources had been opened.  <said who="#MrTrumbull">Rely on me, I
beg.  The affair shall go no further.</said>
</P>

<P>
That evening Lydgate was a little comforted by observing that Rosamond
was more lively than she had usually been of late, and even seemed
interested in doing what would please him without being asked.  He
thought, <said who="#Lyd">If she will be happy and I can rub through, what does it all
signify?  It is only a narrow swamp that we have to pass in a long
journey.  If I can get my mind clear again, I shall do.</said>
</P>

<P>
He was so much cheered that he began to search for an account of
experiments which he had long ago meant to look up, and had neglected
out of that creeping self-despair which comes in the train of petty
anxieties.  He felt again some of the old delightful absorption in a
far-reaching inquiry, while Rosamond played the quiet music which was
as helpful to his meditation as the plash of an oar on the evening
lake.  It was rather late; he had pushed away all the books, and was
looking at the fire with his hands clasped behind his head in
forgetfulness of everything except the construction of a new
controlling experiment, when Rosamond, who had left the piano and was
leaning back in her chair watching him, said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house already.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate, startled and jarred, looked up in silence for a moment, like a
man who has been disturbed in his sleep.  Then flushing with an
unpleasant consciousness, he asked—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">How do you know?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I called at Mrs. Plymdale's this morning, and she told me that he had
taken the house in St. Peter's Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt's.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate was silent.  He drew his hands from behind his head and pressed
them against the hair which was hanging, as it was apt to do, in a mass
on his forehead, while he rested his elbows on his knees.  He was
feeling bitter disappointment, as if he had opened a door out of a
suffocating place and had found it walled up; but he also felt sure
that Rosamond was pleased with the cause of his disappointment.  He
preferred not looking at her and not speaking, until he had got over
the first spasm of vexation.  After all, he said in his bitterness,
what can a woman care about so much as house and furniture? a husband
without them is an absurdity.  When he looked up and pushed his hair
aside, his dark eyes had a miserable blank non-expectance of sympathy
in them, but he only said, coolly—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Perhaps some one else may turn up.  I told Trumbull to be on the
look-out if he failed with Plymdale.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond made no remark.  She trusted to the chance that nothing more
would pass between her husband and the auctioneer until some issue
should have justified her interference; at any rate, she had hindered
the event which she immediately dreaded.  After a pause, she said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">How much money is it that those disagreeable people want?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">What disagreeable people?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Those who took the list—and the others.  I mean, how much money would
satisfy them so that you need not be troubled any more?</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate surveyed her for a moment, as if he were looking for symptoms,
and then said, <said who="#Lyd">Oh, if I could have got six hundred from Plymdale for
furniture and as premium, I might have managed.  I could have paid off
Dover, and given enough on account to the others to make them wait
patiently, if we contracted our expenses.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">But I mean how much should you want if we stayed in this house?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">More than I am likely to get anywhere,</said> said Lydgate, with rather a
grating sarcasm in his tone.  It angered him to perceive that
Rosamond's mind was wandering over impracticable wishes instead of
facing possible efforts.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Why should you not mention the sum?</said> said Rosamond, with a mild
indication that she did not like his manners.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Well,</said> said Lydgate in a guessing tone, <said who="#Lyd">it would take at least a
thousand to set me at ease.  But,</said> he added, incisively, <said who="#Lyd">I have to
consider what I shall do without it, not with it.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond said no more.
</P>

<P>
But the next day she carried out her plan of writing to Sir Godwin
Lydgate.  Since the Captain's visit, she had received a letter from
him, and also one from Mrs. Mengan, his married sister, condoling with
her on the loss of her baby, and expressing vaguely the hope that they
should see her again at Quallingham.  Lydgate had told her that this
politeness meant nothing; but she was secretly convinced that any
backwardness in Lydgate's family towards him was due to his cold and
contemptuous behavior, and she had answered the letters in her most
charming manner, feeling some confidence that a specific invitation
would follow.  But there had been total silence. <FID who="#R"> The Captain evidently
was not a great penman, </FID>and Rosamond reflected that the sisters might
have been abroad. <FID who="#R"> However, the season was come for thinking of friends
at home, and at any rate Sir Godwin, who had chucked her under the
chin, and pronounced her to be like the celebrated beauty, Mrs. Croly,
who had made a conquest of him in 1790, would be touched by any appeal
from her, and would find it pleasant for her sake to behave as he ought
to do towards his nephew. </FID> Rosamond was naively convinced of what an
old gentleman ought to do to prevent her from suffering annoyance.  And
she wrote what she considered the most judicious letter possible—one
which would strike Sir Godwin as a proof of her excellent sense—pointing
out how desirable it was that Tertius should quit such a place
as Middlemarch for one more fitted to his talents, how the unpleasant
character of the inhabitants had hindered his professional success, and
how in consequence he was in money difficulties, from which it would
require a thousand pounds thoroughly to extricate him.  She did not say
that Tertius was unaware of her intention to write; for she had the
idea that his supposed sanction of her letter would be in accordance
with what she did say of his great regard for his uncle Godwin as the
relative who had always been his best friend.  Such was the force of
Poor Rosamond's tactics now she applied them to affairs.
</P>

<P>
This had happened before the party on New Year's Day, and no answer had
yet come from Sir Godwin.  But on the morning of that day Lydgate had
to learn that Rosamond had revoked his order to Borthrop Trumbull.
Feeling it necessary that she should be gradually accustomed to the
idea of their quitting the house in Lowick Gate, he overcame his
reluctance to speak to her again on the subject, and when they were
breakfasting said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I shall try to see Trumbull this morning, and tell him to advertise
the house in the 'Pioneer' and the 'Trumpet.' If the thing were
advertised, some one might be inclined to take it who would not
otherwise have thought of a change.  In these country places many
people go on in their old houses when their families are too large for
them, for want of knowing where they can find another.  And Trumbull
seems to have got no bite at all.</said>
</P>

<P>
Rosamond knew that the inevitable moment was come.  <said who="#R">I ordered Trumbull
not to inquire further,</said> she said, with a careful calmness which was
evidently defensive.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate stared at her in mute amazement.  Only half an hour before he
had been fastening up her plaits for her, and talking the <said who="#Lyd">little
language</said> of affection, which Rosamond, though not returning it,
accepted as if she had been a serene and lovely image, now and then
miraculously dimpling towards her votary.  With such fibres still astir
in him, the shock he received could not at once be distinctly anger; it
was confused pain.  He laid down the knife and fork with which he was
carving, and throwing himself back in his chair, said at last, with a
cool irony in his tone—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">May I ask when and why you did so?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">When I knew that the Plymdales had taken a house, I called to tell him
not to mention ours to them; and at the same time I told him not to let
the affair go on any further.  I knew that it would be very injurious
to you if it were known that you wished to part with your house and
furniture, and I had a very strong objection to it.  I think that was
reason enough.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">It was of no consequence then that I had told you imperative reasons
of another kind; of no consequence that I had come to a different
conclusion, and given an order accordingly?</said> said Lydgate, bitingly,
the thunder and lightning gathering about his brow and eyes.
</P>

<P>
The effect of any one's anger on Rosamond had always been to make her
shrink in cold dislike, and to become all the more calmly correct, in
the conviction that she was not the person to misbehave whatever others
might do.  She replied—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I think I had a perfect right to speak on a subject which concerns me
at least as much as you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Clearly—you had a right to speak, but only to me.  You had no right
to contradict my orders secretly, and treat me as if I were a fool,</said>
said Lydgate, in the same tone as before.  Then with some added scorn,
<said who="#Lyd">Is it possible to make you understand what the consequences will be?
Is it of any use for me to tell you again why we must try to part with
the house?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">It is not necessary for you to tell me again,</said> said Rosamond, in a
voice that fell and trickled like cold water-drops. <said who="#R">I remembered what
you said.  You spoke just as violently as you do now.  But that does
not alter my opinion that you ought to try every other means rather
than take a step which is so painful to me.  And as to advertising the
house, I think it would be perfectly degrading to you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">And suppose I disregard your opinion as you disregard mine?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">You can do so, of course.  But I think you ought to have told me
before we were married that you would place me in the worst position,
rather than give up your own will.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate did not speak, but tossed his head on one side, and twitched
the corners of his mouth in despair.  Rosamond, seeing that he was not
looking at her, rose and set his cup of coffee before him; but he took
no notice of it, and went on with an inward drama and argument,
occasionally moving in his seat, resting one arm on the table, and
rubbing his hand against his hair.  There was a conflux of emotions and
thoughts in him that would not let him either give thorough way to his
anger or persevere with simple rigidity of resolve.  Rosamond took
advantage of his silence.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">When we were married everyone felt that your position was very high.
I could not have imagined then that you would want to sell our
furniture, and take a house in Bride Street, where the rooms are like
cages.  If we are to live in that way let us at least leave
Middlemarch.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">These would be very strong considerations,</said> said Lydgate, half
ironically—still there was a withered paleness about his lips as he
looked at his coffee, and did not drink— <said who="#Lyd"> these would be very strong
considerations if I did not happen to be in debt.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">Many persons must have been in debt in the same way, but if they are
respectable, people trust them.  I am sure I have heard papa say that
the Torbits were in debt, and they went on very well.  It cannot be
good to act rashly,</said> said Rosamond, with serene wisdom.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate sat paralyzed by opposing impulses: since no reasoning he could
apply to Rosamond seemed likely to conquer her assent, he wanted to
smash and grind some object on which he could at least produce an
impression, or else to tell her brutally that he was master, and she
must obey.  But he not only dreaded the effect of such extremities on
their mutual life—he had a growing dread of Rosamond's quiet elusive
obstinacy, which would not allow any assertion of power to be final;
and again, she had touched him in a spot of keenest feeling by implying
that she had been deluded with a false vision of happiness in marrying
him. <FID who="#Lyd"> As to saying that he was master, it was not the fact. </FID> The very
resolution to which he had wrought himself by dint of logic and
honorable pride was beginning to relax under her torpedo contact.  He
swallowed half his cup of coffee, and then rose to go.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I may at least request that you will not go to Trumbull at
present—until it has been seen that there are no other means,</said> said
Rosamond.  Although she was not subject to much fear, she felt it safer
not to betray that she had written to Sir Godwin.  <said who="#R">Promise me that you
will not go to him for a few weeks, or without telling me.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate gave a short laugh.  <said who="#Lyd">I think it is I who should exact a
promise that you will do nothing without telling me,</said> he said, turning
his eyes sharply upon her, and then moving to the door.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">You remember that we are going to dine at papa's,</said> said Rosamond,
wishing that he should turn and make a more thorough concession to her.
But he only said <said who="#Lyd">Oh yes,</said> impatiently, and went away. <FID who="#R"> She held it to
be very odious in him that he did not think the painful propositions he
had had to make to her were enough, without showing so unpleasant a
temper.  And when she put the moderate request that he would defer
going to Trumbull again, it was cruel in him not to assure her of what
he meant to do. </FID> She was convinced of her having acted in every way for
the best; and each grating or angry speech of Lydgate's served only as
an addition to the register of offences in her mind.  Poor Rosamond for
months had begun to associate her husband with feelings of
disappointment, and the terribly inflexible relation of marriage had
lost its charm of encouraging delightful dreams. <FID who="#R"> It had freed her from
the disagreeables of her father's house, but it had not given her
everything that she had wished and hoped.  The Lydgate with whom she
had been in love had been a group of airy conditions for her, most of
which had disappeared, while their place had been taken by every-day
details which must be lived through slowly from hour to hour, not
floated through with a rapid selection of favorable aspects.  The
habits of Lydgate's profession, his home preoccupation with scientific
subjects, which seemed to her almost like a morbid vampire's taste, his
peculiar views of things which had never entered into the dialogue of
courtship—all these continually alienating influences, even without
the fact of his having placed himself at a disadvantage in the town,
and without that first shock of revelation about Dover's debt, would
have made his presence dull to her. There was another presence which
ever since the early days of her marriage, until four months ago, had
been an agreeable excitement, but that was gone: Rosamond would not
confess to herself how much the consequent blank had to do with her
utter ennui; and it seemed to her (perhaps she was right) that an
invitation to Quallingham, and an opening for Lydgate to settle
elsewhere than in Middlemarch—in London, or somewhere likely to be
free from unpleasantness—would satisfy her quite well, and make her
indifferent to the absence of Will Ladislaw, towards whom she felt some
resentment for his exaltation of Mrs. Casaubon. </FID>
</P>

<P>
That was the state of things with Lydgate and Rosamond on the New
Year's Day when they dined at her father's, she looking mildly neutral
towards him in remembrance of his ill-tempered behavior at breakfast,
and he carrying a much deeper effect from the inward conflict in which
that morning scene was only one of many epochs.  His flushed effort
while talking to Mr. Farebrother—his effort after the cynical pretence
that all ways of getting money are essentially the same, and that
chance has an empire which reduces choice to a fool's illusion—was but
the symptom of a wavering resolve, a benumbed response to the old
stimuli of enthusiasm.
</P>

<P>
<FID who="#Lyd"> What was he to do? </FID> He saw even more keenly than Rosamond did the
dreariness of taking her into the small house in Bride Street, where
she would have scanty furniture around her and discontent within: a
life of privation and life with Rosamond were two images which had
become more and more irreconcilable ever since the threat of privation
had disclosed itself.  But even if his resolves had forced the two
images into combination, the useful preliminaries to that hard change
were not visibly within reach.  And though he had not given the promise
which his wife had asked for, he did not go again to Trumbull.  He even
began to think of taking a rapid journey to the North and seeing Sir
Godwin.  He had once believed that nothing would urge him into making
an application for money to his uncle, but he had not then known the
full pressure of alternatives yet more disagreeable.  He could not
depend on the effect of a letter; it was only in an interview, however
disagreeable this might be to himself, that he could give a thorough
explanation and could test the effectiveness of kinship.  No sooner had
Lydgate begun to represent this step to himself as the easiest than
there was a reaction of anger that he—he who had long ago determined
to live aloof from such abject calculations, such self-interested
anxiety about the inclinations and the pockets of men with whom he had
been proud to have no aims in common—should have fallen not simply to
their level, but to the level of soliciting them.
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="65"><head>CHAPTER LXV.</head>

<epigraph>
         One of us two must bowen douteless,
         And, sith a man is more reasonable
         Than woman is, ye [men] moste be suffrable.
                                 —CHAUCER: Canterbury Tales.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
The bias of human nature to be slow in correspondence triumphs even
over the present quickening in the general pace of things: what wonder
then that in 1832 old Sir Godwin Lydgate was slow to write a letter
which was of consequence to others rather than to himself?  Nearly
three weeks of the new year were gone, and Rosamond, awaiting an answer
to her winning appeal, was every day disappointed.  Lydgate, in total
ignorance of her expectations, was seeing the bills come in, and
feeling that Dover's use of his advantage over other creditors was
imminent. <FID who="#Lyd"> He had never mentioned to Rosamond his brooding purpose of
going to Quallingham: he did not want to admit what would appear to her
a concession to her wishes after indignant refusal, until the last
moment; but he was really expecting to set off soon.  A slice of the
railway would enable him to manage the whole journey and back in four
days. </FID>
</P>

<P>
But one morning after Lydgate had gone out, a letter came addressed to
him, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from Sir Godwin.  She was full of
hope.  Perhaps there might be a particular note to her enclosed; but
Lydgate was naturally addressed on the question of money or other aid,
and the fact that he was written to, nay, the very delay in writing at
all, seemed to certify that the answer was thoroughly compliant.  She
was too much excited by these thoughts to do anything but light
stitching in a warm corner of the dining-room, with the outside of this
momentous letter lying on the table before her.  About twelve she heard
her husband's step in the passage, and tripping to open the door, she
said in her lightest tones, <said who="#R">Tertius, come in here—here is a letter
for you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Ah?</said> he said, not taking off his hat, but just turning her round
within his arm to walk towards the spot where the letter lay.  <said who="#Lyd"> My
uncle Godwin!</said> he exclaimed, while Rosamond reseated herself, and
watched him as he opened the letter.  She had expected him to be
surprised.
</P>

<P>
While Lydgate's eyes glanced rapidly over the brief letter, she saw his
face, usually of a pale brown, taking on a dry whiteness; with nostrils
and lips quivering he tossed down the letter before her, and said
violently—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">It will be impossible to endure life with you, if you will always be
acting secretly—acting in opposition to me and hiding your actions.</said>
</P>

<P>
He checked his speech and turned his back on her—then wheeled round
and walked about, sat down, and got up again restlessly, grasping hard
the objects deep down in his pockets.  He was afraid of saying
something irremediably cruel.
</P>

<P>
Rosamond too had changed color as she read.  The letter ran in this
way:—
</P>

<P CLASS="letter">
<said>DEAR TERTIUS,—Don't set your wife to write to me when you have
anything to ask.  It is a roundabout wheedling sort of thing which I
should not have credited you with.  I never choose to write to a woman
on matters of business.  As to my supplying you with a thousand pounds,
or only half that sum, I can do nothing of the sort.  My own family
drains me to the last penny.  With two younger sons and three
daughters, I am not likely to have cash to spare.  You seem to have got
through your own money pretty quickly, and to have made a mess where
you are; the sooner you go somewhere else the better.  But I have
nothing to do with men of your profession, and can't help you there.  I
did the best I could for you as guardian, and let you have your own way
in taking to medicine.  You might have gone into the army or the
Church.  Your money would have held out for that, and there would have
been a surer ladder before you.  Your uncle Charles has had a grudge
against you for not going into his profession, but not I. I have always
wished you well, but you must consider yourself on your own legs
entirely now.
</P>

<P CLASS="closing">
Your affectionate uncle,<BR/>
    GODWIN LYDGATE."<BR/>
</P>

<P>
When Rosamond had finished reading the letter she sat quite still, with
her hands folded before her, restraining any show of her keen
disappointment, and intrenching herself in quiet passivity under her
husband's wrath.  Lydgate paused in his movements, looked at her again,
and said, with biting severity—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd"> Will this be enough to convince you of the harm you may do by secret
meddling?  Have you sense enough to recognize now your incompetence to
judge and act for me—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which
it belongs to me to decide on?</said>
</P>

<P>
<FID who="#R">The words were hard; but this was not the first time that Lydgate had
been frustrated by her. </FID> She did not look at him, and made no reply.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I had nearly resolved on going to Quallingham.  It would have cost me
pain enough to do it, yet it might have been of some use.  But it has
been of no use for me to think of anything.  You have always been
counteracting me secretly.  You delude me with a false assent, and then
I am at the mercy of your devices.  If you mean to resist every wish I
express, say so and defy me.  I shall at least know what I am doing
then.</said>
</P>

<P>
It is a terrible moment in young lives when the closeness of love's
bond has turned to this power of galling.  In spite of Rosamond's
self-control a tear fell silently and rolled over her lips.  She still
said nothing; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she
was in such entire disgust with her husband that she wished she had
never seen him. <FID who="#R"> Sir Godwin's rudeness towards her and utter want of
feeling ranged him with Dover and all other creditors—disagreeable
people who only thought of themselves, and did not mind how annoying
they were to her.  Even her father was unkind, and might have done more
for them.  In fact there was but one person in Rosamond's world whom
she did not regard as blameworthy, and that was the graceful creature
with blond plaits and with little hands crossed before her, who had
never expressed herself unbecomingly, and had always acted for the
best—the best naturally being what she best liked. </FID>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate pausing and looking at her began to feel that half-maddening
sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their
passion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air
seems to put them in the wrong, and at last infects even the justest
indignation with a doubt of its justice.  He needed to recover the full
sense that he was in the right by moderating his words.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Can you not see, Rosamond,</said> he began again, trying to be simply grave
and not bitter, <said who="#Lyd">that nothing can be so fatal as a want of openness and
confidence between us?  It has happened again and again that I have
expressed a decided wish, and you have seemed to assent, yet after that
you have secretly disobeyed my wish.  In that way I can never know what
I have to trust to.  There would be some hope for us if you would admit
this.  Am I such an unreasonable, furious brute?  Why should you not be
open with me?</said>  Still silence.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Will you only say that you have been mistaken, and that I may depend
on your not acting secretly in future?</said> said Lydgate, urgently, but
with something of request in his tone which Rosamond was quick to
perceive.  She spoke with coolness.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I cannot possibly make admissions or promises in answer to such words
as you have used towards me.  I have not been accustomed to language of
that kind.  You have spoken of my 'secret meddling,' and my
'interfering ignorance,' and my 'false assent.'  I have never expressed
myself in that way to you, and I think that you ought to apologize.
You spoke of its being impossible to live with me.  Certainly you have
not made my life pleasant to me of late.  I think it was to be expected
that I should try to avert some of the hardships which our marriage has
brought on me.</said>  Another tear fell as Rosamond ceased speaking, and she
pressed it away as quietly as the first.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate flung himself into a chair, feeling checkmated. <FID who="#Lyd"> What place was
there in her mind for a remonstrance to lodge in? </FID> He laid down his
hat, flung an arm over the back of his chair, and looked down for some
moments without speaking. <FID who="#Lyd"> Rosamond had the double purchase over him of
insensibility to the point of justice in his reproach, and of
sensibility to the undeniable hardships now present in her married
life. </FID> Although her duplicity in the affair of the house had exceeded
what he knew, and had really hindered the Plymdales from knowing of it,
she had no consciousness that her action could rightly be called false. </said>
 <first> We are not obliged to identify our own acts according to a strict
classification, any more than the materials of our grocery and clothes.
Rosamond felt that she was aggrieved, and that this was what Lydgate
had to recognize. </first>
</P>

<P>
As for him, the need of accommodating himself to her nature, which was
inflexible in proportion to its negations, held him as with pincers.
He had begun to have an alarmed foresight of her irrevocable loss of
love for him, and the consequent dreariness of their life.  The ready
fulness of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the
first violent movements of his anger. <FID who="#Lyd"> It would assuredly have been a
vain boast in him to say that he was her master. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">You have not made my life pleasant to me of late</said>— <said who="#Lyd"> the hardships
which our marriage has brought on me </said>—these words were stinging his
imagination as a pain makes an exaggerated dream. <FID who="#Lyd"> If he were not only
to sink from his highest resolve, but to sink into the hideous
fettering of domestic hate? </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd"> Rosamond,</said> he said, turning his eyes on her with a melancholy look,
<said who="#Lyd">you should allow for a man's words when he is disappointed and
provoked.  You and I cannot have opposite interests.  I cannot part my
happiness from yours.  If I am angry with you, it is that you seem not
to see how any concealment divides us.  How could I wish to make
anything hard to you either by my words or conduct?  When I hurt you, I
hurt part of my own life.  I should never be angry with you if you
would be quite open with me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I have only wished to prevent you from hurrying us into wretchedness
without any necessity,</said> said Rosamond, the tears coming again from a
softened feeling now that her husband had softened.  <said who="#R">It is so very
hard to be disgraced here among all the people we know, and to live in
such a miserable way.  I wish I had died with the baby.</said>
</P>

<P>
She spoke and wept with that gentleness which makes such words and
tears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man.  Lydgate drew his chair
near to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his
powerful tender hand.  He only caressed her; he did not say anything;
<FID who="#Lyd"> for what was there to say?  He could not promise to shield her from the
dreaded wretchedness, for he could see no sure means of doing so. </FID> When
he left her to go out again, he told himself that it was ten times
harder for her than for him: <FID who="#Lyd"> he had a life away from home, and constant
appeals to his activity on behalf of others.  He wished to excuse
everything in her if he could—but it was inevitable that in that
excusing mood he should think of her as if she were an animal of
another and feebler species.  Nevertheless she had mastered him. </FID>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="66"><head>CHAPTER LXVI.</head>

<epigraph>
        <said>'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,
          Another thing to fall.</said>
                              —Measure for Measure.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Lydgate certainly had good reason to reflect on the service his
practice did him in counteracting his personal cares.  He had no longer
free energy enough for spontaneous research and speculative thinking,
but by the bedside of patients, the direct external calls on his
judgment and sympathies brought the added impulse needed to draw him
out of himself.  It was not simply that beneficent harness of routine
which enables silly men to live respectably and unhappy men to live
calmly—it was a perpetual claim on the immediate fresh application of
thought, and on the consideration of another's need and trial. <first> Many of
us looking back through life would say that the kindest man we have
ever known has been a medical man, or perhaps that surgeon whose fine
tact, directed by deeply informed perception, has come to us in our
need with a more sublime beneficence than that of miracle-workers.<first>  Some
of that twice-blessed mercy was always with Lydgate in his work at the
Hospital or in private houses, serving better than any opiate to quiet
and sustain him under his anxieties and his sense of mental degeneracy.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Farebrother's suspicion as to the opiate was true, however.  Under
the first galling pressure of foreseen difficulties, and the first
perception that his marriage, if it were not to be a yoked loneliness,
must be a state of effort to go on loving without too much care about
being loved, he had once or twice tried a dose of opium.  But he had no
hereditary constitutional craving after such transient escapes from the
hauntings of misery.  He was strong, could drink a great deal of wine,
but did not care about it; and when the men round him were drinking
spirits, he took sugar and water, having a contemptuous pity even for
the earliest stages of excitement from drink.  It was the same with
gambling.  He had looked on at a great deal of gambling in Paris,
watching it as if it had been a disease.  He was no more tempted by
such winning than he was by drink.  He had said to himself that the
only winning he cared for must be attained by a conscious process of
high, difficult combination tending towards a beneficent result.  The
power he longed for could not be represented by agitated fingers
clutching a heap of coin, or by the half-barbarous, half-idiotic
triumph in the eyes of a man who sweeps within his arms the ventures of
twenty chapfallen companions.
</P>

<P>
But just as he had tried opium, so his thought now began to turn upon
gambling—not with appetite for its excitement, but with a sort of
wistful inward gaze after that easy way of getting money, which implied
no asking and brought no responsibility.  If he had been in London or
Paris at that time, it is probable that such thoughts, seconded by
opportunity, would have taken him into a gambling-house, no longer to
watch the gamblers, but to watch with them in kindred eagerness.
Repugnance would have been surmounted by the immense need to win, if
chance would be kind enough to let him.  An incident which happened not
very long after that airy notion of getting aid from his uncle had been
excluded, was a strong sign of the effect that might have followed any
extant opportunity of gambling.
</P>

<P>
<first> The billiard-room at the Green Dragon was the constant resort of a
certain set, most of whom, like our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge, were
regarded as men of pleasure. </first> It was here that poor Fred Vincy had made
part of his memorable debt, having lost money in betting, and been
obliged to borrow of that gay companion.  It was generally known in
Middlemarch that a good deal of money was lost and won in this way; and
the consequent repute of the Green Dragon as a place of dissipation
naturally heightened in some quarters the temptation to go there.
Probably its regular visitants, like the initiates of freemasonry,
wished that there were something a little more tremendous to keep to
themselves concerning it; but they were not a closed community, and
many decent seniors as well as juniors occasionally turned into the
billiard-room to see what was going on.  Lydgate, who had the muscular
aptitude for billiards, and was fond of the game, had once or twice in
the early days after his arrival in Middlemarch taken his turn with the
cue at the Green Dragon; but afterwards he had no leisure for the game,
and no inclination for the socialities there.  One evening, however, he
had occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge at that resort.  The horsedealer had
engaged to get him a customer for his remaining good horse, for which
Lydgate had determined to substitute a cheap hack, hoping by this
reduction of style to get perhaps twenty pounds; and he cared now for
every small sum, as a help towards feeding the patience of his
tradesmen. <FID who="#Lyd">  To run up to the billiard-room, as he was passing, would
save time. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<FID who="#Lyd"> Mr. Bambridge was not yet come, but would be sure to arrive by-and-by,
said his friend Mr. Horrock; </FID> and Lydgate stayed, playing a game for the
sake of passing the time.  That evening he had the peculiar light in
the eyes and the unusual vivacity which had been once noticed in him by
Mr. Farebrother.  The exceptional fact of his presence was much noticed
in the room, where there was a good deal of Middlemarch company; and
several lookers-on, as well as some of the players, were betting with
animation.  Lydgate was playing well, and felt confident; the bets were
dropping round him, and with a swift glancing thought of the probable
gain which might double the sum he was saving from his horse, he began
to bet on his own play, and won again and again.  Mr. Bambridge had
come in, but Lydgate did not notice him.  He was not only excited with
his play, but visions were gleaming on him of going the next day to
Brassing, where there was gambling on a grander scale to be had, and
where, by one powerful snatch at the devil's bait, he might carry it
off without the hook, and buy his rescue from his daily solicitings.
</P>

<P>
He was still winning when two new visitors entered.  One of them was a
young Hawley, just come from his law studies in town, and the other was
Fred Vincy, who had spent several evenings of late at this old haunt of
his.  Young Hawley, an accomplished billiard-player, brought a cool
fresh hand to the cue.  But Fred Vincy, startled at seeing Lydgate, and
astonished to see him betting with an excited air, stood aside, and
kept out of the circle round the table.
</P>

<P>
Fred had been rewarding resolution by a little laxity of late.  He had
been working heartily for six months at all outdoor occupations under
Mr. Garth, and by dint of severe practice had nearly mastered the
defects of his handwriting, this practice being, perhaps, a little the
less severe that it was often carried on in the evening at Mr. Garth's
under the eyes of Mary.  But the last fortnight Mary had been staying
at Lowick Parsonage with the ladies there, during Mr. Farebrother's
residence in Middlemarch, where he was carrying out some parochial
plans; and Fred, not seeing anything more agreeable to do, had turned
into the Green Dragon, partly to play at billiards, partly to taste the
old flavor of discourse about horses, sport, and things in general,
considered from a point of view which was not strenuously correct.  He
had not been out hunting once this season, had had no horse of his own
to ride, and had gone from place to place chiefly with Mr. Garth in his
gig, or on the sober cob which Mr. Garth could lend him.  It was a
little too bad, Fred began to think, that he should be kept in the
traces with more severity than if he had been a clergyman.  <said who="#F">I will
tell you what, Mistress Mary—it will be rather harder work to learn
surveying and drawing plans than it would have been to write sermons,</said>
he had said, wishing her to appreciate what he went through for her
sake; <said who="#F">and as to Hercules and Theseus, they were nothing to me.  They
had sport, and never learned to write a bookkeeping hand.</said> And now,
Mary being out of the way for a little while, Fred, like any other
strong dog who cannot slip his collar, had pulled up the staple of his
chain and made a small escape, not of course meaning to go fast or far.
<FID who="#F"> There could be no reason why he should not play at billiards, but he
was determined not to bet. </FID>  As to money just now, Fred had in his mind
the heroic project of saving almost all of the eighty pounds that Mr.
Garth offered him, and returning it, which he could easily do by giving
up all futile money-spending, since he had a superfluous stock of
clothes, and no expense in his board. <FID who="#F">  In that way he could, in one
year, go a good way towards repaying the ninety pounds of which he had
deprived Mrs. Garth, unhappily at a time when she needed that sum more
than she did now. </FID>  Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that on this
evening, which was the fifth of his recent visits to the billiard-room,
<FID who="#F"> Fred had, not in his pocket, but in his mind, the ten pounds which he
meant to reserve for himself from his half-year's salary (having before
him the pleasure of carrying thirty to Mrs. Garth when Mary was likely
to be come home again)—he had those ten pounds in his mind as a fund
from which he might risk something, if there were a chance of a good
bet.  Why?  Well, when sovereigns were flying about, why shouldn't he
catch a few?  He would never go far along that road again; but a man
likes to assure himself, and men of pleasure generally, what he could
do in the way of mischief if he chose, and that if he abstains from
making himself ill, or beggaring himself, or talking with the utmost
looseness which the narrow limits of human capacity will allow, it is
not because he is a spooney. </FID>  Fred did not enter into formal reasons,
which are a very artificial, inexact way of representing the tingling
returns of old habit, and the caprices of young blood: but there was
lurking in him a prophetic sense that evening, that when he began to
play he should also begin to bet—that he should enjoy some
punch-drinking, and in general prepare himself for feeling <said who="#F">rather
seedy</said> in the morning.  It is in such indefinable movements that action
often begins.
</P>

<P>
But the last thing likely to have entered Fred's expectation was that
he should see his brother-in-law Lydgate—of whom he had never quite
dropped the old opinion that he was a prig, and tremendously conscious
of his superiority—looking excited and betting, just as he himself
might have done.  Fred felt a shock greater than he could quite account
for by the vague knowledge that Lydgate was in debt, and that his
father had refused to help him; and his own inclination to enter into
the play was suddenly checked.  It was a strange reversal of attitudes:
Fred's blond face and blue eyes, usually bright and careless, ready to
give attention to anything that held out a promise of amusement,
looking involuntarily grave and almost embarrassed as if by the sight
of something unfitting; while Lydgate, who had habitually an air of
self-possessed strength, and a certain meditativeness that seemed to
lie behind his most observant attention, was acting, watching, speaking
with that excited narrow consciousness which reminds one of an animal
with fierce eyes and retractile claws.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate, by betting on his own strokes, had won sixteen pounds; but
young Hawley's arrival had changed the poise of things.  He made
first-rate strokes himself, and began to bet against Lydgate's strokes,
the strain of whose nerves was thus changed from simple confidence in
his own movements to defying another person's doubt in them.  The
defiance was more exciting than the confidence, but it was less sure.
He continued to bet on his own play, but began often to fail.  Still he
went on, for his mind was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous
crevice of play as if he had been the most ignorant lounger there.
Fred observed that Lydgate was losing fast, and found himself in the
new situation of puzzling his brains to think of some device by which,
without being offensive, he could withdraw Lydgate's attention, and
perhaps suggest to him a reason for quitting the room.  He saw that
others were observing Lydgate's strange unlikeness to himself, and it
occurred to him that merely to touch his elbow and call him aside for a
moment might rouse him from his absorption.  He could think of nothing
cleverer than the daring improbability of saying that he wanted to see
Rosy, and wished to know if she were at home this evening; and he was
going desperately to carry out this weak device, when a waiter came up
to him with a message, saying that Mr. Farebrother was below, and
begged to speak with him.
</P>

<P>
Fred was surprised, not quite comfortably, but sending word that he
would be down immediately, he went with a new impulse up to Lydgate,
said, <said who="#F">Can I speak to you a moment?</said> and drew him aside.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Farebrother has just sent up a message to say that he wants to speak
to me.  He is below.  I thought you might like to know he was there, if
you had anything to say to him.</said>
</P>

<P>
Fred had simply snatched up this pretext for speaking, because he could
not say, <said who="#F">You are losing confoundedly, and are making everybody stare
at you; you had better come away.</said>  But inspiration could hardly have
served him better.  Lydgate had not before seen that Fred was present,
and his sudden appearance with an announcement of Mr. Farebrother had
the effect of a sharp concussion.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No, no,</said> said Lydgate; <said who="#Lyd">I have nothing particular to say to him.
But—the game is up—I must be going—I came in just to see Bambridge.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Bambridge is over there, but he is making a row—I don't think he's
ready for business.  Come down with me to Farebrother.  I expect he is
going to blow me up, and you will shield me,</said> said Fred, with some
adroitness.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate felt shame, but could not bear to act as if he felt it, by
refusing to see Mr. Farebrother; and he went down.  They merely shook
hands, however, and spoke of the frost; and when all three had turned
into the street, the Vicar seemed quite willing to say good-by to
Lydgate.  His present purpose was clearly to talk with Fred alone, and
he said, kindly, <said who="#FB">I disturbed you, young gentleman, because I have some
pressing business with you.  Walk with me to St. Botolph's, will you?</said>
</P>

<P>
It was a fine night, the sky thick with stars, and Mr. Farebrother
proposed that they should make a circuit to the old church by the
London road.  The next thing he said was—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">I thought Lydgate never went to the Green Dragon?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">So did I,</said> said Fred.  <said who="#F">But he said that he went to see Bambridge.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">He was not playing, then?</said>
</P>

<P>
Fred had not meant to tell this, but he was obliged now to say, <said who="#F">Yes,
he was.  But I suppose it was an accidental thing.  I have never seen
him there before.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">You have been going often yourself, then, lately?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Oh, about five or six times.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">I think you had some good reason for giving up the habit of going
there?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Yes.  You know all about it,</said> said Fred, not liking to be catechised
in this way.  <said who="#F">I made a clean breast to you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">I suppose that gives me a warrant to speak about the matter now.  It
is understood between us, is it not?—that we are on a footing of open
friendship: I have listened to you, and you will be willing to listen
to me.  I may take my turn in talking a little about myself?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I am under the deepest obligation to you, Mr. Farebrother,</said> said Fred,
in a state of uncomfortable surmise.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">I will not affect to deny that you are under some obligation to me.
But I am going to confess to you, Fred, that I have been tempted to
reverse all that by keeping silence with you just now.  When somebody
said to me, 'Young Vincy has taken to being at the billiard-table every
night again—he won't bear the curb long;' I was tempted to do the
opposite of what I am doing—to hold my tongue and wait while you went
down the ladder again, betting first and then—</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I have not made any bets,</said> said Fred, hastily.
</P>

<P>
<sai who="#FB">Glad to hear it.  But I say, my prompting was to look on and see you
take the wrong turning, wear out Garth's patience, and lose the best
opportunity of your life—the opportunity which you made some rather
difficult effort to secure.  You can guess the feeling which raised
that temptation in me—I am sure you know it.  I am sure you know that
the satisfaction of your affections stands in the way of mine.</said>
</P>

<P>
There was a pause. <FID who="#F">  Mr. Farebrother seemed to wait for a recognition of
the fact; and the emotion perceptible in the tones of his fine voice
gave solemnity to his words. </FID>  But no feeling could quell Fred's alarm.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I could not be expected to give her up,</said> he said, after a moment's
hesitation: it was not a case for any pretence of generosity.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Clearly not, when her affection met yours.  But relations of this
sort, even when they are of long standing, are always liable to change.
I can easily conceive that you might act in a way to loosen the tie she
feels towards you—it must be remembered that she is only conditionally
bound to you—and that in that case, another man, who may flatter
himself that he has a hold on her regard, might succeed in winning that
firm place in her love as well as respect which you had let slip.  I
can easily conceive such a result,</said> repeated Mr. Farebrother,
emphatically.  <said who="#FB">There is a companionship of ready sympathy, which might
get the advantage even over the longest associations.</said>  It seemed to
Fred that if Mr. Farebrother had had a beak and talons instead of his
very capable tongue, his mode of attack could hardly be more cruel.  He
had a horrible conviction that behind all this hypothetic statement
there was a knowledge of some actual change in Mary's feeling.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">Of course I know it might easily be all up with me,</said> he said, in a
troubled voice.  <said who="#F">If she is beginning to compare—</said>  He broke off, not
liking to betray all he felt, and then said, by the help of a little
bitterness, <said who="#F">But I thought you were friendly to me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">So I am; that is why we are here.  But I have had a strong disposition
to be otherwise.  I have said to myself, 'If there is a likelihood of
that youngster doing himself harm, why should you interfere?  Aren't
you worth as much as he is, and don't your sixteen years over and above
his, in which you have gone rather hungry, give you more right to
satisfaction than he has?  If there's a chance of his going to the
dogs, let him—perhaps you could nohow hinder it—and do you take the
benefit.'</said>
</P>

<P>
There was a pause, in which Fred was seized by a most uncomfortable
chill. <FID who="#F">  What was coming next?  He dreaded to hear that something had
been said to Mary—he felt as if he were listening to a threat rather
than a warning.  When the Vicar began again there was a change in his
tone like the encouraging transition to a major key. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">But I had once meant better than that, and I am come back to my old
intention.  I thought that I could hardly <I>secure myself</I> in it better,
Fred, than by telling you just what had gone on in me.  And now, do you
understand me?  I want you to make the happiness of her life and your
own, and if there is any chance that a word of warning from me may turn
aside any risk to the contrary—well, I have uttered it.</said>
</P>

<P>
There was a drop in the Vicar's voice when he spoke the last words. He
paused—they were standing on a patch of green where the road diverged
towards St. Botolph's, and he put out his hand, as if to imply that the
conversation was closed.  Fred was moved quite newly.  Some one highly
susceptible to the contemplation of a fine act has said, that it
produces a sort of regenerating shudder through the frame, and makes
one feel ready to begin a new life.  A good degree of that effect was
just then present in Fred Vincy.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I will try to be worthy,</said> he said, breaking off before he could say
<said who="#F">of you as well as of her.</said>  And meanwhile Mr. Farebrother had gathered
the impulse to say something more.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">You must not imagine that I believe there is at present any decline in
her preference of you, Fred.  Set your heart at rest, that if you keep
right, other things will keep right.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#F">I shall never forget what you have done,</said> Fred answered.  <said who="#F">I can't say
anything that seems worth saying—only I will try that your goodness
shall not be thrown away.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">That's enough.  Good-by, and God bless you.</said>
</P>

<P>
In that way they parted.  But both of them walked about a long while
before they went out of the starlight.  Much of Fred's rumination might
be summed up in the words, <said who="#F">It certainly would have been a fine thing
for her to marry Farebrother—but if she loves me best and I am a good
husband?</said>
</P>

<P>
Perhaps Mr. Farebrother's might be concentrated into a single shrug and
one little speech.  <said who="#FB">To think of the part one little woman can play in
the life of a man, so that to renounce her may be a very good imitation
of heroism, and to win her may be a discipline!</said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="67"><head>CHAPTER LXVII.</head>

<epigraph>
        Now is there civil war within the soul:
        Resolve is thrust from off the sacred throne
        By clamorous Needs, and Pride the grand-vizier
        Makes humble compact, plays the supple part
        Of envoy and deft-tongued apologist
        For hungry rebels.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Happily Lydgate had ended by losing in the billiard-room, and brought
away no encouragement to make a raid on luck.  On the contrary, he felt
unmixed disgust with himself the next day when he had to pay four or
five pounds over and above his gains, and he carried about with him a
most unpleasant vision of the figure he had made, not only rubbing
elbows with the men at the Green Dragon but behaving just as they did.
A philosopher fallen to betting is hardly distinguishable from a
Philistine under the same circumstances: the difference will chiefly be
found in his subsequent reflections, and Lydgate chewed a very
disagreeable cud in that way.  His reason told him how the affair might
have been magnified into ruin by a slight change of scenery—if it had
been a gambling-house that he had turned into, where chance could be
clutched with both hands instead of being picked up with thumb and
fore-finger. Nevertheless, though reason strangled the desire to
gamble, there remained the feeling that, with an assurance of luck to
the needful amount, he would have liked to gamble, rather than take the
alternative which was beginning to urge itself as inevitable.
</P>

<P>
That alternative was to apply to Mr. Bulstrode.  Lydgate had so many
times boasted both to himself and others that he was totally
independent of Bulstrode, to whose plans he had lent himself solely
because they enabled him to carry out his own ideas of professional
work and public benefit—he had so constantly in their personal
intercourse had his pride sustained by the sense that he was making a
good social use of this predominating banker, whose opinions he thought
contemptible and whose motives often seemed to him an absurd mixture of
contradictory impressions—that he had been creating for himself
strong ideal obstacles to the proffering of any considerable request to
him on his own account.
</P>

<P>
Still, early in March his affairs were at that pass in which men begin
to say that their oaths were delivered in ignorance, and to perceive
that the act which they had called impossible to them is becoming
manifestly possible. <FID who="#Lyd"> With Dover's ugly security soon to be put in
force, with the proceeds of his practice immediately absorbed in paying
back debts, and with the chance, if the worst were known, of daily
supplies being refused on credit, above all with the vision of
Rosamond's hopeless discontent continually haunting him, </FID> Lydgate had
begun to see that he should inevitably bend himself to ask help from
somebody or other.  At first he had considered whether he should write
to Mr. Vincy; but on questioning Rosamond he found that, as he had
suspected, she had already applied twice to her father, the last time
being since the disappointment from Sir Godwin; and papa had said that
Lydgate must look out for himself.  <said who="#R">Papa said he had come, with one
bad year after another, to trade more and more on borrowed capital, and
had had to give up many indulgences; he could not spare a single
hundred from the charges of his family.  He said, let Lydgate ask
Bulstrode: they have always been hand and glove.</said>
</P>

<P>
Indeed, Lydgate himself had come to the conclusion that if he must end
by asking for a free loan, his relations with Bulstrode, more at least
than with any other man, might take the shape of a claim which was not
purely personal. <first> <FID who="#Lyd"> Bulstrode had indirectly helped to cause the failure
of his practice, and had also been highly gratified by getting a
medical partner in his plans:</FID>—but who among us ever reduced himself
to the sort of dependence in which Lydgate now stood, without trying to
believe that he had claims which diminished the humiliation of asking? </first>
<FID who="#Lyd">It was true that of late there had seemed to be a new languor of
interest in Bulstrode about the Hospital; but his health had got worse,
and showed signs of a deep-seated nervous affection.  In other respects
he did not appear to be changed: he had always been highly polite, but
Lydgate had observed in him from the first a marked coldness about his
marriage and other private circumstances, a coldness which he had
hitherto preferred to any warmth of familiarity between them.  He
deferred the intention from day to day, his habit of acting on his
conclusions being made infirm by his repugnance to every possible
conclusion and its consequent act. </FID> He saw Mr. Bulstrode often, but he
did not try to use any occasion for his private purpose.  At one moment
he thought, <said who="#Lyd">I will write a letter: I prefer that to any circuitous
talk;</said> at another he thought, <said who="#Lyd">No; if I were talking to him, I could
make a retreat before any signs of disinclination.</said>
</P>

<P>
Still the days passed and no letter was written, no special interview
sought.  In his shrinking from the humiliation of a dependent attitude
towards Bulstrode, he began to familiarize his imagination with another
step even more unlike his remembered self.  He began spontaneously to
consider whether it would be possible to carry out that puerile notion
of Rosamond's which had often made him angry, namely, that they should
quit Middlemarch without seeing anything beyond that preface.  The
question came—<said who="#Lyd"> Would any man buy the practice of me even now, for as
little as it is worth?  Then the sale might happen as a necessary
preparation for going away.</said>
</P>

<P>
But against his taking this step, which he still felt to be a
contemptible relinquishment of present work, a guilty turning aside
from what was a real and might be a widening channel for worthy
activity, to start again without any justified destination, there was
this obstacle, that the purchaser, if procurable at all, might not be
quickly forthcoming. <FID who="#Lyd"> And afterwards?  Rosamond in a poor lodging,
though in the largest city or most distant town, would not find the
life that could save her from gloom, and save him from the reproach of
having plunged her into it.  For when a man is at the foot of the hill
in his fortunes, he may stay a long while there in spite of
professional accomplishment.  In the British climate there is no
incompatibility between scientific insight and furnished lodgings: the
incompatibility is chiefly between scientific ambition and a wife who
objects to that kind of residence. </FID>
</P>

<P>
But in the midst of his hesitation, opportunity came to decide him.  A
note from Mr. Bulstrode requested Lydgate to call on him at the Bank.
A hypochondriacal tendency had shown itself in the banker's
constitution of late; and a lack of sleep, which was really only a
slight exaggeration of an habitual dyspeptic symptom, had been dwelt on
by him as a sign of threatening insanity.  He wanted to consult Lydgate
without delay on that particular morning, although he had nothing to
tell beyond what he had told before.  He listened eagerly to what
Lydgate had to say in dissipation of his fears, though this too was
only repetition; and this moment in which Bulstrode was receiving a
medical opinion with a sense of comfort, seemed to make the
communication of a personal need to him easier than it had been in
Lydgate's contemplation beforehand.  He had been insisting that it
would be well for Mr. Bulstrode to relax his attention to business.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">One sees how any mental strain, however slight, may affect a delicate
frame,</said> said Lydgate at that stage of the consultation when the remarks
tend to pass from the personal to the general, <said who="#Lyd">by the deep stamp which
anxiety will make for a time even on the young and vigorous.  I am
naturally very strong; yet I have been thoroughly shaken lately by an
accumulation of trouble.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I presume that a constitution in the susceptible state in which mine
at present is, would be especially liable to fall a victim to cholera,
if it visited our district.  And since its appearance near London, we
may well besiege the Mercy-seat for our protection,</said> said Mr.
Bulstrode, not intending to evade Lydgate's allusion, but really
preoccupied with alarms about himself.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">You have at all events taken your share in using good practical
precautions for the town, and that is the best mode of asking for
protection,</said> said Lydgate, <FID who="#Lyd"> with a strong distaste for the broken
metaphor and bad logic of the banker's religion, somewhat increased by
the apparent deafness of his sympathy. </FID> But his mind had taken up its
long-prepared movement towards getting help, and was not yet arrested.
He added, <said who="#Lyd">The town has done well in the way of cleansing, and finding
appliances; and I think that if the cholera should come, even our
enemies will admit that the arrangements in the Hospital are a public
good.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Truly,</said> said Mr. Bulstrode, with some coldness.  <said who="#B">With regard to what
you say, Mr. Lydgate, about the relaxation of my mental labor, I have
for some time been entertaining a purpose to that effect—a purpose of
a very decided character.  I contemplate at least a temporary
withdrawal from the management of much business, whether benevolent or
commercial.  Also I think of changing my residence for a time: probably
I shall close or let 'The Shrubs,' and take some place near the
coast—under advice of course as to salubrity.  That would be a measure
which you would recommend?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Oh yes,</said> said Lydgate, falling backward in his chair, with
ill-repressed impatience under the banker's pale earnest eyes and
intense preoccupation with himself.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I have for some time felt that I should open this subject with you in
relation to our Hospital,</said> continued Bulstrode.  <said who="#B">Under the
circumstances I have indicated, of course I must cease to have any
personal share in the management, and it is contrary to my views of
responsibility to continue a large application of means to an
institution which I cannot watch over and to some extent regulate.  I
shall therefore, in case of my ultimate decision to leave Middlemarch,
consider that I withdraw other support to the New Hospital than that
which will subsist in the fact that I chiefly supplied the expenses of
building it, and have contributed further large sums to its successful
working.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate's thought, when Bulstrode paused according to his wont, was,
<said who="#Lyd">He has perhaps been losing a good deal of money.</said> <FID who="#Lyd">This was the most
plausible explanation of a speech which had caused rather a startling
change in his expectations. </FID> He said in reply—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">The loss to the Hospital can hardly be made up, I fear.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Hardly,</said> returned Bulstrode, in the same deliberate, silvery tone;
<said who="#B">except by some changes of plan.  The only person who may be certainly
counted on as willing to increase her contributions is Mrs. Casaubon.
I have had an interview with her on the subject, and I have pointed out
to her, as I am about to do to you, that it will be desirable to win a
more general support to the New Hospital by a change of system.</said>
Another pause, but Lydgate did not speak.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">The change I mean is an amalgamation with the Infirmary, so that the
New Hospital shall be regarded as a special addition to the elder
institution, having the same directing board.  It will be necessary,
also, that the medical management of the two shall be combined.  In
this way any difficulty as to the adequate maintenance of our new
establishment will be removed; the benevolent interests of the town
will cease to be divided.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Bulstrode had lowered his eyes from Lydgate's face to the buttons
of his coat as he again paused.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No doubt that is a good device as to ways and means,</said> said Lydgate,
with an edge of irony in his tone.  <said who="#Lyd">But I can't be expected to rejoice
in it at once, since one of the first results will be that the other
medical men will upset or interrupt my methods, if it were only because
they are mine.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I myself, as you know, Mr. Lydgate, highly valued the opportunity of
new and independent procedure which you have diligently employed: the
original plan, I confess, was one which I had much at heart, under
submission to the Divine Will.  But since providential indications
demand a renunciation from me, I renounce.</said>
</P>

<P>
<FID who="#Lyd"> Bulstrode showed a rather exasperating ability in this conversation.
The broken metaphor and bad logic of motive which had stirred his
hearer's contempt were quite consistent with a mode of putting the
facts which made it difficult for Lydgate to vent his own indignation
and disappointment. </FID> After some rapid reflection, he only asked—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">What did Mrs. Casaubon say?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">That was the further statement which I wished to make to you,</said> said
Bulstrode, who had thoroughly prepared his ministerial explanation.
<said who="#B">She is, you are aware, a woman of most munificent disposition, and
happily in possession—not I presume of great wealth, but of funds
which she can well spare.  She has informed me that though she has
destined the chief part of those funds to another purpose, she is
willing to consider whether she cannot fully take my place in relation
to the Hospital.  But she wishes for ample time to mature her thoughts
on the subject, and I have told her that there is no need for
haste—that, in fact, my own plans are not yet absolute.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate was ready to say, <said who="#Lyd">If Mrs. Casaubon would take your place,
there would be gain, instead of loss.</said>  But there was still a weight on
his mind which arrested this cheerful candor.  He replied, <said who="#Lyd">I suppose,
then, that I may enter into the subject with Mrs. Casaubon.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Precisely; that is what she expressly desires.  Her decision, she
says, will much depend on what you can tell her.  But not at present:
she is, I believe, just setting out on a journey.  I have her letter
here,</said> said Mr. Bulstrode, drawing it out, and reading from it.  <said who="#D">'I am
immediately otherwise engaged,' she says.  'I am going into Yorkshire
with Sir James and Lady Chettam; and the conclusions I come to about
some land which I am to see there may affect my power of contributing
to the Hospital.'  Thus, Mr. Lydgate, there is no haste necessary in
this matter; but I wished to apprise you beforehand of what may
possibly occur.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Bulstrode returned the letter to his side-pocket, and changed his
attitude as if his business were closed.  Lydgate, whose renewed hope
about the Hospital only made him more conscious of the facts which
poisoned his hope, felt that his effort after help, if made at all,
must be made now and vigorously.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I am much obliged to you for giving me full notice,</said> he said, with a
firm intention in his tone, yet with an interruptedness in his delivery
which showed that he spoke unwillingly.  <said who="#Lyd">The highest object to me is
my profession, and I had identified the Hospital with the best use I
can at present make of my profession.  But the best use is not always
the same with monetary success.  Everything which has made the Hospital
unpopular has helped with other causes—I think they are all connected
with my professional zeal—to make me unpopular as a practitioner.  I
get chiefly patients who can't pay me.  I should like them best, if I
had nobody to pay on my own side.</said> Lydgate waited a little, but
Bulstrode only bowed, looking at him fixedly, and he went on with the
same interrupted enunciation—as if he were biting an objectional leek.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I have slipped into money difficulties which I can see no way out of,
unless some one who trusts me and my future will advance me a sum
without other security.  I had very little fortune left when I came
here.  I have no prospects of money from my own family.  My expenses,
in consequence of my marriage, have been very much greater than I had
expected.  The result at this moment is that it would take a thousand
pounds to clear me.  I mean, to free me from the risk of having all my
goods sold in security of my largest debt—as well as to pay my other
debts—and leave anything to keep us a little beforehand with our small
income.  I find that it is out of the question that my wife's father
should make such an advance.  That is why I mention my position to—to
the only other man who may be held to have some personal connection
with my prosperity or ruin.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate hated to hear himself.  But he had spoken now, and had spoken
with unmistakable directness.  Mr. Bulstrode replied without haste, but
also without hesitation.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I am grieved, though, I confess, not surprised by this information,
Mr. Lydgate.  For my own part, I regretted your alliance with my
brother-in-law's family, which has always been of prodigal habits, and
which has already been much indebted to me for sustainment in its
present position.  My advice to you, Mr. Lydgate, would be, that
instead of involving yourself in further obligations, and continuing a
doubtful struggle, you should simply become a bankrupt.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">That would not improve my prospect,</said> said Lydgate, rising and speaking
bitterly, <said who="#Lyd">even if it were a more agreeable thing in itself.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">It is always a trial,</said> said Mr. Bulstrode; <said who="#B">but trial, my dear sir, is
our portion here, and is a needed corrective.  I recommend you to weigh
the advice I have given.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Thank you,</said> said Lydgate, not quite knowing what he said.  <said who="#Lyd">I have
occupied you too long.  Good-day.</said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="68"><head>CHAPTER LXVIII.</head>

<epigraph>
         What suit of grace hath Virtue to put on
         If Vice shall wear as good, and do as well?
         If Wrong, if Craft, if Indiscretion
         Act as fair parts with ends as laudable?
         Which all this mighty volume of events
         The world, the universal map of deeds,
         Strongly controls, and proves from all descents,
         That the directest course still best succeeds.
         For should not grave and learn'd Experience
         That looks with the eyes of all the world beside,
         And with all ages holds intelligence,
         Go safer than Deceit without a guide!
                                    —DANIEL: Musophilus.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
That change of plan and shifting of interest which Bulstrode stated or
betrayed in his conversation with Lydgate, had been determined in him
by some severe experience which he had gone through since the epoch of
Mr. Larcher's sale, when Raffles had recognized Will Ladislaw, and when
the banker had in vain attempted an act of restitution which might move
Divine Providence to arrest painful consequences.
</P>

<P>
His certainty that Raffles, unless he were dead, would return to
Middlemarch before long, had been justified.  On Christmas Eve he had
reappeared at The Shrubs.  Bulstrode was at home to receive him, and
hinder his communication with the rest of the family, but he could not
altogether hinder the circumstances of the visit from compromising
himself and alarming his wife. <FID who="#B"> Raffles proved more unmanageable than
he had shown himself to be in his former appearances, his chronic state
of mental restlessness, the growing effect of habitual intemperance,
quickly shaking off every impression from what was said to him. </FID> He
insisted on staying in the house, and Bulstrode, weighing two sets of
evils, felt that this was at least not a worse alternative than his
going into the town.  He kept him in his own room for the evening and
saw him to bed, Raffles all the while amusing himself with the
annoyance he was causing this decent and highly prosperous
fellow-sinner, an amusement which he facetiously expressed as sympathy
with his friend's pleasure in entertaining a man who had been
serviceable to him, and who had not had all his earnings. <FID who="#Raffles"> There was a
cunning calculation under this noisy joking—a cool resolve to extract
something the handsomer from Bulstrode as payment for release from this
new application of torture. </FID> But his cunning had a little overcast its
mark.
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode was indeed more tortured than the coarse fibre of Raffles
could enable him to imagine.  He had told his wife that he was simply
taking care of this wretched creature, the victim of vice, who might
otherwise injure himself; he implied, without the direct form of
falsehood, that there was a family tie which bound him to this care,
and that there were signs of mental alienation in Raffles which urged
caution. <FID who="#B"> He would himself drive the unfortunate being away the next
morning. </FID> In these hints he felt that he was supplying Mrs. Bulstrode
with precautionary information for his daughters and servants, and
accounting for his allowing no one but himself to enter the room even
with food and drink.  But he sat in an agony of fear lest Raffles
should be overheard in his loud and plain references to past facts— <FID who="#B">lest
Mrs. Bulstrode should be even tempted to listen at the door.  How
could he hinder her, how betray his terror by opening the door to
detect her?  She was a woman of honest direct habits, and little likely
to take so low a course in order to arrive at painful knowledge; but
fear was stronger than the calculation of probabilities. </FID>
</P>

<P>
In this way Raffles had pushed the torture too far, and produced an
effect which had not been in his plan.  By showing himself hopelessly
unmanageable he had made Bulstrode feel that a strong defiance was the
only resource left.  After taking Raffles to bed that night the banker
ordered his closed carriage to be ready at half-past seven the next
morning.  At six o'clock he had already been long dressed, and had
spent some of his wretchedness in prayer, pleading his motives for
averting the worst evil if in anything he had used falsity and spoken
what was not true before God.  For Bulstrode shrank from a direct lie
with an intensity disproportionate to the number of his more indirect
misdeeds. <first> But many of these misdeeds were like the subtle muscular
movements which are not taken account of in the consciousness, though
they bring about the end that we fix our mind on and desire. <first>  </first>And it is
only what we are vividly conscious of that we can vividly imagine to be
seen by Omniscience. </first>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode carried his candle to the bedside of Raffles, who was
apparently in a painful dream.  He stood silent, hoping that the
presence of the light would serve to waken the sleeper gradually and
gently, for he feared some noise as the consequence of a too sudden
awakening.  He had watched for a couple of minutes or more the
shudderings and pantings which seemed likely to end in waking, when
Raffles, with a long half-stifled moan, started up and stared round him
in terror, trembling and gasping.  But he made no further noise, and
Bulstrode, setting down the candle, awaited his recovery.
</P>

<P>
It was a quarter of an hour later before Bulstrode, with a cold
peremptoriness of manner which he had not before shown, said, <said who="#B">I came
to call you thus early, Mr. Raffles, because I have ordered the
carriage to be ready at half-past seven, and intend myself to conduct
you as far as Ilsely, where you can either take the railway or await a
coach.</said> Raffles was about to speak, but Bulstrode anticipated him
imperiously with the words, <said who="#B">Be silent, sir, and hear what I have to
say.  I shall supply you with money now, and I will furnish you with a
reasonable sum from time to time, on your application to me by letter;
but if you choose to present yourself here again, if you return to
Middlemarch, if you use your tongue in a manner injurious to me, you
will have to live on such fruits as your malice can bring you, without
help from me.  Nobody will pay you well for blasting my name: I know
the worst you can do against me, and I shall brave it if you dare to
thrust yourself upon me again.  Get up, sir, and do as I order you,
without noise, or I will send for a policeman to take you off my
premises, and you may carry your stories into every pothouse in the
town, but you shall have no sixpence from me to pay your expenses
there.</said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode had rarely in his life spoken with such nervous energy: he
had been deliberating on this speech and its probable effects through a
large part of the night; and though he did not trust to its ultimately
saving him from any return of Raffles, he had concluded that it was the
best throw he could make.  It succeeded in enforcing submission from
the jaded man this morning: his empoisoned system at this moment
quailed before Bulstrode's cold, resolute bearing, and he was taken off
quietly in the carriage before the family breakfast time.  The servants
imagined him to be a poor relation, and were not surprised that a
strict man like their master, who held his head high in the world,
should be ashamed of such a cousin and want to get rid of him.  The
banker's drive of ten miles with his hated companion was a dreary
beginning of the Christmas day; but at the end of the drive, Raffles
had recovered his spirits, and parted in a contentment for which there
was the good reason that the banker had given him a hundred pounds.
Various motives urged Bulstrode to this open-handedness, but he did not
himself inquire closely into all of them.  As he had stood watching
Raffles in his uneasy sleep, it had certainly entered his mind that the
man had been much shattered since the first gift of two hundred pounds.
</P>

<P>
He had taken care to repeat the incisive statement of his resolve not
to be played on any more; and had tried to penetrate Raffles with the
fact that he had shown the risks of bribing him to be quite equal to
the risks of defying him.  But when, freed from his repulsive presence,
Bulstrode returned to his quiet home, he brought with him no confidence
that he had secured more than a respite.  It was as if he had had a
loathsome dream, and could not shake off its images with their hateful
kindred of sensations—as if on all the pleasant surroundings of his
life a dangerous reptile had left his slimy traces.
</P>

<P>
<FID who="#B"> Who can know how much of his most inward life is made up of the
thoughts he believes other men to have about him, until that fabric of
opinion is threatened with ruin? </FID>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode was only the more conscious that there was a deposit of
uneasy presentiment in his wife's mind, because she carefully avoided
any allusion to it.  He had been used every day to taste the flavor of
supremacy and the tribute of complete deference: and the certainty that
he was watched or measured with a hidden suspicion of his having some
discreditable secret, made his voice totter when he was speaking to
edification.  Foreseeing, to men of Bulstrode's anxious temperament, is
often worse than seeing; and his imagination continually heightened the
anguish of an imminent disgrace. <FID who="#B"> Yes, imminent; for if his defiance of
Raffles did not keep the man away—and though he prayed for this result
he hardly hoped for it—the disgrace was certain. In vain he said to
himself that, if permitted, it would be a divine visitation, a
chastisement, a preparation; he recoiled from the imagined burning; and
he judged that it must be more for the Divine glory that he should
escape dishonor.  That recoil had at last urged him to make
preparations for quitting Middlemarch.  If evil truth must be reported
of him, he would then be at a less scorching distance from the contempt
of his old neighbors; and in a new scene, where his life would not have
gathered the same wide sensibility, the tormentor, if he pursued him,
would be less formidable. </FID> To leave the place finally would, he knew,
be extremely painful to his wife, and on other grounds he would have
preferred to stay where he had struck root.  Hence he made his
preparations at first in a conditional way, wishing to leave on all
sides an opening for his return after brief absence, if any favorable
intervention of Providence should dissipate his fears.  He was
preparing to transfer his management of the Bank, and to give up any
active control of other commercial affairs in the neighborhood, on the
ground of his failing health, but without excluding his future
resumption of such work. <FID who="#B"> The measure would cause him some added
expense and some diminution of income beyond what he had already
undergone from the general depression of trade; and the Hospital
presented itself as a principal object of outlay on which he could
fairly economize. </FID>
</P>

<P>
This was the experience which had determined his conversation with
Lydgate.  But at this time his arrangements had most of them gone no
farther than a stage at which he could recall them if they proved to be
unnecessary.  He continually deferred the final steps; in the midst of
his fears, like many a man who is in danger of shipwreck or of being
dashed from his carriage by runaway horses, he had a clinging
impression that something would happen to hinder the worst, and that to
spoil his life by a late transplantation might be over-hasty—especially
since it was difficult to account satisfactorily to his wife for the
project of their indefinite exile from the only place where she would
like to live.
</P>

<P>
Among the affairs Bulstrode had to care for, was the management of the
farm at Stone Court in case of his absence; and on this as well as on
all other matters connected with any houses and land he possessed in or
about Middlemarch, he had consulted Caleb Garth. <FID who="#B"> Like every one else
who had business of that sort, he wanted to get the agent who was more
anxious for his employer's interests than his own. </FID> With regard to
Stone Court, since Bulstrode wished to retain his hold on the stock,
and to have an arrangement by which he himself could, if he chose,
resume his favorite recreation of superintendence, Caleb had advised
him not to trust to a mere bailiff, but to let the land, stock, and
implements yearly, and take a proportionate share of the proceeds.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">May I trust to you to find me a tenant on these terms, Mr. Garth?</said>
said Bulstrode.  <said who="#B">And will you mention to me the yearly sum which would
repay you for managing these affairs which we have discussed together?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">I'll think about it,</said> said Caleb, in his blunt way.  <said who="#MrG">I'll see how I
can make it out.</said>
</P>

<P>
If it had not been that he had to consider Fred Vincy's future, Mr.
Garth would not probably have been glad of any addition to his work, of
which his wife was always fearing an excess for him as he grew older.
But on quitting Bulstrode after that conversation, a very alluring idea
occurred to him about this said letting of Stone Court. <FID who="#MrG"> What if
Bulstrode would agree to his placing Fred Vincy there on the
understanding that he, Caleb Garth, should be responsible for the
management?  It would be an excellent schooling for Fred; he might make
a modest income there, and still have time left to get knowledge by
helping in other business. </FID> He mentioned his notion to Mrs. Garth with
such evident delight that she could not bear to chill his pleasure by
expressing her constant fear of his undertaking too much.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">The lad would be as happy as two,</said> he said, throwing himself back in
his chair, and looking radiant, <said who="#MrG">if I could tell him it was all
settled.  Think; Susan!  His mind had been running on that place for
years before old Featherstone died.  And it would be as pretty a turn
of things as could be that he should hold the place in a good
industrious way after all—by his taking to business.  For it's likely
enough Bulstrode might let him go on, and gradually buy the stock.  He
hasn't made up his mind, I can see, whether or not he shall settle
somewhere else as a lasting thing.  I never was better pleased with a
notion in my life.  And then the children might be married by-and-by,
Susan.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">You will not give any hint of the plan to Fred, until you are sure
that Bulstrode would agree to the plan?</said> said Mrs. Garth, in a tone of
gentle caution.  <said who="#MrsG">And as to marriage, Caleb, we old people need not
help to hasten it.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Oh, I don't know,</said> said Caleb, swinging his head aside.  <said who="#MrG">Marriage is
a taming thing.  Fred would want less of my bit and bridle.  However, I
shall say nothing till I know the ground I'm treading on.  I shall
speak to Bulstrode again.</said>
</P>

<P>
He took his earliest opportunity of doing so.  Bulstrode had anything
but a warm interest in his nephew Fred Vincy, but he had a strong wish
to secure Mr. Garth's services on many scattered points of business at
which he was sure to be a considerable loser, if they were under less
conscientious management.  On that ground he made no objection to Mr.
Garth's proposal; and there was also another reason why he was not
sorry to give a consent which was to benefit one of the Vincy family.
It was that Mrs. Bulstrode, having heard of Lydgate's debts, had been
anxious to know whether her husband could not do something for poor
Rosamond, and had been much troubled on learning from him that
Lydgate's affairs were not easily remediable, and that the wisest plan
was to let them <said who="#MrsB">take their course.</said> Mrs. Bulstrode had then said for
the first time, <said who="#MrsB">I think you are always a little hard towards my
family, Nicholas.  And I am sure I have no reason to deny any of my
relatives.  Too worldly they may be, but no one ever had to say that
they were not respectable.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">My dear Harriet,</said> said Mr. Bulstrode, wincing under his wife's eyes,
which were filling with tears, <said who="#B">I have supplied your brother with a
great deal of capital.  I cannot be expected to take care of his
married children.</said>
</P>

<P>
<FID who="MrsB"> That seemed to be true, </FID> and Mrs. Bulstrode's remonstrance subsided into
pity for poor Rosamond, whose extravagant education she had always
foreseen the fruits of.
</P>

<P>
But remembering that dialogue, Mr. Bulstrode felt that when he had to
talk to his wife fully about his plan of quitting Middlemarch, he
should be glad to tell her that he had made an arrangement which might
be for the good of her nephew Fred.  At present he had merely mentioned
to her that he thought of shutting up The Shrubs for a few months, and
taking a house on the Southern Coast.
</P>

<P>
Hence Mr. Garth got the assurance he desired, namely, that in case of
Bulstrode's departure from Middlemarch for an indefinite time, Fred
Vincy should be allowed to have the tenancy of Stone Court on the terms
proposed.
</P>

<P>
Caleb was so elated with his hope of this <said who="#MrG">neat turn</said> being given to
things, that if his self-control had not been braced by a little
affectionate wifely scolding, he would have betrayed everything to
Mary, wanting <said who="#MrG">to give the child comfort.</said>  However, he restrained
himself, and kept in strict privacy from Fred certain visits which he
was making to Stone Court, in order to look more thoroughly into the
state of the land and stock, and take a preliminary estimate.  He was
certainly more eager in these visits than the probable speed of events
required him to be; but he was stimulated by a fatherly delight in
occupying his mind with this bit of probable happiness which he held in
store like a hidden birthday gift for Fred and Mary.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">But suppose the whole scheme should turn out to be a castle in the
air?</said> said Mrs. Garth.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Well, well,</said> replied Caleb; <said who="#MrG">the castle will tumble about nobody's
head.</said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="69"><head>CHAPTER LXIX.</head>

<epigraph>
        <said>If thou hast heard a word, let it die with thee.</said>
                                           —Ecclesiasticus.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Mr. Bulstrode was still seated in his manager's room at the Bank, about
three o'clock of the same day on which he had received Lydgate there,
when the clerk entered to say that his horse was waiting, and also that
Mr. Garth was outside and begged to speak with him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">By all means,</said> said Bulstrode; and Caleb entered.  <said who="#B">Pray sit down, Mr.
Garth,</said> continued the banker, in his suavest tone.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I am glad that you arrived just in time to find me here.  I know you
count your minutes.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Oh,</said> said Caleb, gently, with a slow swing of his head on one side, as
he seated himself and laid his hat on the floor.
</P>

<P>
He looked at the ground, leaning forward and letting his long fingers
droop between his legs, while each finger moved in succession, as if it
were sharing some thought which filled his large quiet brow.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Bulstrode, like every one else who knew Caleb, was used to his
slowness in beginning to speak on any topic which he felt to be
important, and rather expected that he was about to recur to the buying
of some houses in Blindman's Court, for the sake of pulling them down,
as a sacrifice of property which would be well repaid by the influx of
air and light on that spot. <FID who="#B"> It was by propositions of this kind that
Caleb was sometimes troublesome to his employers;</FID> but he had usually
found Bulstrode ready to meet him in projects of improvement, and they
had got on well together.  When he spoke again, however, it was to say,
in rather a subdued voice—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">I have just come away from Stone Court, Mr. Bulstrode.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You found nothing wrong there, I hope,</said> said the banker; <said who="#B">I was there
myself yesterday.  Abel has done well with the lambs this year.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Why, yes,</said> said Caleb, looking up gravely, <said who="#MrG">there is something wrong—a
stranger, who is very ill, I think.  He wants a doctor, and I came to
tell you of that.  His name is Raffles.</said>
</P>

<P>
He saw the shock of his words passing through Bulstrode's frame.  On
this subject the banker had thought that his fears were too constantly
on the watch to be taken by surprise; but he had been mistaken.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Poor wretch!</said> he said in a compassionate tone, though his lips
trembled a little.  <said who="#B">Do you know how he came there?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">I took him myself,</said> said Caleb, quietly— <said who="#MrG"> took him up in my gig.  He
had got down from the coach, and was walking a little beyond the
turning from the toll-house, and I overtook him.  He remembered seeing
me with you once before, at Stone Court, and he asked me to take him
on.  I saw he was ill: it seemed to me the right thing to do, to carry
him under shelter.  And now I think you should lose no time in getting
advice for him.</said> Caleb took up his hat from the floor as he ended, and
rose slowly from his seat.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Certainly,</said> said Bulstrode, whose mind was very active at this moment.
<said who="#B">Perhaps you will yourself oblige me, Mr. Garth, by calling at Mr.
Lydgate's as you pass—or stay! he may at this hour probably be at the
Hospital.  I will first send my man on the horse there with a note this
instant, and then I will myself ride to Stone Court.</said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode quickly wrote a note, and went out himself to give the
commission to his man.  When he returned, Caleb was standing as before
with one hand on the back of the chair, holding his hat with the other.
In Bulstrode's mind the dominant thought was, <said who="#B">Perhaps Raffles only
spoke to Garth of his illness.  Garth may wonder, as he must have done
before, at this disreputable fellow's claiming intimacy with me; but he
will know nothing.  And he is friendly to me—I can be of use to him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<FID who="#B"> He longed for some confirmation of this hopeful conjecture, but to have
asked any question as to what Raffles had said or done would have been
to betray fear. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Garth,</said> he said, in his usual
tone of politeness.  <said who="#B">My servant will be back in a few minutes, and I
shall then go myself to see what can be done for this unfortunate man.
Perhaps you had some other business with me?  If so, pray be seated.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Thank you,</said> said Caleb, making a slight gesture with his right hand to
waive the invitation.  <said who="#MrG">I wish to say, Mr. Bulstrode, that I must
request you to put your business into some other hands than mine.  I am
obliged to you for your handsome way of meeting me—about the letting
of Stone Court, and all other business.  But I must give it up.</said>  A
sharp certainty entered like a stab into Bulstrode's soul.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">This is sudden, Mr. Garth,</said> was all he could say at first.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">It is,</said> said Caleb; <said who="#MrG">but it is quite fixed.  I must give it up.</said>
</P>

<P>
He spoke with a firmness which was very gentle, and yet he could see
that Bulstrode seemed to cower under that gentleness, his face looking
dried and his eyes swerving away from the glance which rested on him.
Caleb felt a deep pity for him, <FID who="#MrG">but he could have used no pretexts to
account for his resolve, even if they would have been of any use. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You have been led to this, I apprehend, by some slanders concerning me
uttered by that unhappy creature,</said> said Bulstrode, anxious now to know
the utmost.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">That is true.  I can't deny that I act upon what I heard from him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You are a conscientious man, Mr. Garth—a man, I trust, who feels
himself accountable to God.  You would not wish to injure me by being
too ready to believe a slander,</said> said Bulstrode, casting about for
pleas that might be adapted to his hearer's mind.  <said who="#B">That is a poor
reason for giving up a connection which I think I may say will be
mutually beneficial.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">I would injure no man if I could help it,</said> said Caleb; <said who="#MrG">even if I
thought God winked at it.  I hope I should have a feeling for my
fellow-creature. But, sir—I am obliged to believe that this Raffles
has told me the truth.  And I can't be happy in working with you, or
profiting by you.  It hurts my mind.  I must beg you to seek another
agent.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Very well, Mr. Garth.  But I must at least claim to know the worst
that he has told you.  I must know what is the foul speech that I am
liable to be the victim of,</said> said Bulstrode, a certain amount of anger
beginning to mingle with his humiliation before this quiet man who
renounced his benefits.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">That's needless,</said> said Caleb, waving his hand, bowing his head
slightly, and not swerving from the tone which had in it the merciful
intention to spare this pitiable man.  <said who="#MrG">What he has said to me will
never pass from my lips, unless something now unknown forces it from
me.  If you led a harmful life for gain, and kept others out of their
rights by deceit, to get the more for yourself, I dare say you
repent—you would like to go back, and can't: that must be a bitter
thing"—Caleb paused a moment and shook his head—"it is not for me to
make your life harder to you.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">But you do—you do make it harder to me,</said> said Bulstrode constrained
into a genuine, pleading cry.  <said who="#B">You make it harder to me by turning
your back on me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">That I'm forced to do,</said> said Caleb, still more gently, lifting up his
hand.  <said who="#MrG">I am sorry.  I don't judge you and say, he is wicked, and I am
righteous.  God forbid.  I don't know everything.  A man may do wrong,
and his will may rise clear out of it, though he can't get his life
clear.  That's a bad punishment.  If it is so with you,—well, I'm
very sorry for you.  But I have that feeling inside me, that I can't go
on working with you.  That's all, Mr. Bulstrode.  Everything else is
buried, so far as my will goes.  And I wish you good-day.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">One moment, Mr. Garth!</said> said Bulstrode, hurriedly.  <said who="#B">I may trust then
to your solemn assurance that you will not repeat either to man or
woman what—even if it have any degree of truth in it—is yet a
malicious representation?</said>  Caleb's wrath was stirred, and he said,
indignantly—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Why should I have said it if I didn't mean it?  I am in no fear of
you.  Such tales as that will never tempt my tongue.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Excuse me—I am agitated—I am the victim of this abandoned man.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Stop a bit! you have got to consider whether you didn't help to make
him worse, when you profited by his vices.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You are wronging me by too readily believing him,</said> said Bulstrode,
oppressed, <FID who="#B">as by a nightmare, with the inability to deny flatly what
Raffles might have said;</FID> and yet feeling it an escape that Caleb had
not so stated it to him as to ask for that flat denial.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">No,</said> said Caleb, lifting his hand deprecatingly; <said who="#MrG">I am ready to
believe better, when better is proved.  I rob you of no good chance.
As to speaking, I hold it a crime to expose a man's sin unless I'm
clear it must be done to save the innocent.  That is my way of
thinking, Mr. Bulstrode, and what I say, I've no need to swear.  I wish
you good-day.</said>
</P>

<P>
Some hours later, when he was at home, Caleb said to his wife,
incidentally, that he had had some little differences with Bulstrode,
and that in consequence, he had given up all notion of taking Stone
Court, and indeed had resigned doing further business for him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrsG">He was disposed to interfere too much, was he?</said> said Mrs. Garth,
imagining that her husband had been touched on his sensitive point, and
not been allowed to do what he thought right as to materials and modes
of work.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MrG">Oh,</said> said Caleb, bowing his head and waving his hand gravely.  And
Mrs. Garth knew that this was a sign of his not intending to speak
further on the subject.
</P>

<P>
As for Bulstrode, he had almost immediately mounted his horse and set
off for Stone Court, being anxious to arrive there before Lydgate.
</P>

<P>
<first> His mind was crowded with images and conjectures, which were a language
to his hopes and fears, just as we hear tones from the vibrations which
shake our whole system. </first> The deep humiliation with which he had winced
under Caleb Garth's knowledge of his past and rejection of his
patronage, alternated with and almost gave way to the sense of safety
in the fact that Garth, and no other, had been the man to whom Raffles
had spoken.  It seemed to him a sort of earnest that Providence
intended his rescue from worse consequences; <FID who="#B"> the way being thus left
open for the hope of secrecy.  That Raffles should be afflicted with
illness, that he should have been led to Stone Court rather than
elsewhere—Bulstrode's heart fluttered at the vision of probabilities
which these events conjured up.  If it should turn out that he was
freed from all danger of disgrace—if he could breathe in perfect
liberty—his life should be more consecrated than it had ever been
before. </FID> He mentally lifted up this vow as if it would urge the result
he longed for—he tried to believe in the potency of that prayerful
resolution—its potency to determine death.  He knew that he ought to
say, <said>Thy will be done;</said> and he said it often.  But the intense desire
remained that the will of God might be the death of that hated man.
</P>

<P>
Yet when he arrived at Stone Court he could not see the change in
Raffles without a shock.  But for his pallor and feebleness, Bulstrode
would have called the change in him entirely mental.  Instead of his
loud tormenting mood, he showed an intense, vague terror, and seemed to
deprecate Bulstrode's anger, because the money was all gone—he had
been robbed—it had half of it been taken from him.  He had only come
here because he was ill and somebody was hunting him—somebody was
after him, he had told nobody anything, he had kept his mouth shut.
Bulstrode, not knowing the significance of these symptoms, interpreted
this new nervous susceptibility into a means of alarming Raffles into
true confessions, and taxed him with falsehood in saying that he had
not told anything, since he had just told the man who took him up in
his gig and brought him to Stone Court.  Raffles denied this with
solemn adjurations; the fact being that the links of consciousness were
interrupted in him, and that his minute terror-stricken narrative to
Caleb Garth had been delivered under a set of visionary impulses which
had dropped back into darkness.
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode's heart sank again at this sign that he could get no grasp
over the wretched man's mind, and that no word of Raffles could be
trusted as to the fact which he most wanted to know, namely, whether or
not he had really kept silence to every one in the neighborhood except
Caleb Garth.  The housekeeper had told him without the least constraint
of manner that since Mr. Garth left, Raffles had asked her for beer,
and after that had not spoken, seeming very ill. <FID who="#B"> On that side it might
be concluded that there had been no betrayal. </FID> Mrs. Abel thought, like
the servants at The Shrubs, that the strange man belonged to the
unpleasant "kin" who are among the troubles of the rich; she had at
first referred the kinship to Mr. Rigg, and where there was property
left, the buzzing presence of such large blue-bottles seemed natural
enough.  How he could be "kin" to Bulstrode as well was not so clear,
but Mrs. Abel agreed with her husband that there was <said who="#Abel">no knowing,</said> a
proposition which had a great deal of mental food for her, so that she
shook her head over it without further speculation.
</P>

<P>
In less than an hour Lydgate arrived.  Bulstrode met him outside the
wainscoted parlor, where Raffles was, and said—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I have called you in, Mr. Lydgate, to an unfortunate man who was once
in my employment, many years ago.  Afterwards he went to America, and
returned I fear to an idle dissolute life.  Being destitute, he has a
claim on me.  He was slightly connected with Rigg, the former owner of
this place, and in consequence found his way here.  I believe he is
seriously ill: apparently his mind is affected.  I feel bound to do the
utmost for him.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate, who had the remembrance of his last conversation with
Bulstrode strongly upon him, was not disposed to say an unnecessary
word to him, and bowed slightly in answer to this account; but just
before entering the room he turned automatically and said, <said who="#Lyd">What is his
name?</said>—to know names being as much a part of the medical man's
accomplishment as of the practical politician's.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B"> Raffles, John Raffles,</said> said Bulstrode, who hoped that whatever became
of Raffles, Lydgate would never know any more of him.
</P>

<P>
When he had thoroughly examined and considered the patient, Lydgate
ordered that he should go to bed, and be kept there in as complete
quiet as possible, and then went with Bulstrode into another room.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">It is a serious case, I apprehend,</said> said the banker, before Lydgate
began to speak.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No—and yes,</said> said Lydgate, half dubiously.  <said who="#Lyd">It is difficult to
decide as to the possible effect of long-standing complications; but
the man had a robust constitution to begin with.  I should not expect
this attack to be fatal, though of course the system is in a ticklish
state.  He should be well watched and attended to.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I will remain here myself,</said> said Bulstrode.  <said who="#B">Mrs. Abel and her
husband are inexperienced.  I can easily remain here for the night, if
you will oblige me by taking a note for Mrs. Bulstrode.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I should think that is hardly necessary,</said> said Lydgate.  <said who="#Lyd">He seems
tame and terrified enough.  He might become more unmanageable.  But
there is a man here—is there not?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I have more than once stayed here a few nights for the sake of
seclusion,</said> said Bulstrode, indifferently; <said who="#B">I am quite disposed to do
so now.  Mrs. Abel and her husband can relieve or aid me, if necessary.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Very well.  Then I need give my directions only to you,</said> said Lydgate,
not feeling surprised at a little peculiarity in Bulstrode.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You think, then, that the case is hopeful?</said> said Bulstrode, when
Lydgate had ended giving his orders.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Unless there turn out to be further complications, such as I have not
at present detected—yes,</said> said Lydgate.  <said who="#Lyd">He may pass on to a worse
stage; but I should not wonder if he got better in a few days, by
adhering to the treatment I have prescribed.  There must be firmness.
Remember, if he calls for liquors of any sort, not to give them to him.
In my opinion, men in his condition are oftener killed by treatment
than by the disease.  Still, new symptoms may arise.  I shall come
again to-morrow morning.</said>
</P>

<P>
After waiting for the note to be carried to Mrs. Bulstrode, Lydgate
rode away, forming no conjectures, in the first instance, about the
history of Raffles, but rehearsing the whole argument, which had lately
been much stirred by the publication of Dr. Ware's abundant experience
in America, as to the right way of treating cases of alcoholic
poisoning such as this.  Lydgate, when abroad, had already been
interested in this question: he was strongly convinced against the
prevalent practice of allowing alcohol and persistently administering
large doses of opium; and he had repeatedly acted on this conviction
with a favorable result.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">The man is in a diseased state,</said> he thought, <said who="#Lyd">but there's a good deal
of wear in him still.  I suppose he is an object of charity to
Bulstrode.  It is curious what patches of hardness and tenderness lie
side by side in men's dispositions.  Bulstrode seems the most
unsympathetic fellow I ever saw about some people, and yet he has taken
no end of trouble, and spent a great deal of money, on benevolent
objects.  I suppose he has some test by which he finds out whom Heaven
cares for—he has made up his mind that it doesn't care for me.</said>
</P>

<P>
This streak of bitterness came from a plenteous source, and kept
widening in the current of his thought as he neared Lowick Gate.  He
had not been there since his first interview with Bulstrode in the
morning, having been found at the Hospital by the banker's messenger;
and for the first time he was returning to his home without the vision
of any expedient in the background which left him a hope of raising
money enough to deliver him from the coming destitution of everything
which made his married life tolerable— <FID who="#Lyd">everything which saved him and
Rosamond from that bare isolation in which they would be forced to
recognize how little of a comfort they could be to each other.  It was
more bearable to do without tenderness for himself than to see that his
own tenderness could make no amends for the lack of other things to
her. </FID> The sufferings of his own pride from humiliations past and to
come were keen enough, yet they were hardly distinguishable to himself
from that more acute pain which dominated them—the pain of foreseeing
that Rosamond would come to regard him chiefly as the cause of
disappointment and unhappiness to her.  He had never liked the
makeshifts of poverty, and they had never before entered into his
prospects for himself; but he was beginning now to imagine how two
creatures who loved each other, and had a stock of thoughts in common,
might laugh over their shabby furniture, and their calculations how far
they could afford butter and eggs. <FID who="#Lyd"> But the glimpse of that poetry
seemed as far off from him as the carelessness of the golden age; in
poor Rosamond's mind there was not room enough for luxuries to look
small in. </FID> He got down from his horse in a very sad mood, and went into
the house, not expecting to be cheered except by his dinner, and
reflecting that before the evening closed it would be wise to tell
Rosamond of his application to Bulstrode and its failure. <FID who="#Lyd"> It would be
well not to lose time in preparing her for the worst. </FID>
</P>

<P>
But his dinner waited long for him before he was able to eat it.  For
on entering he found that Dover's agent had already put a man in the
house, and when he asked where Mrs. Lydgate was, he was told that she
was in her bedroom.  He went up and found her stretched on the bed pale
and silent, without an answer even in her face to any word or look of
his.  He sat down by the bed and leaning over her said with almost a
cry of prayer—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Forgive me for this misery, my poor Rosamond!  Let us only love one
another.</said>
</P>

<P>
She looked at him silently, still with the blank despair on her face;
but then the tears began to fill her blue eyes, and her lip trembled.
The strong man had had too much to bear that day.  He let his head fall
beside hers and sobbed.
</P>

<P>
He did not hinder her from going to her father early in the morning—it
seemed now that he ought not to hinder her from doing as she
pleased.  In half an hour she came back, and said that papa and mamma
wished her to go and stay with them while things were in this miserable
state.  Papa said he could do nothing about the debt—if he paid this,
there would be half-a-dozen more. <FID who="#R"> She had better come back home again
till Lydgate had got a comfortable home for her. </FID> <said who="#R">Do you object,
Tertius?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Do as you like,</said> said Lydgate.  <said who="#Lyd">But things are not coming to a crisis
immediately.  There is no hurry.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I should not go till to-morrow,</said> said Rosamond; <said who="#R">I shall want to pack
my clothes.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Oh, I would wait a little longer than to-morrow—there is no knowing
what may happen,</said> said Lydgate, with bitter irony.  <said who="#Lyd">I may get my neck
broken, and that may make things easier to you.</said>
</P>

<P>
It was Lydgate's misfortune and Rosamond's too, that his tenderness
towards her, which was both an emotional prompting and a
well-considered resolve, was inevitably interrupted by these outbursts
of indignation either ironical or remonstrant.  She thought them
totally unwarranted, and the repulsion which this exceptional severity
excited in her was in danger of making the more persistent tenderness
unacceptable.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#R">I see you do not wish me to go,</said> she said, with chill mildness; <said who="#R">why
can you not say so, without that kind of violence?  I shall stay until
you request me to do otherwise.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate said no more, but went out on his rounds.  He felt bruised and
shattered, and there was a dark line under his eyes which Rosamond had
not seen before.  She could not bear to look at him. <FID who="#R"> Tertius had a way
of taking things which made them a great deal worse for her. </FID>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="70"><head>CHAPTER LXX.</head>

<epigraph>
          <said>Our deeds still travel with us from afar,
          And what we have been makes us what we are.</said>
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Bulstrode's first object after Lydgate had left Stone Court was to
examine Raffles's pockets, which he imagined were sure to carry signs
in the shape of hotel-bills of the places he had stopped in, if he had
not told the truth in saying that he had come straight from Liverpool
because he was ill and had no money.  There were various bills crammed
into his pocketbook, but none of a later date than Christmas at any
other place, except one, which bore date that morning.  This was
crumpled up with a hand-bill about a horse-fair in one of his
tail-pockets, and represented the cost of three days' stay at an inn at
Bilkley, where the fair was held—a town at least forty miles from
Middlemarch.  The bill was heavy, and since Raffles had no luggage with
him, it seemed probable that he had left his portmanteau behind in
payment, in order to save money for his travelling fare; for his purse
was empty, and he had only a couple of sixpences and some loose pence
in his pockets.
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode gathered a sense of safety from these indications that
Raffles had really kept at a distance from Middlemarch since his
memorable visit at Christmas. <FID who="#B"> At a distance and among people who were
strangers to Bulstrode, what satisfaction could there be to Raffles's
tormenting, self-magnifying vein in telling old scandalous stories
about a Middlemarch banker?  And what harm if he did talk?  The chief
point now was to keep watch over him as long as there was any danger of
that intelligible raving, that unaccountable impulse to tell, which
seemed to have acted towards Caleb Garth; </FID>and Bulstrode felt much
anxiety lest some such impulse should come over him at the sight of
Lydgate.  He sat up alone with him through the night, only ordering the
housekeeper to lie down in her clothes, so as to be ready when he
called her, alleging his own indisposition to sleep, and his anxiety to
carry out the doctor's orders.  He did carry them out faithfully,
although Raffles was incessantly asking for brandy, and declaring that
he was sinking away—that the earth was sinking away from under him.
He was restless and sleepless, but still quailing and manageable.  On
the offer of the food ordered by Lydgate, which he refused, and the
denial of other things which he demanded, he seemed to concentrate all
his terror on Bulstrode, imploringly deprecating his anger, his revenge
on him by starvation, and declaring with strong oaths that he had never
told any mortal a word against him.  Even this Bulstrode felt that he
would not have liked Lydgate to hear;<FID who="#B"> but a more alarming sign of
fitful alternation in his delirium was, </FID> that in-the morning twilight
Raffles suddenly seemed to imagine a doctor present, addressing him and
declaring that Bulstrode wanted to starve him to death out of revenge
for telling, when he never had told.
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode's native imperiousness and strength of determination served
him well.  This delicate-looking man, himself nervously perturbed,
found the needed stimulus in his strenuous circumstances, and through
that difficult night and morning, while he had the air of an animated
corpse returned to movement without warmth, holding the mastery by its
chill impassibility, his mind was intensely at work thinking of what he
had to guard against and what would win him security. <FID who="#B"> Whatever prayers
he might lift up, whatever statements he might inwardly make of this
man's wretched spiritual condition, and the duty he himself was under
to submit to the punishment divinely appointed for him rather than to
wish for evil to another—through all this effort to condense words
into a solid mental state, there pierced and spread with irresistible
vividness the images of the events he desired. </FID> And in the train of
those images came their apology.  He could not but see the death of
Raffles, and see in it his own deliverance. <FID who="#B"> What was the removal of
this wretched creature?  He was impenitent—but were not public
criminals impenitent?—yet the law decided on their fate.  Should
Providence in this case award death, there was no sin in contemplating
death as the desirable issue—if he kept his hands from hastening
it—if he scrupulously did what was prescribed.  Even here there might
be a mistake: human prescriptions were fallible things: Lydgate had
said that treatment had hastened death,—why not his own method of
treatment?  But of course intention was everything in the question of
right and wrong. </FID>
</P>

<P>
And Bulstrode set himself to keep his intention separate from his
desire.  He inwardly declared that he intended to obey orders. <FID who="#B"> Why
should he have got into any argument about the validity of these
orders?  It was only the common trick of desire—which avails itself of
any irrelevant scepticism, finding larger room for itself in all
uncertainty about effects, in every obscurity that looks like the
absence of law.  Still, he did obey the orders. </FID>
</P>

<P>
His anxieties continually glanced towards Lydgate, and his remembrance
of what had taken place between them the morning before was accompanied
with sensibilities which had not been roused at all during the actual
scene.  He had then cared but little about Lydgate's painful
impressions with regard to the suggested change in the Hospital, or
about the disposition towards himself which what he held to be his
justifiable refusal of a rather exorbitant request might call forth.
He recurred to the scene now with a perception that he had probably
made Lydgate his enemy, and with an awakened desire to propitiate him,
or rather to create in him a strong sense of personal obligation.  He
regretted that he had not at once made even an unreasonable
money-sacrifice. For in case of unpleasant suspicions, or even
knowledge gathered from the raving of Raffles, Bulstrode would have
felt that he had a defence in Lydgate's mind by having conferred a
momentous benefit on him. <FID who="#B"> But the regret had perhaps come too late. </FID>
</P>

<P>
Strange, piteous conflict in the soul of this unhappy man, who had
longed for years to be better than he was—who had taken his selfish
passions into discipline and clad them in severe robes, so that he had
walked with them as a devout choir, till now that a terror had risen
among them, and they could chant no longer, but threw out their common
cries for safety.
</P>

<P>
It was nearly the middle of the day before Lydgate arrived: he had
meant to come earlier, but had been detained, he said; and his
shattered looks were noticed by Balstrode.  But he immediately threw
himself into the consideration of the patient, and inquired strictly
into all that had occurred.  Raffles was worse, would take hardly any
food, was persistently wakeful and restlessly raving; but still not
violent.  Contrary to Bulstrode's alarmed expectation, he took little
notice of Lydgate's presence, and continued to talk or murmur
incoherently.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">What do you think of him?</said> said Bulstrode, in private.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">The symptoms are worse.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You are less hopeful?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No; I still think he may come round.  Are you going to stay here
yourself?</said> said Lydgate, looking at Bulstrode with an abrupt question,
which made him uneasy, though in reality it was not due to any
suspicious conjecture.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Yes, I think so,</said> said Bulstrode, governing himself and speaking with
deliberation.  <said who="#B">Mrs. Bulstrode is advised of the reasons which detain
me.  Mrs. Abel and her husband are not experienced enough to be left
quite alone, and this kind of responsibility is scarcely included in
their service of me.  You have some fresh instructions, I presume.</said>
</P>

<P>
The chief new instruction that Lydgate had to give was on the
administration of extremely moderate doses of opium, in case of the
sleeplessness continuing after several hours.  He had taken the
precaution of bringing opium in his pocket, and he gave minute
directions to Bulstrode as to the doses, and the point at which they
should cease.  He insisted on the risk of not ceasing; and repeated his
order that no alcohol should be given.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">From what I see of the case,</said> he ended, <said who="#Lyd">narcotism is the only thing I
should be much afraid of.  He may wear through even without much food.
There's a good deal of strength in him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You look ill yourself, Mr. Lydgate—a most unusual, I may say
unprecedented thing in my knowledge of you,</said> said Bulstrode, showing a
solicitude as unlike his indifference the day before, as his present
recklessness about his own fatigue was unlike his habitual
self-cherishing anxiety.  <said who="#B">I fear you are harassed.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Yes, I am,</said> said Lydgate, brusquely, holding his hat, and ready to go.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Something new, I fear,</said> said Bulstrode, inquiringly.  <said who="#B">Pray be seated.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No, thank you,</said> said Lydgate, with some hauteur. <said who="#Lyd">I mentioned to you
yesterday what was the state of my affairs.  There is nothing to add,
except that the execution has since then been actually put into my
house.  One can tell a good deal of trouble in a short sentence.  I
will say good morning.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Stay, Mr. Lydgate, stay,</said> said Bulstrode; <said who="#B">I have been reconsidering
this subject.  I was yesterday taken by surprise, and saw it
superficially.  Mrs. Bulstrode is anxious for her niece, and I myself
should grieve at a calamitous change in your position.  Claims on me
are numerous, but on reconsideration, I esteem it right that I should
incur a small sacrifice rather than leave you unaided.  You said, I
think, that a thousand pounds would suffice entirely to free you from
your burthens, and enable you to recover a firm stand?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Yes,</said> said Lydgate, a great leap of joy within him surmounting every
other feeling; <said who="#Lyd">that would pay all my debts, and leave me a little on
hand.  I could set about economizing in our way of living.  And
by-and-by my practice might look up.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">If you will wait a moment, Mr. Lydgate, I will draw a check to that
amount.  I am aware that help, to be effectual in these cases, should
be thorough.</said>
</P>

<P>
While Bulstrode wrote, Lydgate turned to the window thinking of his
home—thinking of his life with its good start saved from frustration,
its good purposes still unbroken.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate,</said> said the
banker, advancing towards him with the check.  <said who="#B">And by-and-by, I hope,
you may be in circumstances gradually to repay me.  Meanwhile, I have
pleasure in thinking that you will be released from further difficulty.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I am deeply obliged to you,</said> said Lydgate.  <said who="#Lyd">You have restored to me
the prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good.</said>
</P>

<P>
It appeared to him a very natural movement in Bulstrode that he should
have reconsidered his refusal: it corresponded with the more munificent
side of his character.  But as he put his hack into a canter, that he
might get the sooner home, and tell the good news to Rosamond, and get
cash at the bank to pay over to Dover's agent, there crossed his mind,
with an unpleasant impression, as from a dark-winged flight of evil
augury across his vision, the thought of that contrast in himself which
a few months had brought—that he should be overjoyed at being under a
strong personal obligation—that he should be overjoyed at getting
money for himself from Bulstrode.
</P>

<P>
The banker felt that he had done something to nullify one cause of
uneasiness, and yet he was scarcely the easier.  He did not measure the
quantity of diseased motive which had made him wish for Lydgate's
good-will, but the quantity was none the less actively there, like an
irritating agent in his blood. <FID who="#B"> A man vows, and yet will not cast away
the means of breaking his vow.  Is it that he distinctly means to break
it?  Not at all; but the desires which tend to break it are at work in
him dimly, and make their way into his imagination, and relax his
muscles in the very moments when he is telling himself over again the
reasons for his vow.  Raffles, recovering quickly, returning to the
free use of his odious powers—how could Bulstrode wish for that? </FID>
Raffles dead was the image that brought release, and indirectly he
prayed for that way of release, beseeching that, if it were possible,
the rest of his days here below might be freed from the threat of an
ignominy which would break him utterly as an instrument of God's
service. <FID who="#B"> Lydgate's opinion was not on the side of promise that this
prayer would be fulfilled; </FID> and as the day advanced, Bulstrode felt
himself getting irritated at the persistent life in this man, whom he
would fain have seen sinking into the silence of death: imperious will
stirred murderous impulses towards this brute life, over which will, by
itself, had no power.  He said inwardly that he was getting too much
worn; he would not sit up with the patient to-night, but leave him to
Mrs. Abel, who, if necessary, could call her husband.
</P>

<P>
At six o'clock, Raffles, having had only fitful perturbed snatches of
sleep, from which he waked with fresh restlessness and perpetual cries
that he was sinking away, Bulstrode began to administer the opium
according to Lydgate's directions.  At the end of half an hour or more
he called Mrs. Abel and told her that he found himself unfit for
further watching. <FID who="#B"> He must now consign the patient to her care; </FID> and he
proceeded to repeat to her Lydgate's directions as to the quantity of
each dose.  Mrs. Abel had not before known anything of Lydgate's
prescriptions; she had simply prepared and brought whatever Bulstrode
ordered, and had done what he pointed out to her.  She began now to ask
what else she should do besides administering the opium.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">Nothing at present, except the offer of the soup or the soda-water:
you can come to me for further directions.  Unless there is any
important change, I shall not come into the room again to-night. You
will ask your husband for help if necessary.  I must go to bed early.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Abel">You've much need, sir, I'm sure,</said> said Mrs. Abel, <said who="#Abel">and to take
something more strengthening than what you've done.</said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode went away now without anxiety as to what Raffles might say in
his raving, which had taken on a muttering incoherence not likely to
create any dangerous belief. <FID who="#B"> At any rate he must risk this. </FID> He went
down into the wainscoted parlor first, and began to consider whether he
would not have his horse saddled and go home by the moonlight, and give
up caring for earthly consequences.  Then, he wished that he had begged
Lydgate to come again that evening. <FID who="#B"> Perhaps he might deliver a
different opinion, and think that Raffles was getting into a less
hopeful state.  Should he send for Lydgate?  If Raffles were really
getting worse, and slowly dying, Bulstrode felt that he could go to bed
and sleep in gratitude to Providence.  But was he worse?  Lydgate might
come and simply say that he was going on as he expected, and predict
that he would by-and-by fall into a good sleep, and get well.  What was
the use of sending for him? </FID> Bulstrode shrank from that result.  No
ideas or opinions could hinder him from seeing the one probability to
be, that Raffles recovered would be just the same man as before, with
his strength as a tormentor renewed, obliging him to drag away his wife
to spend her years apart from her friends and native place, carrying an
alienating suspicion against him in her heart.
</P>

<P>
He had sat an hour and a half in this conflict by the firelight only,
when a sudden thought made him rise and light the bed-candle, which he
had brought down with him.  The thought was, that he had not told Mrs.
Abel when the doses of opium must cease.
</P>

<P>
He took hold of the candlestick, but stood motionless for a long while.
<FID who="#B"> She might already have given him more than Lydgate had prescribed.  But
it was excusable in him, that he should forget part of an order, in his
present wearied condition. </FID> He walked up-stairs, candle in hand, not
knowing whether he should straightway enter his own room and go to bed,
or turn to the patient's room and rectify his omission.  He paused in
the passage, with his face turned towards Raffles's room, and he could
hear him moaning and murmuring. <FID who="#B"> He was not asleep, then.  Who could
know that Lydgate's prescription would not be better disobeyed than
followed, since there was still no sleep? </FID>
</P>

<P>
He turned into his own room.  Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abel
rapped at the door; he opened it an inch, so that he could hear her
speak low.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Abel">If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give the
poor creetur?  He feels sinking away, and nothing else will he
swaller—and but little strength in it, if he did—only the opium.  And
he says more and more he's sinking down through the earth.</said>
</P>

<P>
To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer.  A struggle was going on
within him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Abel">I think he must die for want o' support, if he goes on in that way.
When I nursed my poor master, Mr. Robisson, I had to give him port-wine
and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time,</said> added Mrs. Abel, with
a touch of remonstrance in her tone.
</P>

<P>
But again Mr. Bulstrode did not answer immediately, and she continued,
<said who="#Abel">It's not a time to spare when people are at death's door, nor would
you wish it, sir, I'm sure.  Else I should give him our own bottle o'
rum as we keep by us.  But a sitter-up so as you've been, and doing
everything as laid in your power—</said>
</P>

<P>
Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrode
said huskily, <said who="#B">That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty
of brandy there.</said>
</P>

<P>
Early in the morning—about six—Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some time
in prayer. Does any one suppose that private prayer is necessarily
candid—necessarily goes to the roots of action?  Private prayer is
inaudible speech, and speech is representative: who can represent
himself just as he is, even in his own reflections?  Bulstrode had not
yet unravelled in his thought the confused promptings of the last
four-and-twenty hours.
</P>

<P>
He listened in the passage, and could hear hard stertorous breathing.
Then he walked out in the garden, and looked at the early rime on the
grass and fresh spring leaves.  When he re-entered the house, he felt
startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">How is your patient—asleep, I think?</said> he said, with an attempt at
cheerfulness in his tone.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Abel">He's gone very deep, sir,</said> said Mrs. Abel.  <said who="#Abel">He went off gradual
between three and four o'clock.  Would you please to go and look at
him?  I thought it no harm to leave him.  My man's gone afield, and the
little girl's seeing to the kettles.</said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode went up.  At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in the
sleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper and
deeper into the gulf of death.
</P>

<P>
He looked round the room and saw a bottle with some brandy in it, and
the almost empty opium phial.  He put the phial out of sight, and
carried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in the
wine-cooler.
</P>

<P>
While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarch
at once, or wait for Lydgate's arrival.  He decided to wait, and told
Mrs. Abel that she might go about her work—he could watch in the
bed-chamber.
</P>

<P>
As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocably
into silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months.
His conscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecy, which
seemed just then like an angel sent down for his relief.  He drew out
his pocket-book to review various memoranda there as to the
arrangements he had projected and partly carried out in the prospect of
quitting Middlemarch, and considered how far he would let them stand or
recall them, now that his absence would be brief. <FID who="#B"> Some economies which
he felt desirable might still find a suitable occasion in his temporary
withdrawal from management, and he hoped still that Mrs. Casaubon would
take a large share in the expenses of the Hospital.</FID>  In that way the
moments passed, until a change in the stertorous breathing was marked
enough to draw his attention wholly to the bed, and forced him to think
of the departing life, which had once been subservient to his
own—which he had once been glad to find base enough for him to act on
as he would.  It was his gladness then which impelled him now to be
glad that the life was at an end.
</P>

<P>
<FID who="#B"> And who could say that the death of Raffles had been hastened?  Who
knew what would have saved him? </FID>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate arrived at half-past ten, in time to witness the final pause of
the breath.  When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a sudden
expression in his face, which was not so much surprise as a recognition
that he had not judged correctly. <FID who="#B"> He stood by the bed in silence for
some time, with his eyes turned on the dying man, but with that subdued
activity of expression which showed that he was carrying on an inward
debate. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">When did this change begin?</said> said he, looking at Bulstrode.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">I did not watch by him last night,</said> said Bulstrode.  <said who="#B">I was over-worn,
and left him under Mrs. Abel's care.  She said that he sank into sleep
between three and four o'clock.  When I came in before eight he was
nearly in this condition.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until he
said, <said who="#Lyd">It's all over.</said>
</P>

<P>
This morning Lydgate was in a state of recovered hope and freedom.  He
had set out on his work with all his old animation, and felt himself
strong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life.  And he
was conscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him.  But he was
uneasy about this case.  He had not expected it to terminate as it had
done.  Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on the subject to
Bulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if he examined the
housekeeper— <FID who="#Lyd"> why, the man was dead.  There seemed to be no use in
implying that somebody's ignorance or imprudence had killed him.  And
after all, he himself might be wrong. </FID>
</P>

<P>
He and Bulstrode rode back to Middlemarch together, talking of many
things—chiefly cholera and the chances of the Reform Bill in the House
of Lords, and the firm resolve of the political Unions.  Nothing was
said about Raffles, except that Bulstrode mentioned the necessity of
having a grave for him in Lowick churchyard, and observed that, so far
as he knew, the poor man had no connections, except Rigg, whom he had
stated to be unfriendly towards him.
</P>

<P>
On returning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother.  The Vicar
had not been in the town the day before, but the news that there was an
execution in Lydgate's house had got to Lowick by the evening, having
been carried by Mr. Spicer, shoemaker and parish-clerk, who had it from
his brother, the respectable bell-hanger in Lowick Gate.  Since that
evening when Lydgate had come down from the billiard room with Fred
Vincy, Mr. Farebrother's thoughts about him had been rather gloomy.
Playing at the Green Dragon once or oftener might have been a trifle in
another man; but in Lydgate it was one of several signs that he was
getting unlike his former self.  He was beginning to do things for
which he had formerly even an excessive scorn.  Whatever certain
dissatisfactions in marriage, which some silly tinklings of gossip had
given him hints of, might have to do with this change, Mr. Farebrother
felt sure that it was chiefly connected with the debts which were being
more and more distinctly reported, and he began to fear that any notion
of Lydgate's having resources or friends in the background must be
quite illusory.  The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt to win
Lydgate's confidence, disinclined him to a second; but this news of the
execution being actually in the house, determined the Vicar to overcome
his reluctance.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate had just dismissed a poor patient, in whom he was much
interested, and he came forward to put out his hand—with an open
cheerfulness which surprised Mr. Farebrother. <FID who="#FB"> Could this too be a
proud rejection of sympathy and help?  Never mind; the sympathy and
help should be offered. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">How are you, Lydgate?  I came to see you because I had heard something
which made me anxious about you,</said> said the Vicar, in the tone of a good
brother, only that there was no reproach in it.  They were both seated
by this time, and Lydgate answered immediately—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I think I know what you mean.  You had heard that there was an
execution in the house?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Yes; is it true?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">It was true,</said> said Lydgate, with an air of freedom, as if he did not
mind talking about the affair now.  <said who="#Lyd">But the danger is over; the debt
is paid.  I am out of my difficulties now: I shall be freed from debts,
and able, I hope, to start afresh on a better plan.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">I am very thankful to hear it,</said> said the Vicar, falling back in his
chair, and speaking with that low-toned quickness which often follows
the removal of a load.  <said who="#FB">I like that better than all the news in the
'Times.' I confess I came to you with a heavy heart.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">Thank you for coming,</said> said Lydgate, cordially.  <said who="#Lyd">I can enjoy the
kindness all the more because I am happier.  I have certainly been a
good deal crushed.  I'm afraid I shall find the bruises still painful
by-and by,</said> he added, smiling rather sadly; <said who="#Lyd">but just now I can only
feel that the torture-screw is off.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Farebrother was silent for a moment, and then said earnestly, <said who="#FB">My
dear fellow, let me ask you one question.  Forgive me if I take a
liberty.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">I don't believe you will ask anything that ought to offend me.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Then—this is necessary to set my heart quite at rest—you have
not—have you?—in order to pay your debts, incurred another debt which
may harass you worse hereafter?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">No,</said> said Lydgate, coloring slightly.  <said who="#Lyd">There is no reason why I
should not tell you—since the fact is so—that the person to whom I am
indebted is Bulstrode.  He has made me a very handsome advance—a
thousand pounds—and he can afford to wait for repayment.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Well, that is generous,</said> said Mr. Farebrother, compelling himself to
approve of the man whom he disliked.  His delicate feeling shrank from
dwelling even in his thought on the fact that he had always urged
Lydgate to avoid any personal entanglement with Bulstrode.  He added
immediately, <said who="#FB">And Bulstrode must naturally feel an interest in your
welfare, after you have worked with him in a way which has probably
reduced your income instead of adding to it.  I am glad to think that
he has acted accordingly.</said>
</P>

<P>
Lydgate felt uncomfortable under these kindly suppositions.  They made
more distinct within him the uneasy consciousness which had shown its
first dim stirrings only a few hours before, that Bulstrode's motives
for his sudden beneficence following close upon the chillest
indifference might be merely selfish.  He let the kindly suppositions
pass. <FID who="#Lyd"> He could not tell the history of the loan, but it was more
vividly present with him than ever, as well as the fact which the Vicar
delicately ignored—that this relation of personal indebtedness to
Bulstrode was what he had once been most resolved to avoid. </FID>
</P>

<P>
He began, instead of answering, to speak of his projected economies,
and of his having come to look at his life from a different point of
view.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">I shall set up a surgery,</said> he said.  <said who="#FB">I really think I made a mistaken
effort in that respect.  And if Rosamond will not mind, I shall take an
apprentice.  I don't like these things, but if one carries them out
faithfully they are not really lowering.  I have had a severe galling
to begin with: that will make the small rubs seem easy.</said>
</P>

<P>
Poor Lydgate! the <said who="#FB">if Rosamond will not mind,</said> which had fallen from
him involuntarily as part of his thought, was a significant mark of the
yoke he bore.  But Mr. Farebrother, whose hopes entered strongly into
the same current with Lydgate's, and who knew nothing about him that
could now raise a melancholy presentiment, left him with affectionate
congratulation.
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>

</div><div type="chapter" n="71"><head>CHAPTER LXXI.</head>

<epigraph>
        Clown. . . . 'Twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed,
                you have a delight to sit, have you not?
        Froth. I have so: because it is an open room, and good for winter.
          Clo. Why, very well then: I hope here be truths.
                                         —Measure for Measure.
</epigraph>

<BR/>

<P>
Five days after the death of Raffles, Mr. Bambridge was standing at his
leisure under the large archway leading into the yard of the Green
Dragon.  He was not fond of solitary contemplation, but he had only
just come out of the house, and any human figure standing at ease under
the archway in the early afternoon was as certain to attract
companionship as a pigeon which has found something worth pecking at.
In this case there was no material object to feed upon, but the eye of
reason saw a probability of mental sustenance in the shape of gossip.
Mr. Hopkins, the meek-mannered draper opposite, was the first to act on
this inward vision, being the more ambitious of a little masculine talk
because his customers were chiefly women.  Mr. Bambridge was rather
curt to the draper, feeling that Hopkins was of course glad to talk to
<I>him</I>, but that he was not going to waste much of his talk on Hopkins.
Soon, however, there was a small cluster of more important listeners,
who were either deposited from the passers-by, or had sauntered to the
spot expressly to see if there were anything going on at the Green
Dragon; and Mr. Bambridge was finding it worth his while to say many
impressive things about the fine studs he had been seeing and the
purchases he had made on a journey in the north from which he had just
returned.  <FID who="#Bambridge"> Gentlemen present were assured that when they could show him
anything to cut out a blood mare, a bay, rising four, which was to be
seen at Doncaster if they chose to go and look at it, Mr. Bambridge
would gratify them by being shot <said>from here to Hereford.</said>  Also, a pair
of blacks which he was going to put into the break recalled vividly to
his mind a pair which he had sold to Faulkner in '19, for a hundred
guineas, and which Faulkner had sold for a hundred and sixty two months
later—any gent who could disprove this statement being offered the
privilege of calling Mr. Bambridge by a very ugly name until the
exercise made his throat dry. </FID>
</P>

<P>
When the discourse was at this point of animation, came up Mr. Frank
Hawley.  He was not a man to compromise his dignity by lounging at the
Green Dragon, but happening to pass along the High Street and seeing
Bambridge on the other side, he took some of his long strides across to
ask the horsedealer whether he had found the first-rate gig-horse which
he had engaged to look for.  Mr. Hawley was requested to wait until he
had seen a gray selected at Bilkley: if that did not meet his wishes to
a hair, Bambridge did not know a horse when he saw it, which seemed to
be the highest conceivable unlikelihood.  Mr. Hawley, standing with his
back to the street, was fixing a time for looking at the gray and
seeing it tried, when a horseman passed slowly by.
</P>

<P>
"Bulstrode"! said two or three voices at once in a low tone, one of
them, which was the draper's, respectfully prefixing the "Mr"; but
nobody having more intention in this interjectural naming than if they
had said "the Riverston coach" when that vehicle appeared in the
distance.  Mr. Hawley gave a careless glance round at Bulstrode's back,
but as Bambridge's eyes followed it he made a sarcastic grimace.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Bambridge">By jingo! that reminds me,</said> he began, lowering his voice a little, <said>I
picked up something else at Bilkley besides your gig-horse, Mr. Hawley.
I picked up a fine story about Bulstrode.  Do you know how he came by
his fortune?  Any gentleman wanting a bit of curious information, I can
give it him free of expense.  If everybody got their deserts, Bulstrode
might have had to say his prayers at Botany Bay.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">What do you mean?</said> said Mr. Hawley, thrusting his hands into his
pockets, and pushing a little forward under the archway. <FID who="#Hawley"> If Bulstrode
should turn out to be a rascal, Frank Hawley had a prophetic soul. </FID>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Bambridge">I had it from a party who was an old chum of Bulstrode's.  I'll tell
you where I first picked him up,</said> said Bambridge, with a sudden gesture
of his fore-finger. <said who="#Bambridge">He was at Larcher's sale, but I knew nothing of
him then—he slipped through my fingers—was after Bulstrode, no
doubt.  He tells me he can tap Bulstrode to any amount, knows all his
secrets.  However, he blabbed to me at Bilkley: he takes a stiff glass.
Damme if I think he meant to turn king's evidence; but he's that sort
of bragging fellow, the bragging runs over hedge and ditch with him,
till he'd brag of a spavin as if it 'ud fetch money.  A man should know
when to pull up.</said> Mr. Bambridge made this remark with an air of
disgust, satisfied that his own bragging showed a fine sense of the
marketable.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">What's the man's name?  Where can he be found?</said> said Mr. Hawley.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Bambridge">As to where he is to be found, I left him to it at the Saracen's Head;
but his name is Raffles.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hopkins">Raffles!</said> exclaimed Mr. Hopkins.  <said who="#Hopkins">I furnished his funeral yesterday.
He was buried at Lowick.  Mr. Bulstrode followed him.  A very decent
funeral.</said>  There was a strong sensation among the listeners.  Mr.
Bambridge gave an ejaculation in which <said who="#Bambridge">brimstone</said> was the mildest
word, and Mr. Hawley, knitting his brows and bending his head forward,
exclaimed, <said who="#Hawley">What?—where did the man die?</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hopkins">At Stone Court,</said> said the draper.  <said who="#Hopkins">The housekeeper said he was a
relation of the master's. He came there ill on Friday.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Bambridge">Why, it was on Wednesday I took a glass with him,</said> interposed
Bambridge.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">Did any doctor attend him?</said> said Mr. Hawley
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Bambridge">Yes.  Mr. Lydgate.  Mr. Bulstrode sat up with him one night.  He died
the third morning.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">Go on, Bambridge,</said> said Mr. Hawley, insistently.  <said who="#Hawley">What did this
fellow say about Bulstrode?</said>
</P>

<P>
The group had already become larger, the town-clerk's presence being a
guarantee that something worth listening to was going on there; and Mr.
Bambridge delivered his narrative in the hearing of seven. <first> It was
mainly what we know, including the fact about Will Ladislaw, with some
local color and circumstance added: it was what Bulstrode had dreaded
the betrayal of—and hoped to have buried forever with the corpse of
Raffles—it was that haunting ghost of his earlier life which as he
rode past the archway of the Green Dragon he was trusting that
Providence had delivered him from. </first> <FID who="#B"> Yes, Providence.  He had not
confessed to himself yet that he had done anything in the way of
contrivance to this end; he had accepted what seemed to have been
offered.  It was impossible to prove that he had done anything which
hastened the departure of that man's soul. </FID>
</P>

<P>
But this gossip about Bulstrode spread through Middlemarch like the
smell of fire.  Mr. Frank Hawley followed up his information by sending
a clerk whom he could trust to Stone Court on a pretext of inquiring
about hay, but really to gather all that could be learned about Raffles
and his illness from Mrs. Abel.  In this way it came to his knowledge
that Mr. Garth had carried the man to Stone Court in his gig; and Mr.
Hawley in consequence took an opportunity of seeing Caleb, calling at
his office to ask whether he had time to undertake an arbitration if it
were required, and then asking him incidentally about Raffles.  Caleb
was betrayed into no word injurious to Bulstrode beyond the fact which
he was forced to admit, that he had given up acting for him within the
last week.  Mr Hawley drew his inferences, and feeling convinced that
Raffles had told his story to Garth, and that Garth had given up
Bulstrode's affairs in consequence, said so a few hours later to Mr.
Toller.  The statement was passed on until it had quite lost the stamp
of an inference, and was taken as information coming straight from
Garth, so that even a diligent historian might have concluded Caleb to
be the chief publisher of Bulstrode's misdemeanors.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Hawley was not slow to perceive that there was no handle for the
law either in the revelations made by Raffles or in the circumstances
of his death.  He had himself ridden to Lowick village that he might
look at the register and talk over the whole matter with Mr.
Farebrother, who was not more surprised than the lawyer that an ugly
secret should have come to light about Bulstrode, though he had always
had justice enough in him to hinder his antipathy from turning into
conclusions.  But while they were talking another combination was
silently going forward in Mr. Farebrother's mind, which foreshadowed
what was soon to be loudly spoken of in Middlemarch as a necessary
<said who="#FB">putting of two and two together.</said>  With the reasons which kept
Bulstrode in dread of Raffles there flashed the thought that the dread
might have something to do with his munificence towards his medical
man; and though he resisted the suggestion that it had been consciously
accepted in any way as a bribe, he had a foreboding that this
complication of things might be of malignant effect on Lydgate's
reputation.  He perceived that Mr. Hawley knew nothing at present of
the sudden relief from debt, and he himself was careful to glide away
from all approaches towards the subject.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">Well,</said> he said, with a deep breath, wanting to wind up the illimitable
discussion of what might have been, though nothing could be legally
proven, <said who="#FB">it is a strange story.  So our mercurial Ladislaw has a queer
genealogy!  A high-spirited young lady and a musical Polish patriot
made a likely enough stock for him to spring from, but I should never
have suspected a grafting of the Jew pawnbroker.  However, there's no
knowing what a mixture will turn out beforehand.  Some sorts of dirt
serve to clarify.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">It's just what I should have expected,</said> said Mr. Hawley, mounting his
horse.  <said who="#Hawley">Any cursed alien blood, Jew, Corsican, or Gypsy.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#FB">I know he's one of your black sheep, Hawley.  But he is really a
disinterested, unworldly fellow,</said> said Mr. Farebrother, smiling.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">Ay, ay, that is your Whiggish twist,</said> said Mr. Hawley, who had been in
the habit of saying apologetically that Farebrother was such a damned
pleasant good-hearted fellow you would mistake him for a Tory.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Hawley rode home without thinking of Lydgate's attendance on
Raffles in any other light than as a piece of evidence on the side of
Bulstrode. <FID who="#MM"> But the news that Lydgate had all at once become able not
only to get rid of the execution in his house but to pay all his debts
in Middlemarch was spreading fast, gathering round it conjectures and
comments which gave it new body and impetus, and soon filling the ears
of other persons besides Mr. Hawley, who were not slow to see a
significant relation between this sudden command of money and
Bulstrode's desire to stifle the scandal of Raffles.  That the money
came from Bulstrode would infallibly have been guessed even if there
had been no direct evidence of it; for it had beforehand entered into
the gossip about Lydgate's affairs, that neither his father-in-law nor
his own family would do anything for him, and direct evidence was
furnished not only by a clerk at the Bank, but by innocent Mrs.
Bulstrode herself, who mentioned the loan to Mrs. Plymdale, who
mentioned it to her daughter-in-law of the house of Toller, who
mentioned it generally. </FID> The business was felt to be so public and
important that it required dinners to feed it, and many invitations
were just then issued and accepted on the strength of this scandal
concerning Bulstrode and Lydgate; wives, widows, and single ladies took
their work and went out to tea oftener than usual; and all public
conviviality, from the Green Dragon to Dollop's, gathered a zest which
could not be won from the question whether the Lords would throw out
the Reform Bill.
</P>

<P>
For hardly anybody doubted that some scandalous reason or other was at
the bottom of Bulstrode's liberality to Lydgate.  Mr. Hawley indeed, in
the first instance, invited a select party, including the two
physicians, with Mr Toller and Mr. Wrench, expressly to hold a close
discussion as to the probabilities of Raffles's illness, reciting to
them all the particulars which had been gathered from Mrs. Abel in
connection with Lydgate's certificate, that the death was due to
delirium tremens; and the medical gentlemen, who all stood
undisturbedly on the old paths in relation to this disease, declared
that they could see nothing in these particulars which could be
transformed into a positive ground of suspicion. <FID who="#MM"> But the moral grounds
of suspicion remained: the strong motives Bulstrode clearly had for
wishing to be rid of Raffles, and the fact that at this critical moment
he had given Lydgate the help which he must for some time have known
the need for; the disposition, moreover, to believe that Bulstrode
would be unscrupulous, and the absence of any indisposition to believe
that Lydgate might be as easily bribed as other haughty-minded men when
they have found themselves in want of money.  Even if the money had
been given merely to make him hold his tongue about the scandal of
Bulstrode's earlier life, the fact threw an odious light on Lydgate,
who had long been sneered at as making himself subservient to the
banker for the sake of working himself into predominance, and
discrediting the elder members of his profession. </FID> Hence, in spite of
the negative as to any direct sign of guilt in relation to the death at
Stone Court, Mr. Hawley's select party broke up with the sense that the
affair had <said who="#Hawley"> an ugly look.</said>
</P>

<P>
But this vague conviction of indeterminable guilt, which was enough to
keep up much head-shaking and biting innuendo even among substantial
professional seniors, had for the general mind all the superior power
of mystery over fact.  Everybody liked better to conjecture how the
thing was, than simply to know it; for conjecture soon became more
confident than knowledge, and had a more liberal allowance for the
incompatible.  Even the more definite scandal concerning Bulstrode's
earlier life was, for some minds, melted into the mass of mystery, as
so much lively metal to be poured out in dialogue, and to take such
fantastic shapes as heaven pleased.
</P>

<P>
This was the tone of thought chiefly sanctioned by Mrs. Dollop, the
spirited landlady of the Tankard in Slaughter Lane, who had often to
resist the shallow pragmatism of customers disposed to think that their
reports from the outer world were of equal force with what had <said who="#Dollop">come
up</said> in her mind.  How it had been brought to her she didn't know, but
it was there before her as if it had been <said who="#Dollop">scored with the chalk on the
chimney-board—</said> as Bulstrode should say, <said who="#Dollop">his inside was <I>that black</I>
as if the hairs of his head knowed the thoughts of his heart, he'd tear
'em up by the roots.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Limp">That's odd,</said> said Mr. Limp, a meditative shoemaker, with weak eyes and
a piping voice.  <said who="#Limp">Why, I read in the 'Trumpet' that was what the Duke
of Wellington said when he turned his coat and went over to the Romans.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Dollop">Very like,</said> said Mrs. Dollop.  <said who="#Dollop">If one raskill said it, it's more
reason why another should.  But hypo<I>crite</I> as he's been, and holding
things with that high hand, as there was no parson i' the country good
enough for him, he was forced to take Old Harry into his counsel, and
Old Harry's been too many for him.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Crabbe">Ay, ay, he's a 'complice you can't send out o' the country,</said> said Mr.
Crabbe, the glazier, who gathered much news and groped among it dimly.
<said who="#Crabbe">But by what I can make out, there's them says Bulstrode was for
running away, for fear o' being found out, before now.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Dill">He'll be drove away, whether or no,</said> said Mr. Dill, the barber, who
had just dropped in. I shaved Fletcher, Hawley's clerk, this
morning—he's got a bad finger—and he says they're all of one mind to
get rid of Bulstrode.  Mr. Thesiger is turned against him, and wants
him out o' the parish.  And there's gentlemen in this town says they'd
as soon dine with a fellow from the hulks.  'And a deal sooner I
would,' says Fletcher; 'for what's more against one's stomach than a
man coming and making himself bad company with his religion, and giving
out as the Ten Commandments are not enough for him, and all the while
he's worse than half the men at the tread-mill?' Fletcher said so
himself.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Limp">It'll be a bad thing for the town though, if Bulstrode's money goes
out of it,</said> said Mr. Limp, quaveringly.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Jonas">Ah, there's better folks spend their money worse,</said> said a firm-voiced
dyer, whose crimson hands looked out of keeping with his good-natured
face.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Crabbe">But he won't keep his money, by what I can make out,</said> said the
glazier.  <said who="#Crabbe">Don't they say as there's somebody can strip it off him?  By
what I can understan', they could take every penny off him, if they
went to lawing.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Dill">No such thing!</said> said the barber, who felt himself a little above his
company at Dollop's, but liked it none the worse.  <said who="#Dill">Fletcher says it's
no such thing.  He says they might prove over and over again whose
child this young Ladislaw was, and they'd do no more than if they
proved I came out of the Fens—he couldn't touch a penny.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Dollop">Look you there now!</said> said Mrs. Dollop, indignantly.  <said who="#Dollop">I thank the Lord
he took my children to Himself, if that's all the law can do for the
motherless.  Then by that, it's o' no use who your father and mother
is.  But as to listening to what one lawyer says without asking
another—I wonder at a man o' your cleverness, Mr. Dill.  It's well
known there's always two sides, if no more; else who'd go to law, I
should like to know?  It's a poor tale, with all the law as there is up
and down, if it's no use proving whose child you are.  Fletcher may say
that if he likes, but I say, don't Fletcher <I>me</I>!</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Dill affected to laugh in a complimentary way at Mrs. Dollop, as a
woman who was more than a match for the lawyers; being disposed to
submit to much twitting from a landlady who had a long score against
him.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Crabbe">If they come to lawing, and it's all true as folks say, there's more
to be looked to nor money,</said> said the glazier.  <said who="#Crabbe">There's this poor
creetur as is dead and gone; by what I can make out, he'd seen the day
when he was a deal finer gentleman nor Bulstrode.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Dollop">Finer gentleman!  I'll warrant him,</said> said Mrs. Dollop; <said who="#Dollop">and a far
personabler man, by what I can hear.  As I said when Mr. Baldwin, the
tax-gatherer, comes in, a-standing where you sit, and says, 'Bulstrode
got all his money as he brought into this town by thieving and
swindling,'—I said, 'You don't make me no wiser, Mr. Baldwin: it's set
my blood a-creeping to look at him ever sin' here he came into
Slaughter Lane a-wanting to buy the house over my head: folks don't
look the color o' the dough-tub and stare at you as if they wanted to
see into your backbone for nothingk.'  That was what I said, and Mr.
Baldwin can bear me witness.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Crabbe">And in the rights of it too,</said> said Mr. Crabbe.  <said who="#Crabbe">For by what I can
make out, this Raffles, as they call him, was a lusty, fresh-colored
man as you'd wish to see, and the best o' company—though dead he lies
in Lowick churchyard sure enough; and by what I can understan', there's
them knows more than they <I>should</I> know about how he got there.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Dollop">I'll believe you!</said> said Mrs. Dollop, with a touch of scorn at Mr.
Crabbe's apparent dimness.  <said who="#Dollop">When a man's been 'ticed to a lone house,
and there's them can pay for hospitals and nurses for half the
country-side choose to be sitters-up night and day, and nobody to come
near but a doctor as is known to stick at nothingk, and as poor as he
can hang together, and after that so flush o' money as he can pay off
Mr. Byles the butcher as his bill has been running on for the best o'
joints since last Michaelmas was a twelvemonth—I don't want anybody to
come and tell me as there's been more going on nor the Prayer-book's
got a service for—I don't want to stand winking and blinking and
thinking.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mrs. Dollop looked round with the air of a landlady accustomed to
dominate her company.  There was a chorus of adhesion from the more
courageous; but Mr. Limp, after taking a draught, placed his flat hands
together and pressed them hard between his knees, looking down at them
with blear-eyed contemplation, as if the scorching power of Mrs.
Dollop's speech had quite dried up and nullified his wits until they
could be brought round again by further moisture.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Jonas">Why shouldn't they dig the man up and have the Crowner?</said> said the
dyer.  <said who="#Jonas">It's been done many and many's the time.  If there's been foul
play they might find it out.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Dollop">Not they, Mr. Jonas!</said> said Mrs Dollop, emphatically.  <said who="#Dollop">I know what
doctors are.  They're a deal too cunning to be found out.  And this
Doctor Lydgate that's been for cutting up everybody before the breath
was well out o' their body—it's plain enough what use he wanted to
make o' looking into respectable people's insides.  He knows drugs, you
may be sure, as you can neither smell nor see, neither before they're
swallowed nor after.  Why, I've seen drops myself ordered by Doctor
Gambit, as is our club doctor and a good charikter, and has brought
more live children into the world nor ever another i' Middlemarch—I
say I've seen drops myself as made no difference whether they was in
the glass or out, and yet have griped you the next day.  So I'll leave
your own sense to judge.  Don't tell me!  All I say is, it's a mercy
they didn't take this Doctor Lydgate on to our club.  There's many a
mother's child might ha' rued it.</said>
</P>

<P>
The heads of this discussion at "Dollop's" had been the common theme
among all classes in the town, had been carried to Lowick Parsonage on
one side and to Tipton Grange on the other, had come fully to the ears
of the Vincy family, and had been discussed with sad reference to <said who="#MM">poor
Harriet</said> by all Mrs. Bulstrode's friends, before Lydgate knew
distinctly why people were looking strangely at him, and before
Bulstrode himself suspected the betrayal of his secrets.  He had not
been accustomed to very cordial relations with his neighbors, and hence
he could not miss the signs of cordiality; moreover, he had been taking
journeys on business of various kinds, having now made up his mind that
he need not quit Middlemarch, and feeling able consequently to
determine on matters which he had before left in suspense.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B">We will make a journey to Cheltenham in the course of a month or two,</said>
he had said to his wife.  <said who="#B">There are great spiritual advantages to be
had in that town along with the air and the waters, and six weeks there
will be eminently refreshing to us.</said>
</P>

<P>
He really believed in the spiritual advantages, and meant that his life
henceforth should be the more devoted because of those later sins which
he represented to himself as hypothetic, praying hypothetically for
their pardon:—<said who="#B"> if I have herein transgressed. </said>
</P>

<P>
As to the Hospital, he avoided saying anything further to Lydgate,
fearing to manifest a too sudden change of plans immediately on the
death of Raffles.  In his secret soul he believed that Lydgate
suspected his orders to have been intentionally disobeyed, and
suspecting this he must also suspect a motive. <FID who="#B">But nothing had been
betrayed to him as to the history of Raffles,</FID> and Bulstrode was anxious
not to do anything which would give emphasis to his undefined
suspicions.  As to any certainty that a particular method of treatment
would either save or kill, Lydgate himself was constantly arguing
against such dogmatism; he had no right to speak, and he had every
motive for being silent.  Hence Bulstrode felt himself providentially
secured.  The only incident he had strongly winced under had been an
occasional encounter with Caleb Garth, who, however, had raised his hat
with mild gravity.
</P>

<P>
Meanwhile, on the part of the principal townsmen a strong determination
was growing against him.
</P>

<P>
A meeting was to be held in the Town-Hall on a sanitary question which
had risen into pressing importance by the occurrence of a cholera case
in the town.  Since the Act of Parliament, which had been hurriedly
passed, authorizing assessments for sanitary measures, there had been a
Board for the superintendence of such measures appointed in
Middlemarch, and much cleansing and preparation had been concurred in
by Whigs and Tories.  The question now was, whether a piece of ground
outside the town should be secured as a burial-ground by means of
assessment or by private subscription.  The meeting was to be open, and
almost everybody of importance in the town was expected to be there.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Bulstrode was a member of the Board, and just before twelve o'clock
he started from the Bank with the intention of urging the plan of
private subscription.  Under the hesitation of his projects, he had for
some time kept himself in the background, and he felt that he should
this morning resume his old position as a man of action and influence
in the public affairs of the town where he expected to end his days.
Among the various persons going in the same direction, he saw Lydgate;
they joined, talked over the object of the meeting, and entered it
together.
</P>

<P>
It seemed that everybody of mark had been earlier than they.  But there
were still spaces left near the head of the large central table, and
they made their way thither.  Mr. Farebrother sat opposite, not far
from Mr. Hawley; all the medical men were there; Mr. Thesiger was in
the chair, and Mr. Brooke of Tipton was on his right hand.
</P>

<P>
Lydgate noticed a peculiar interchange of glances when he and Bulstrode
took their seats.
</P>

<P>
After the business had been fully opened by the chairman, who pointed
out the advantages of purchasing by subscription a piece of ground
large enough to be ultimately used as a general cemetery, Mr.
Bulstrode, whose rather high-pitched but subdued and fluent voice the
town was used to at meetings of this sort, rose and asked leave to
deliver his opinion.  Lydgate could see again the peculiar interchange
of glances before Mr. Hawley started up, and said in his firm resonant
voice, <said who="#Hawley">Mr. Chairman, I request that before any one delivers his
opinion on this point I may be permitted to speak on a question of
public feeling, which not only by myself, but by many gentlemen
present, is regarded as preliminary.</said>
</P>

<P>
Mr. Hawley's mode of speech, even when public decorum repressed his
<said who="#Hawley">awful language,</said> was formidable in its curtness and self-possession.
Mr. Thesiger sanctioned the request, Mr. Bulstrode sat down, and Mr.
Hawley continued.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">In what I have to say, Mr. Chairman, I am not speaking simply on my
own behalf: I am speaking with the concurrence and at the express
request of no fewer than eight of my fellow-townsmen, who are
immediately around us.  It is our united sentiment that Mr. Bulstrode
should be called upon—and I do now call upon him—to resign public
positions which he holds not simply as a tax-payer, but as a gentleman
among gentlemen.  There are practices and there are acts which, owing
to circumstances, the law cannot visit, though they may be worse than
many things which are legally punishable.  Honest men and gentlemen, if
they don't want the company of people who perpetrate such acts, have
got to defend themselves as they best can, and that is what I and the
friends whom I may call my clients in this affair are determined to do.
I don't say that Mr. Bulstrode has been guilty of shameful acts, but I
call upon him either publicly to deny and confute the scandalous
statements made against him by a man now dead, and who died in his
house—the statement that he was for many years engaged in nefarious
practices, and that he won his fortune by dishonest procedures—or else
to withdraw from positions which could only have been allowed him as a
gentleman among gentlemen.</said>
</P>

<P>
All eyes in the room were turned on Mr. Bulstrode, who, since the first
mention of his name, had been going through a crisis of feeling almost
too violent for his delicate frame to support.  Lydgate, who himself
was undergoing a shock as from the terrible practical interpretation of
some faint augury, felt, nevertheless, that his own movement of
resentful hatred was checked by that instinct of the Healer which
thinks first of bringing rescue or relief to the sufferer, when he
looked at the shrunken misery of Bulstrode's livid face.
</P>

<P>
The quick vision that his life was after all a failure, that he was a
dishonored man, and must quail before the glance of those towards whom
he had habitually assumed the attitude of a reprover—that God had
disowned him before men and left him unscreened to the triumphant scorn
of those who were glad to have their hatred justified—the sense of
utter futility in that equivocation with his conscience in dealing with
the life of his accomplice, an equivocation which now turned venomously
upon him with the full-grown fang of a discovered lie:—all this
rushed through him like the agony of terror which fails to kill, and
leaves the ears still open to the returning wave of execration.  The
sudden sense of exposure after the re-established sense of safety
came—not to the coarse organization of a criminal, but to the
susceptible nerve of a man whose intensest being lay in such mastery
and predominance as the conditions of his life had shaped for him.
</P>

<P>
But in that intense being lay the strength of reaction.  Through all
his bodily infirmity there ran a tenacious nerve of ambitious
self-preserving will, which had continually leaped out like a flame,
scattering all doctrinal fears, and which, even while he sat an object
of compassion for the merciful, was beginning to stir and glow under
his ashy paleness.  Before the last words were out of Mr. Hawley's
mouth, Bulstrode felt that he should answer, and that his answer would
be a retort.  He dared not get up and say, <said who="#Bulstrode">I am not guilty, the whole
story is false</said>—<FID who="#B"> even if he had dared this, it would have seemed to
him, under his present keen sense of betrayal, as vain as to pull, for
covering to his nakedness, a frail rag which would rend at every little
strain. </FID>
</P>

<P>
For a few moments there was total silence, while every man in the room
was looking at Bulstrode.  He sat perfectly still, leaning hard against
the back of his chair; <FID who="#B"> he could not venture to rise, </FID>and when he began
to speak he pressed his hands upon the seat on each side of him.  But
his voice was perfectly audible, though hoarser than usual, and his
words were distinctly pronounced, though he paused between sentence as
if short of breath.  He said, turning first toward Mr. Thesiger, and
then looking at Mr. Hawley—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#B"> I protest before you, sir, as a Christian minister, against the
sanction of proceedings towards me which are dictated by virulent
hatred.  Those who are hostile to me are glad to believe any libel
uttered by a loose tongue against me.  And their consciences become
strict against me.  Say that the evil-speaking of which I am to be made
the victim accuses me of malpractices—</said> here Bulstrode's voice rose
and took on a more biting accent, till it seemed a low cry—<said who="#B"> who shall
be my accuser?  Not men whose own lives are unchristian, nay,
scandalous—not men who themselves use low instruments to carry out
their ends—whose profession is a tissue of chicanery—who have been
spending their income on their own sensual enjoyments, while I have
been devoting mine to advance the best objects with regard to this life
and the next.</said>
</P>

<P>
After the word chicanery there was a growing noise, half of murmurs and
half of hisses, while four persons started up at once—Mr. Hawley, Mr.
Toller, Mr. Chichely, and Mr. Hackbutt; but Mr. Hawley's outburst was
instantaneous, and left the others behind in silence.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Hawley">If you mean me, sir, I call you and every one else to the inspection
of my professional life.  As to Christian or unchristian, I repudiate
your canting palavering Christianity; and as to the way in which I
spend my income, it is not my principle to maintain thieves and cheat
offspring of their due inheritance in order to support religion and set
myself up as a saintly Killjoy.  I affect no niceness of conscience—I
have not found any nice standards necessary yet to measure your actions
by, sir.  And I again call upon you to enter into satisfactory
explanations concerning the scandals against you, or else to withdraw
from posts in which we at any rate decline you as a colleague.  I say,
sir, we decline to co-operate with a man whose character is not cleared
from infamous lights cast upon it, not only by reports but by recent
actions.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Thesiger">Allow me, Mr. Hawley,</said> said the chairman; and Mr. Hawley, still
fuming, bowed half impatiently, and sat down with his hands thrust deep
in his pockets.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Thesiger">Mr. Bulstrode, it is not desirable, I think, to prolong the present
discussion,</said> said Mr. Thesiger, turning to the pallid trembling man; <said who="#Thesiger">I
must so far concur with what has fallen from Mr. Hawley in expression
of a general feeling, as to think it due to your Christian profession
that you should clear yourself, if possible, from unhappy aspersions.
I for my part should be willing to give you full opportunity and
hearing.  But I must say that your present attitude is painfully
inconsistent with those principles which you have sought to identify
yourself with, and for the honor of which I am bound to care.  I
recommend you at present, as your clergyman, and one who hopes for your
reinstatement in respect, to quit the room, and avoid further hindrance
to business.</said>
</P>

<P>
Bulstrode, after a moment's hesitation, took his hat from the floor and
slowly rose, but he grasped the corner of the chair so totteringly that
Lydgate felt sure there was not strength enough in him to walk away
without support. <FID who="#Lyd"> What could he do?  He could not see a man sink close
to him for want of help. </FID> He rose and gave his arm to Bulstrode, and in
that way led him out of the room; yet this act, which might have been
one of gentle duty and pure compassion, was at this moment unspeakably
bitter to him.  It seemed as if he were putting his sign-manual to that
association of himself with Bulstrode, of which he now saw the full
meaning as it must have presented itself to other minds.  He now felt
the conviction that this man who was leaning tremblingly on his arm,
had given him the thousand pounds as a bribe, and that somehow the
treatment of Raffles had been tampered with from an evil motive. <FID who="#Lyd"> The
inferences were closely linked enough; the town knew of the loan,
believed it to be a bribe, and believed that he took it as a bribe. </FID>
</P>

<P>
Poor Lydgate, his mind struggling under the terrible clutch of this
revelation, was all the while morally forced to take Mr. Bulstrode to
the Bank, send a man off for his carriage, and wait to accompany him
home.
</P>

<P>
Meanwhile the business of the meeting was despatched, and fringed off
into eager discussion among various groups concerning this affair of
Bulstrode—and Lydgate.
</P>

<P>
Mr. Brooke, who had before heard only imperfect hints of it, and was
very uneasy that he had <said who="#MB">gone a little too far</said> in countenancing
Bulstrode, now got himself fully informed, and felt some benevolent
sadness in talking to Mr. Farebrother about the ugly light in which
Lydgate had come to be regarded.  Mr. Farebrother was going to walk
back to Lowick.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MB">Step into my carriage,</said> said Mr. Brooke.  <said who="#MB">I am going round to see
Mrs. Casaubon.  She was to come back from Yorkshire last night.  She
will like to see me, you know.</said>
</P>

<P>
So they drove along, Mr. Brooke chatting with good-natured hope that
there had not really been anything black in Lydgate's behavior—a
young fellow whom he had seen to be quite above the common mark, when
he brought a letter from his uncle Sir Godwin.  Mr. Farebrother said
little: he was deeply mournful: with a keen perception of human
weakness, he could not be confident that under the pressure of
humiliating needs Lydgate had not fallen below himself.
</P>

<P>
When the carriage drove up to the gate of the Manor, Dorothea was out
on the gravel, and came to greet them.
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MB">Well, my dear,</said> said Mr. Brooke, <said> who="#MB"we have just come from a meeting—a
sanitary meeting, you know.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#D">Was Mr. Lydgate there?</said> said Dorothea, who looked full of health and
animation, and stood with her head bare under the gleaming April
lights.  <said who="#D">I want to see him and have a great consultation with him
about the Hospital.  I have engaged with Mr. Bulstrode to do so.</said>
</P>

<P>
<said who="#MB">Oh, my dear,</said> said Mr. Brooke, <said who="#MB">we have been hearing bad news—bad
news, you know.</said>
</P>

<P>
They walked through the garden towards the churchyard gate, Mr.
Farebrother wanting to go on to the parsonage; and Dorothea heard the
whole sad story.
</P>

<P>
She listened with deep interest, and begged to hear twice over the
facts and impressions concerning Lydgate.  After a short silence,
pausing at the churchyard gate, and addressing Mr. Farebrother, she
said energetically—
</P>

<P>
<said who="#Lyd">You don't believe that Mr. Lydgate is guilty of anything base?  I will
not believe it.  Let us find out the truth and clear him!</said>
</P>

<BR/><BR/><BR/>