Middlemarch
said firmly,—
“Before I make any reply to your proposition, Mr. Bulstrode, I must beg
you to answer a question or two. Were you connected with the business
by which that fortune you speak of was originally made?”
Mr. Bulstrode’s thought was, “Raffles has told him.” How could he
refuse to answer when he had volunteered what drew forth the question?
He answered, “Yes.”
“And was that business—or was it not—a thoroughly dishonorable one—nay,
one that, if its nature had been made public, might have ranked those
concerned in it with thieves and convicts?”
Will’s tone had a cutting bitterness: he was moved to put his question
as nakedly as he could.
Bulstrode reddened with irrepressible anger. He had been prepared for a
scene of self-abasement, but his intense pride and his habit of
supremacy overpowered penitence, and even dread, when this young man,
whom he had meant to benefit, turned on him with the air of a judge.
“The business was established before I became connected with it, sir;
nor is it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind,” he answered,
not raising his voice, but speaking with quick defiantness.
“Yes, it is,” said Will, starting up again with his hat in his hand.
“It is eminently mine to ask such questions, when I have to decide
whether I will have transactions with you and accept your money. My
unblemished honor is important to me. It is important to me to have no
stain on my birth and connections. And now I find there is a stain
which I can’t help. My mother felt it, and tried to keep as clear of it
as she could, and so will I. You shall keep your ill-gotten money. If I
had any fortune of my own, I would willingly pay it to any one who
could disprove what you have told me. What I have to thank you for is
that you kept the money till now, when I can refuse it. It ought to lie
with a man’s self that he is a gentleman. Good-night, sir.”
Bulstrode was going to speak, but Will, with determined quickness, was
out of the room in an instant, and in another the hall-door had closed
behind him. He was too strongly possessed with passionate rebellion
against this inherited blot which had been thrust on his knowledge to
reflect at present whether he had not been too hard on Bulstrode—too
arrogantly merciless towards a man of sixty, who was making efforts at
retrieval when time had rendered them vain.
No third person listening could have thoroughly understood the
impetuosity of Will’s repulse or the bitterness of his words. No one
but himself then knew how everything connected with the sentiment of
his own dignity had an immediate bearing for him on his relation to
Dorothea and to Mr. Casaubon’s treatment of him. And in the rush of
impulses by which he flung back that offer of Bulstrode’s there was
mingled the sense that it would have been impossible for him ever to
tell Dorothea that he had accepted it.
As for Bulstrode—when Will was gone he suffered a violent reaction, and
wept like a woman. It was the first time he had encountered an open
expression of scorn from any man higher than Raffles; and with that
scorn hurrying like venom through his system, there was no sensibility
left to consolations. But the relief of weeping had to be checked. His
wife and daughters soon came home from hearing the address of an
Oriental missionary, and were full of regret that papa had not heard,
in the first instance, the interesting things which they tried to
repeat to him.
Perhaps, through all other hidden thoughts, the one that breathed most
comfort was, that Will Ladislaw at least was not likely to publish what
had taken place that evening.
CHAPTER LXII.
He was a squyer of lowe degre,
That loved the king’s daughter of Hungrie.
—_Old Romance_.
Will Ladislaw’s mind was now wholly bent on seeing Dorothea again, and
forthwith quitting Middlemarch. The morning after his agitating scene
with Bulstrode he wrote a brief letter to her, saying that various
causes had detained him in the neighborhood longer than he had
expected, and asking her permission to call again at Lowick at some
hour which she would mention on the earliest possible day, he being
anxious to depart, but unwilling to do so until she had granted him an
interview. He left the letter at the office, ordering the messenger to
carry it to Lowick Manor, and wait for an answer.
Ladislaw felt the awkwardness of asking for more last words. His former
farewell had been made in the hearing of Sir James Chettam, and had
been announced as final even to the butler. It is certainly trying to a
man’s dignity to reappear when he is not expected to do so: a first
farewell has pathos in it, but to come back for a second lends an
opening to comedy, and it was possible even that there might be bitter
sneers afloat about Will’s motives for lingering. Still it was on the
whole more satisfactory to his feeling to take the directest means of
seeing Dorothea, than to use any device which might give an air of
chance to a meeting of which he wished her to understand that it was
what he earnestly sought. When he had parted from her before, he had
been in ignorance of facts which gave a new aspect to the relation
between them, and made a more absolute severance than he had then
believed in. He knew nothing of Dorothea’s private fortune, and being
little used to reflect on such matters, took it for granted that
according to Mr. Casaubon’s arrangement marriage to him, Will Ladislaw,
would mean that she consented to be penniless. That was not what he
could wish for even in his secret heart, or even if she had been ready
to meet such hard contrast for his sake. And then, too, there was the
fresh smart of that disclosure about his mother’s family, which if
known would be an added reason why Dorothea’s friends should look down
upon him as utterly below her. The secret hope that after some years he
might come back with the sense that he had at least a personal value
equal to her wealth, seemed now the dreamy continuation of a dream.
This change would surely justify him in asking Dorothea to receive him
once more.
But Dorothea on that morning was not at home to receive Will’s note. In
consequence of a letter from her uncle announcing his intention to be
at home in a week, she had driven first to Freshitt to carry the news,
meaning to go on to the Grange to deliver some orders with which her
uncle had intrusted her—thinking, as he said, “a little mental
occupation of this sort good for a widow.”
If Will Ladislaw could have overheard some of the talk at Freshitt that
morning, he would have felt all his suppositions confirmed as to the
readiness of certain people to sneer at his lingering in the
neighborhood. Sir James, indeed, though much relieved concerning
Dorothea, had been on the watch to learn Ladislaw’s movements, and had
an instructed informant in Mr. Standish, who was necessarily in his
confidence on this matter. That Ladislaw had stayed in Middlemarch
nearly two months after he had declared that he was going immediately,
was a fact to embitter Sir James’s suspicions, or at least to justify
his aversion to a “young fellow” whom he represented to himself as
slight, volatile, and likely enough to show such recklessness as
naturally went along with a position unriveted by family ties or a
strict profession. But he had just heard something from Standish which,
while it justified these surmises about Will, offered a means of
nullifying all danger with regard to Dorothea.
Unwonted circumstances may make us all rather unlike ourselves: there
are conditions under which the most majestic person is obliged to
sneeze, and our emotions are liable to be acted on in the same
incongruous manner. Good Sir James was this morning so far unlike
himself that he was irritably anxious to say something to Dorothea on a
subject which he usually avoided as if it had been a matter of shame to
them both. He could not use Celia as a medium, because he did not
choose that she should know the kind of gossip he had in his mind; and
before Dorothea happened to arrive he had been trying to imagine how,
with his shyness and unready tongue, he could ever manage to introduce
his communication. Her unexpected presence brought him to utter
hopelessness in his own power of saying anything unpleasant; but
desperation suggested a resource; he sent the groom on an unsaddled
horse across the park with a pencilled note to Mrs. Cadwallader, who
already knew the gossip, and would think it no compromise of herself to
repeat it as often as required.
Dorothea was detained on the good pretext that Mr. Garth, whom she
wanted to see, was expected at the hall within the hour, and she was
still talking to Caleb on the gravel when Sir James, on the watch for
the rector’s wife, saw her coming and met her with the needful hints.
“Enough! I understand,”—said Mrs. Cadwallader. “You shall be innocent.
I am such a blackamoor that I cannot smirch myself.”
“I don’t mean that it’s of any consequence,” said Sir James, disliking
that Mrs. Cadwallader should understand too much. “Only it is desirable
that Dorothea should know there are reasons why she should not receive
him again; and I really can’t say so to her. It will come lightly from
you.”
It came very lightly indeed. When Dorothea quitted Caleb and turned to
meet them, it appeared that Mrs. Cadwallader had stepped across the
park by the merest chance in the world, just to chat with Celia in a
matronly way about the baby. And so Mr. Brooke was coming back?
Delightful!—coming back, it was to be hoped, quite cured of
Parliamentary fever and pioneering. Apropos of the “Pioneer”—somebody
had prophesied that it would soon be like a dying dolphin, and turn all
colors for want of knowing how to help itself, because Mr. Brooke’s
protege, the brilliant young Ladislaw, was gone or going. Had Sir James
heard that?
The three were walking along the gravel slowly, and Sir James, turning
aside to whip a shrub, said he had heard something of that sort.
“All false!” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “He is not gone, or going,
apparently; the ‘Pioneer’ keeps its color, and Mr. Orlando Ladislaw is
making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continually with your Mr.
Lydgate’s wife, who they tell me is as pretty as pretty can be. It
seems nobody ever goes into the house without finding this young
gentleman lying on the rug or warbling at the piano. But the people in
manufacturing towns are always disreputable.”
“You began by saying that one report was false, Mrs. Cadwallader, and I
believe this is false too,” said Dorothea, with indignant energy; “at
least, I feel sure it is a misrepresentation. I will not hear any evil
spoken of Mr. Ladislaw; he has already suffered too much injustice.”
Dorothea when thoroughly moved cared little what any one thought of her
feelings; and even if she had been able to reflect, she would have held
it petty to keep silence at injurious words about Will from fear of
being herself misunderstood. Her face was flushed and her lip trembled.
Sir James, glancing at her, repented of his stratagem; but Mrs.
Cadwallader, equal to all occasions, spread the palms of her hands
outward and said—“Heaven grant it, my dear!—I mean that all bad tales
about anybody may be false. But it is a pity that young Lydgate should
have married one of these Middlemarch girls. Considering he’s a son of
somebody, he might have got a woman with good blood in her veins, and
not too young, who would have put up with his profession. There’s Clara
Harfager, for instance, whose friends don’t know what to do with her;
and she has a portion. Then we might have had her among us.
However!—it’s no use being wise for other people. Where is Celia? Pray
let us go in.”
“I am going on immediately to Tipton,” said Dorothea, rather haughtily.
“Good-by.”