Middlemarch
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. 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. 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.
And who could say that the death of Raffles had been hastened? Who knew
what would have saved him?
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. 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.
“When did this change begin?” said he, looking at Bulstrode.
“I did not watch by him last night,” said Bulstrode. “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.”
Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until he
said, “It’s all over.”
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—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.
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.
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.
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. Could this too be a proud
rejection of sympathy and help? Never mind; the sympathy and help
should be offered.
“How are you, Lydgate? I came to see you because I had heard something
which made me anxious about you,” 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—
“I think I know what you mean. You had heard that there was an
execution in the house?”
“Yes; is it true?”
“It was true,” said Lydgate, with an air of freedom, as if he did not
mind talking about the affair now. “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.”
“I am very thankful to hear it,” said the Vicar, falling back in his
chair, and speaking with that low-toned quickness which often follows
the removal of a load. “I like that better than all the news in the
‘Times.’ I confess I came to you with a heavy heart.”
“Thank you for coming,” said Lydgate, cordially. “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,” he added, smiling rather sadly; “but just now I can only
feel that the torture-screw is off.”
Mr. Farebrother was silent for a moment, and then said earnestly, “My
dear fellow, let me ask you one question. Forgive me if I take a
liberty.”
“I don’t believe you will ask anything that ought to offend me.”
“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?”
“No,” said Lydgate, coloring slightly. “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.”
“Well, that is generous,” 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, “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.”
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. 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.
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.
“I shall set up a surgery,” he said. “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.”
Poor Lydgate! the “if Rosamond will not mind,” 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.
CHAPTER LXXI.
_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_.
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 _him_, 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.
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 “from here to Hereford.” 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.
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.
“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