Middlemarch

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER LXX.

  Our deeds still travel with us from afar, And what we have been makes us what we are."

  Bulstrode's first object after Lydgate had left Stone Court was toexamine Raffles's pockets, which he imagined were sure to carry signsin the shape of hotel-bills of the places he had stopped in, if he hadnot told the truth in saying that he had come straight from Liverpoolbecause he was ill and had no money. There were various bills crammedinto his pocketbook, but none of a later date than Christmas at anyother place, except one, which bore date that morning. This wascrumpled up with a hand-bill about a horse-fair in one of histail-pockets, and represented the cost of three days' stay at an inn atBilkley, where the fair was held--a town at least forty miles fromMiddlemarch. The bill was heavy, and since Raffles had no luggage withhim, it seemed probable that he had left his portmanteau behind inpayment, in order to save money for his travelling fare; for his pursewas empty, and he had only a couple of sixpences and some loose pencein his pockets.

  Bulstrode gathered a sense of safety from these indications thatRaffles had really kept at a distance from Middlemarch since hismemorable visit at Christmas. At a distance and among people who werestrangers to Bulstrode, what satisfaction could there be to Raffles'stormenting, self-magnifying vein in telling old scandalous storiesabout a Middlemarch banker? And what harm if he did talk? The chiefpoint now was to keep watch over him as long as there was any danger ofthat intelligible raving, that unaccountable impulse to tell, whichseemed to have acted towards Caleb Garth; and Bulstrode felt muchanxiety lest some such impulse should come over him at the sight ofLydgate. He sat up alone with him through the night, only ordering thehousekeeper to lie down in her clothes, so as to be ready when hecalled her, alleging his own indisposition to sleep, and his anxiety tocarry out the doctor's orders. He did carry them out faithfully,although Raffles was incessantly asking for brandy, and declaring thathe was sinking away--that the earth was sinking away from under him.He was restless and sleepless, but still quailing and manageable. Onthe offer of the food ordered by Lydgate, which he refused, and thedenial of other things which he demanded, he seemed to concentrate allhis terror on Bulstrode, imploringly deprecating his anger, his revengeon him by starvation, and declaring with strong oaths that he had nevertold any mortal a word against him. Even this Bulstrode felt that hewould not have liked Lydgate to hear; but a more alarming sign offitful alternation in his delirium was, that in-the morning twilightRaffles suddenly seemed to imagine a doctor present, addressing him anddeclaring that Bulstrode wanted to starve him to death out of revengefor telling, when he never had told.

  Bulstrode's native imperiousness and strength of determination servedhim well. This delicate-looking man, himself nervously perturbed,found the needed stimulus in his strenuous circumstances, and throughthat difficult night and morning, while he had the air of an animatedcorpse returned to movement without warmth, holding the mastery by itschill impassibility his mind was intensely at work thinking of what hehad to guard against and what would win him security. Whatever prayershe might lift up, whatever statements he might inwardly make of thisman's wretched spiritual condition, and the duty he himself was underto submit to the punishment divinely appointed for him rather than towish for evil to another--through all this effort to condense wordsinto a solid mental state, there pierced and spread with irresistiblevividness the images of the events he desired. And in the train ofthose images came their apology. He could not but see the death ofRaffles, and see in it his own deliverance. What was the removal ofthis wretched creature? He was impenitent--but were not publiccriminals impenitent?--yet the law decided on their fate. ShouldProvidence in this case award death, there was no sin in contemplatingdeath as the desirable issue--if he kept his hands from hasteningit--if he scrupulously did what was prescribed. Even here there mightbe a mistake: human prescriptions were fallible things: Lydgate hadsaid that treatment had hastened death,--why not his own method oftreatment? But of course intention was everything in the question ofright and wrong.

  And Bulstrode set himself to keep his intention separate from hisdesire. He inwardly declared that he intended to obey orders. Whyshould he have got into any argument about the validity of theseorders? It was only the common trick of desire--which avails itself ofany irrelevant scepticism, finding larger room for itself in alluncertainty about effects, in every obscurity that looks like theabsence of law. Still, he did obey the orders.

  His anxieties continually glanced towards Lydgate, and his remembranceof what had taken place between them the morning before was accompaniedwith sensibilities which had not been roused at all during the actualscene. He had then cared but little about Lydgate's painfulimpressions with regard to the suggested change in the Hospital, orabout the disposition towards himself which what he held to be hisjustifiable refusal of a rather exorbitant request might call forth.He recurred to the scene now with a perception that he had probablymade Lydgate his enemy, and with an awakened desire to propitiate him,or rather to create in him a strong sense of personal obligation. Heregretted that he had not at once made even an unreasonablemoney-sacrifice. For in case of unpleasant suspicions, or evenknowledge gathered from the raving of Raffles, Bulstrode would havefelt that he had a defence in Lydgate's mind by having conferred amomentous benefit on him. But the regret had perhaps come too late.

  Strange, piteous conflict in the soul of this unhappy man, who hadlonged for years to be better than he was--who had taken his selfishpassions into discipline and clad them in severe robes, so that he hadwalked with them as a devout choir, till now that a terror had risenamong them, and they could chant no longer, but threw out their commoncries for safety.

  It was nearly the middle of the day before Lydgate arrived: he hadmeant to come earlier, but had been detained, he said; and hisshattered looks were noticed by Balstrode. But he immediately threwhimself into the consideration of the patient, and inquired strictlyinto all that had occurred. Raffles was worse, would take hardly anyfood, was persistently wakeful and restlessly raving; but still notviolent. Contrary to Bulstrode's alarmed expectation, he took littlenotice of Lydgate's presence, and continued to talk or murmurincoherently.

  "What do you think of him?" said Bulstrode, in private.

  "The symptoms are worse."

  "You are less hopeful?"

  "No; I still think he may come round. Are you going to stay hereyourself?" said Lydgate, looking at Bulstrode with an abrupt question,which made him uneasy, though in reality it was not due to anysuspicious conjecture.

  "Yes, I think so," said Bulstrode, governing himself and speaking withdeliberation. "Mrs. Bulstrode is advised of the reasons which detainme. Mrs. Abel and her husband are not experienced enough to be leftquite alone, and this kind of responsibility is scarcely included intheir service of me. You have some fresh instructions, I presume."

  The chief new instruction that Lydgate had to give was on theadministration of extremely moderate doses of opium, in case of thesleeplessness continuing after several hours. He had taken theprecaution of bringing opium in his pocket, and he gave minutedirections to Bulstrode as to the doses, and the point at which theyshould cease. He insisted on the risk of not ceasing; and repeated hisorder that no alcohol should be given.

  "From what I see of the case," he ended, "narcotism is the only thing Ishould be much afraid of. He may wear through even without much food.There's a good deal of strength in him."

  "You look ill yourself, Mr. Lydgate--a most unusual, I may sayunprecedented thing in my knowledge of you," said Bulstrode, showing asolicitude as unlike his indifference the day before, as his presentrecklessness about his own fatigue was unlike his habitualself-cherishing anxiety. "I fear you are harassed."

  "Yes, I am," said Lydgate, brusquely, holding his hat, and ready to go.

  "Something new, I fear," said Bulstrode, inquiringly. "Pray be seated."

  "No, thank you," said Lydgate, with some hauteur. "I mentioned to youyes
terday what was the state of my affairs. There is nothing to add,except that the execution has since then been actually put into myhouse. One can tell a good deal of trouble in a short sentence. Iwill say good morning."

  "Stay, Mr. Lydgate, stay," said Bulstrode; "I have been reconsideringthis subject. I was yesterday taken by surprise, and saw itsuperficially. Mrs. Bulstrode is anxious for her niece, and I myselfshould grieve at a calamitous change in your position. Claims on meare numerous, but on reconsideration, I esteem it right that I shouldincur a small sacrifice rather than leave you unaided. You said, Ithink, that a thousand pounds would suffice entirely to free you fromyour burthens, and enable you to recover a firm stand?"

  "Yes," said Lydgate, a great leap of joy within him surmounting everyother feeling; "that would pay all my debts, and leave me a little onhand. I could set about economizing in our way of living. Andby-and-by my practice might look up."

  "If you will wait a moment, Mr. Lydgate, I will draw a check to thatamount. I am aware that help, to be effectual in these cases, shouldbe thorough."

  While Bulstrode wrote, Lydgate turned to the window thinking of hishome--thinking of his life with its good start saved from frustration,its good purposes still unbroken.

  "You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate," said thebanker, advancing towards him with the check. "And by-and-by, I hope,you may be in circumstances gradually to repay me. Meanwhile, I havepleasure in thinking that you will be released from further difficulty."

  "I am deeply obliged to you," said Lydgate. "You have restored to methe prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good."

  It appeared to him a very natural movement in Bulstrode that he shouldhave reconsidered his refusal: it corresponded with the more munificentside of his character. But as he put his hack into a canter, that hemight get the sooner home, and tell the good news to Rosamond, and getcash 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 evilaugury across his vision, the thought of that contrast in himself whicha few months had brought--that he should be overjoyed at being under astrong personal obligation--that he should be overjoyed at gettingmoney for himself from Bulstrode.

  The banker felt that he had done something to nullify one cause ofuneasiness, and yet he was scarcely the easier. He did not measure thequantity of diseased motive which had made him wish for Lydgate'sgood-will, but the quantity was none the less actively there, like anirritating agent in his blood. A man vows, and yet will not cast awaythe means of breaking his vow. Is it that he distinctly means to breakit? Not at all; but the desires which tend to break it are at work inhim dimly, and make their way into his imagination, and relax hismuscles in the very moments when he is telling himself over again thereasons for his vow. Raffles, recovering quickly, returning to thefree use of his odious powers--how could Bulstrode wish for that?Raffles dead was the image that brought release, and indirectly heprayed 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 anignominy which would break him utterly as an instrument of God'sservice. Lydgate's opinion was not on the side of promise that thisprayer would be fulfilled; and as the day advanced, Bulstrode felthimself getting irritated at the persistent life in this man, whom hewould fain have seen sinking into the silence of death: imperious willstirred murderous impulses towards this brute life, over which will, byitself, had no power. He said inwardly that he was getting too muchworn; he would not sit up with the patient to-night, but leave him toMrs. Abel, who, if necessary, could call her husband.

  At six o'clock, Raffles, having had only fitful perturbed snatches ofsleep, from which he waked with fresh restlessness and perpetual criesthat he was sinking away, Bulstrode began to administer the opiumaccording to Lydgate's directions. At the end of half an hour or morehe called Mrs. Abel and told her that he found himself unfit forfurther watching. He must now consign the patient to her care; and heproceeded to repeat to her Lydgate's directions as to the quantity ofeach dose. Mrs. Abel had not before known anything of Lydgate'sprescriptions; she had simply prepared and brought whatever Bulstrodeordered, and had done what he pointed out to her. She began now to askwhat else she should do besides administering the opium.

  "Nothing at present, except the offer of the soup or the soda-water:you can come to me for further directions. Unless there is anyimportant change, I shall not come into the room again to-night. Youwill ask your husband for help if necessary. I must go to bed early."

  "You've much need, sir, I'm sure," said Mrs. Abel, "and to takesomething more strengthening than what you've done."

  Bulstrode went away now without anxiety as to what Raffles might say inhis raving, which had taken on a muttering incoherence not likely tocreate any dangerous belief. At any rate he must risk this. He wentdown into the wainscoted parlor first, and began to consider whether hewould not have his horse saddled and go home by the moonlight, and giveup caring for earthly consequences. Then, he wished that he had beggedLydgate to come again that evening. Perhaps he might deliver adifferent opinion, and think that Raffles was getting into a lesshopeful state. Should he send for Lydgate? If Raffles were reallygetting worse, and slowly dying, Bulstrode felt that he could go to bedand sleep in gratitude to Providence. But was he worse? Lydgate mightcome and simply say that he was going on as he expected, and predictthat he would by-and-by fall into a good sleep, and get well. What wasthe use of sending for him? Bulstrode shrank from that result. Noideas or opinions could hinder him from seeing the one probability tobe, that Raffles recovered would be just the same man as before, withhis strength as a tormentor renewed, obliging him to drag away his wifeto spend her years apart from her friends and native place, carrying analienating suspicion against him in her heart.

  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 hehad brought down with him. The thought was, that he had not told Mrs.Abel when the doses of opium must cease.

  He took hold of the candlestick, but stood motionless for a long while.She might already have given him more than Lydgate had prescribed. Butit was excusable in him, that he should forget part of an order, in hispresent wearied condition. He walked up-stairs, candle in hand, notknowing 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 inthe passage, with his face turned towards Raffles's room, and he couldhear him moaning and murmuring. He was not asleep, then. Who couldknow that Lydgate's prescription would not be better disobeyed thanfollowed, since there was still no sleep?

  He turned into his own room. Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abelrapped at the door; he opened it an inch, so that he could hear herspeak low.

  "If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give thepoor creetur? He feels sinking away, and nothing else will heswaller--and but little strength in it, if he did--only the opium. Andhe says more and more he's sinking down through the earth."

  To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer. A struggle was going onwithin him.

  "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-wineand brandy constant, and a big glass at a time," added Mrs. Abel, witha touch of remonstrance in her tone.

  But again Mr. Bulstrode did not answer immediately, and she continued,"It's not a time to spare when people are at death's door, nor wouldyou 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 doingeverything as laid in your power--"

  Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrodesaid huskily, "That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plentyof brandy there."

  Early in the morning--about six--Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some timein prayer. Does any one suppose that private prayer is ne
cessarilycandid--necessarily goes to the roots of action? Private prayer isinaudible speech, and speech is representative: who can representhimself just as he is, even in his own reflections? Bulstrode had notyet unravelled in his thought the confused promptings of the lastfour-and-twenty hours.

  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 thegrass and fresh spring leaves. When he re-entered the house, he feltstartled at the sight of Mrs. Abel.

  "How is your patient--asleep, I think?" he said, with an attempt atcheerfulness in his tone.

  "He's gone very deep, sir," said Mrs. Abel. "He went off gradualbetween three and four o'clock. Would you please to go and look athim? I thought it no harm to leave him. My man's gone afield, and thelittle girl's seeing to the kettles."

  Bulstrode went up. At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in thesleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper anddeeper into the gulf of death.

  He looked round the room and saw a bottle with some brandy in it, andthe almost empty opium phial. He put the phial out of sight, andcarried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in thewine-cooler.

  While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarchat once, or wait for Lydgate's arrival. He decided to wait, and toldMrs. Abel that she might go about her work--he could watch in thebed-chamber.

  As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocablyinto silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months.His conscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecy, whichseemed just then like an angel sent down for his relief. He drew outhis pocket-book to review various memoranda there as to thearrangements he had projected and partly carried out in the prospect ofquitting Middlemarch, and considered how far he would let them stand orrecall them, now that his absence would be brief. Some economies whichhe felt desirable might still find a suitable occasion in his temporarywithdrawal from management, and he hoped still that Mrs. Casaubon wouldtake a large share in the expenses of the Hospital. In that way themoments passed, until a change in the stertorous breathing was markedenough to draw his attention wholly to the bed, and forced him to thinkof the departing life, which had once been subservient to hisown--which he had once been glad to find base enough for him to act onas he would. It was his gladness then which impelled him now to beglad that the life was at an end.

  And who could say that the death of Raffles had been hastened? Whoknew what would have saved him?

  Lydgate arrived at half-past ten, in time to witness the final pause ofthe breath. When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a suddenexpression in his face, which was not so much surprise as a recognitionthat he had not judged correctly. He stood by the bed in silence forsome time, with his eyes turned on the dying man, but with that subduedactivity of expression which showed that he was carrying on an inwarddebate.

  "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 sleepbetween three and four o'clock. When I came in before eight he wasnearly in this condition."

  Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until hesaid, "It's all over."

  This morning Lydgate was in a state of recovered hope and freedom. Hehad set out on his work with all his old animation, and felt himselfstrong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life. And hewas conscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him. But he wasuneasy about this case. He had not expected it to terminate as it haddone. Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on the subject toBulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if he examined thehousekeeper--why, the man was dead. There seemed to be no use inimplying that somebody's ignorance or imprudence had killed him. Andafter all, he himself might be wrong.

  He and Bulstrode rode back to Middlemarch together, talking of manythings--chiefly cholera and the chances of the Reform Bill in the Houseof Lords, and the firm resolve of the political Unions. Nothing wassaid about Raffles, except that Bulstrode mentioned the necessity ofhaving a grave for him in Lowick churchyard, and observed that, so faras he knew, the poor man had no connections, except Rigg, whom he hadstated to be unfriendly towards him.

  On returning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother. The Vicarhad not been in the town the day before, but the news that there was anexecution in Lydgate's house had got to Lowick by the evening, havingbeen carried by Mr. Spicer, shoemaker and parish-clerk, who had it fromhis brother, the respectable bell-hanger in Lowick Gate. Since thatevening when Lydgate had come down from the billiard room with FredVincy, Mr. Farebrother's thoughts about him had been rather gloomy.Playing at the Green Dragon once or oftener might have been a trifle inanother man; but in Lydgate it was one of several signs that he wasgetting unlike his former self. He was beginning to do things forwhich he had formerly even an excessive scorn. Whatever certaindissatisfactions in marriage, which some silly tinklings of gossip hadgiven him hints of, might have to do with this change, Mr. Farebrotherfelt sure that it was chiefly connected with the debts which were beingmore and more distinctly reported, and he began to fear that any notionof Lydgate's having resources or friends in the background must bequite illusory. The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt to winLydgate's confidence, disinclined him to a second; but this news of theexecution being actually in the house, determined the Vicar to overcomehis reluctance.

  Lydgate had just dismissed a poor patient, in whom he was muchinterested, and he came forward to put out his hand--with an opencheerfulness which surprised Mr. Farebrother. Could this too be aproud rejection of sympathy and help? Never mind; the sympathy andhelp should be offered.

  "How are you, Lydgate? I came to see you because I had heard somethingwhich made me anxious about you," said the Vicar, in the tone of a goodbrother, only that there was no reproach in it. They were both seatedby this time, and Lydgate answered immediately--

  "I think I know what you mean. You had heard that there was anexecution in the house?"

  "Yes; is it true?"

  "It was true," said Lydgate, with an air of freedom, as if he did notmind talking about the affair now. "But the danger is over; the debtis 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 hischair, and speaking with that low-toned quickness which often followsthe 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 thekindness all the more because I am happier. I have certainly been agood deal crushed. I'm afraid I shall find the bruises still painfulby-and by," he added, smiling rather sadly; "but just now I can onlyfeel that the torture-screw is off."

  Mr. Farebrother was silent for a moment, and then said earnestly, "Mydear fellow, let me ask you one question. Forgive me if I take aliberty."

  "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 havenot--have you?--in order to pay your debts, incurred another debt whichmay harass you worse hereafter?"

  "No," said Lydgate, coloring slightly. "There is no reason why Ishould not tell you--since the fact is so--that the person to whom I amindebted is Bulstrode. He has made me a very handsome advance--athousand pounds--and he can afford to wait for repayment."

  "Well, that is generous," said Mr. Farebrother, compelling himself toapprove of the man whom he disliked. His delicate feeling shrank fromdwelling even in his thought on the fact that he had always urgedLydgate to avoid any personal entanglement with Bulstrode. He addedimmediately, "And Bulstrode must naturally feel an interest in yourwelfare, after you have worked with him in a way which has probablyreduced your income i
nstead of adding to it. I am glad to think thathe has acted accordingly."

  Lydgate felt uncomfortable under these kindly suppositions. They mademore distinct within him the uneasy consciousness which had shown itsfirst dim stirrings only a few hours before, that Bulstrode's motivesfor his sudden beneficence following close upon the chillestindifference might be merely selfish. He let the kindly suppositionspass. He could not tell the history of the loan, but it was morevividly present with him than ever, as well as the fact which the Vicardelicately ignored--that this relation of personal indebtedness toBulstrode 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 ofview.

  "I shall set up a surgery," he said. "I really think I made a mistakeneffort in that respect. And if Rosamond will not mind, I shall take anapprentice. I don't like these things, but if one carries them outfaithfully they are not really lowering. I have had a severe gallingto begin with: that will make the small rubs seem easy."

  Poor Lydgate! the "if Rosamond will not mind," which had fallen fromhim involuntarily as part of his thought, was a significant mark of theyoke he bore. But Mr. Farebrother, whose hopes entered strongly intothe same current with Lydgate's, and who knew nothing about him thatcould now raise a melancholy presentiment, left him with affectionatecongratulation.