Chapter Chapter 70 · 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 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.

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. 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; 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; but a more alarming sign of

fitful alternation in his delirium was, 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.

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. 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. 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. 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.

And Bulstrode set himself to keep his intention separate from his

desire. He inwardly declared that he intended to obey orders. 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.

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. But the

regret had perhaps come too late.

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.

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.

“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 here

yourself?” said Lydgate, looking at Bulstrode with an abrupt question,

which made him uneasy, though in reality it was not due to any

suspicious conjecture.

“Yes, I think so,” said Bulstrode, governing himself and speaking with

deliberation. “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.”

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.

“From what I see of the case,” he ended, “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.”

“You look ill yourself, Mr. Lydgate—a most unusual, I may say

unprecedented thing in my knowledge of you,” 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. “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 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.”

“Stay, Mr. Lydgate, stay,” said Bulstrode; “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?”

“Yes,” said Lydgate, a great leap of joy within him surmounting every

other feeling; “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.”

“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.”

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.

“You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate,” said the

banker, advancing towards him with the check. “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.”

“I am deeply obliged to you,” said Lydgate. “You have restored to me

the prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good.”

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.

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. 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? 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. Lydgate’s

opinion was not on the side of promise that this prayer would be

fulfilled; 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.

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. He must now consign the patient to her care; 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.

“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.”

“You’ve much need, sir, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Abel, “and to take

something more strengthening than what you’ve done.”

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. At any rate he must risk this. 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. 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? 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.

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.

He took hold of the candlestick, but stood motionless for a long while.

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. 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. 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?

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.

“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.”

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

within 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-wine

and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time,” added Mrs. Abel, with

a 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 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—”

Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrode

said huskily, “That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty

of brandy there.”

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.

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.

“How is your patient—asleep, I think?” he said, with an attempt at

cheerfulness in his tone.

“He’s gone very deep, sir,” said Mrs. 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.”

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.

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.

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.

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. 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.