第 四十四 章 · Chapter XLIV

I would not creep along the coast but steer

Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars.

When Dorothea, walking round the laurel-planted plots of the New

Hospital with Lydgate, had learned from him that there were no signs of

change in Mr. Casaubon’s bodily condition beyond the mental sign of

anxiety to know the truth about his illness, she was silent for a few

moments, wondering whether she had said or done anything to rouse this

new anxiety. Lydgate, not willing to let slip an opportunity of

furthering a favorite purpose, ventured to say—

“I don’t know whether your or Mr. Casaubon’s attention has been drawn

to the needs of our New Hospital. Circumstances have made it seem

rather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not my fault:

it is because there is a fight being made against it by the other

medical men. I think you are generally interested in such things, for I

remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeing you at Tipton

Grange before your marriage, you were asking me some questions about

the way in which the health of the poor was affected by their miserable

housing.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dorothea, brightening. “I shall be quite grateful

to you if you will tell me how I can help to make things a little

better. Everything of that sort has slipped away from me since I have

been married. I mean,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation, “that the

people in our village are tolerably comfortable, and my mind has been

too much taken up for me to inquire further. But here—in such a place

as Middlemarch—there must be a great deal to be done.”

“There is everything to be done,” said Lydgate, with abrupt energy.

“And this Hospital is a capital piece of work, due entirely to Mr.

Bulstrode’s exertions, and in a great degree to his money. But one man

can’t do everything in a scheme of this sort. Of course he looked

forward to help. And now there’s a mean, petty feud set up against the

thing in the town, by certain persons who want to make it a failure.”

“What can be their reasons?” said Dorothea, with naive surprise.

“Chiefly Mr. Bulstrode’s unpopularity, to begin with. Half the town

would almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him. In this stupid

world most people never consider that a thing is good to be done unless

it is done by their own set. I had no connection with Bulstrode before

I came here. I look at him quite impartially, and I see that he has

some notions—that he has set things on foot—which I can turn to good

public purpose. If a fair number of the better educated men went to

work with the belief that their observations might contribute to the

reform of medical doctrine and practice, we should soon see a change

for the better. That’s my point of view. I hold that by refusing to

work with Mr. Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity

of making my profession more generally serviceable.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Dorothea, at once fascinated by the

situation sketched in Lydgate’s words. “But what is there against Mr.

Bulstrode? I know that my uncle is friendly with him.”

“People don’t like his religious tone,” said Lydgate, breaking off

there.

“That is all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition,”

said Dorothea, looking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light of

the great persecutions.

“To put the matter quite fairly, they have other objections to him:—he

is masterful and rather unsociable, and he is concerned with trade,

which has complaints of its own that I know nothing about. But what has

that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thing to

establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in the

county? The immediate motive to the opposition, however, is the fact

that Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands. Of course I

am glad of that. It gives me an opportunity of doing some good

work,—and I am aware that I have to justify his choice of me. But the

consequence is, that the whole profession in Middlemarch have set

themselves tooth and nail against the Hospital, and not only refuse to

cooperate themselves, but try to blacken the whole affair and hinder

subscriptions.”

“How very petty!” exclaimed Dorothea, indignantly.

“I suppose one must expect to fight one’s way: there is hardly anything

to be done without it. And the ignorance of people about here is

stupendous. I don’t lay claim to anything else than having used some

opportunities which have not come within everybody’s reach; but there

is no stifling the offence of being young, and a new-comer, and

happening to know something more than the old inhabitants. Still, if I

believe that I can set going a better method of treatment—if I believe

that I can pursue certain observations and inquiries which may be a

lasting benefit to medical practice, I should be a base truckler if I

allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me. And the

course is all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put

my persistence in an equivocal light.”

“I am glad you have told me this, Mr. Lydgate,” said Dorothea,

cordially. “I feel sure I can help a little. I have some money, and

don’t know what to do with it—that is often an uncomfortable thought to

me. I am sure I can spare two hundred a-year for a grand purpose like

this. How happy you must be, to know things that you feel sure will do

great good! I wish I could awake with that knowledge every morning.

There seems to be so much trouble taken that one can hardly see the

good of!”

There was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea’s voice as she spoke these

last words. But she presently added, more cheerfully, “Pray come to

Lowick and tell us more of this. I will mention the subject to Mr.

Casaubon. I must hasten home now.”

She did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to

subscribe two hundred a-year—she had seven hundred a-year as the

equivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage. Mr.

Casaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might

be disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when

Dorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced. He

did not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to

give it. If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through

the medium of another passion than the love of material property.

Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of

her conversation with him about the Hospital. Mr. Casaubon did not

question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what

had passed between Lydgate and himself. “She knows that I know,” said

the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge

only thrust further off any confidence between them. He distrusted her

affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?