第 五十三 章 · Chapter LIII

It is but a shallow haste which concludeth insincerity from what

outsiders call inconsistency—putting a dead mechanism of “ifs” and

“therefores” for the living myriad of hidden suckers whereby the belief

and the conduct are wrought into mutual sustainment.

Mr. Bulstrode, when he was hoping to acquire a new interest in Lowick,

had naturally had an especial wish that the new clergyman should be one

whom he thoroughly approved; and he believed it to be a chastisement

and admonition directed to his own shortcomings and those of the nation

at large, that just about the time when he came in possession of the

deeds which made him the proprietor of Stone Court, Mr. Farebrother

“read himself” into the quaint little church and preached his first

sermon to the congregation of farmers, laborers, and village artisans.

It was not that Mr. Bulstrode intended to frequent Lowick Church or to

reside at Stone Court for a good while to come: he had bought the

excellent farm and fine homestead simply as a retreat which he might

gradually enlarge as to the land and beautify as to the dwelling, until

it should be conducive to the divine glory that he should enter on it

as a residence, partially withdrawing from his present exertions in the

administration of business, and throwing more conspicuously on the side

of Gospel truth the weight of local landed proprietorship, which

Providence might increase by unforeseen occasions of purchase. A strong

leading in this direction seemed to have been given in the surprising

facility of getting Stone Court, when every one had expected that Mr.

Rigg Featherstone would have clung to it as the Garden of Eden. That

was what poor old Peter himself had expected; having often, in

imagination, looked up through the sods above him, and, unobstructed by

perspective, seen his frog-faced legatee enjoying the fine old place to

the perpetual surprise and disappointment of other survivors.

But how little we know what would make paradise for our neighbors! We

judge from our own desires, and our neighbors themselves are not always

open enough even to throw out a hint of theirs. The cool and judicious

Joshua Rigg had not allowed his parent to perceive that Stone Court was

anything less than the chief good in his estimation, and he had

certainly wished to call it his own. But as Warren Hastings looked at

gold and thought of buying Daylesford, so Joshua Rigg looked at Stone

Court and thought of buying gold. He had a very distinct and intense

vision of his chief good, the vigorous greed which he had inherited

having taken a special form by dint of circumstance: and his chief good

was to be a moneychanger. From his earliest employment as an errand-boy

in a seaport, he had looked through the windows of the moneychangers as

other boys look through the windows of the pastry-cooks; the

fascination had wrought itself gradually into a deep special passion;

he meant, when he had property, to do many things, one of them being to

marry a genteel young person; but these were all accidents and joys

that imagination could dispense with. The one joy after which his soul

thirsted was to have a money-changer’s shop on a much-frequented quay,

to have locks all round him of which he held the keys, and to look

sublimely cool as he handled the breeding coins of all nations, while

helpless Cupidity looked at him enviously from the other side of an

iron lattice. The strength of that passion had been a power enabling

him to master all the knowledge necessary to gratify it. And when

others were thinking that he had settled at Stone Court for life,

Joshua himself was thinking that the moment now was not far off when he

should settle on the North Quay with the best appointments in safes and

locks.

Enough. We are concerned with looking at Joshua Rigg’s sale of his land

from Mr. Bulstrode’s point of view, and he interpreted it as a cheering

dispensation conveying perhaps a sanction to a purpose which he had for

some time entertained without external encouragement; he interpreted it

thus, but not too confidently, offering up his thanksgiving in guarded

phraseology. His doubts did not arise from the possible relations of

the event to Joshua Rigg’s destiny, which belonged to the unmapped

regions not taken under the providential government, except perhaps in

an imperfect colonial way; but they arose from reflecting that this

dispensation too might be a chastisement for himself, as Mr.

Farebrother’s induction to the living clearly was.

This was not what Mr. Bulstrode said to any man for the sake of

deceiving him: it was what he said to himself—it was as genuinely his

mode of explaining events as any theory of yours may be, if you happen

to disagree with him. For the egoism which enters into our theories

does not affect their sincerity; rather, the more our egoism is

satisfied, the more robust is our belief.

However, whether for sanction or for chastisement, Mr. Bulstrode,

hardly fifteen months after the death of Peter Featherstone, had become

the proprietor of Stone Court, and what Peter would say “if he were

worthy to know,” had become an inexhaustible and consolatory subject of

conversation to his disappointed relatives. The tables were now turned

on that dear brother departed, and to contemplate the frustration of

his cunning by the superior cunning of things in general was a cud of

delight to Solomon. Mrs. Waule had a melancholy triumph in the proof

that it did not answer to make false Featherstones and cut off the

genuine; and Sister Martha receiving the news in the Chalky Flats said,

“Dear, dear! then the Almighty could have been none so pleased with the

almshouses after all.”

Affectionate Mrs. Bulstrode was particularly glad of the advantage

which her husband’s health was likely to get from the purchase of Stone

Court. Few days passed without his riding thither and looking over some

part of the farm with the bailiff, and the evenings were delicious in

that quiet spot, when the new hay-ricks lately set up were sending

forth odors to mingle with the breath of the rich old garden. One

evening, while the sun was still above the horizon and burning in

golden lamps among the great walnut boughs, Mr. Bulstrode was pausing

on horseback outside the front gate waiting for Caleb Garth, who had

met him by appointment to give an opinion on a question of stable

drainage, and was now advising the bailiff in the rick-yard.

Mr. Bulstrode was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and more

than usually serene, under the influence of his innocent recreation. He

was doctrinally convinced that there was a total absence of merit in

himself; but that doctrinal conviction may be held without pain when

the sense of demerit does not take a distinct shape in memory and

revive the tingling of shame or the pang of remorse. Nay, it may be

held with intense satisfaction when the depth of our sinning is but a

measure for the depth of forgiveness, and a clenching proof that we are

peculiar instruments of the divine intention. The memory has as many

moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama. At this

moment Mr. Bulstrode felt as if the sunshine were all one with that of

far-off evenings when he was a very young man and used to go out

preaching beyond Highbury. And he would willingly have had that service

of exhortation in prospect now. The texts were there still, and so was

his own facility in expounding them. His brief reverie was interrupted

by the return of Caleb Garth, who also was on horseback, and was just

shaking his bridle before starting, when he exclaimed—

“Bless my heart! what’s this fellow in black coming along the lane?

He’s like one of those men one sees about after the races.”

Mr. Bulstrode turned his horse and looked along the lane, but made no

reply. The comer was our slight acquaintance Mr. Raffles, whose

appearance presented no other change than such as was due to a suit of

black and a crape hat-band. He was within three yards of the horseman

now, and they could see the flash of recognition in his face as he

whirled his stick upward, looking all the while at Mr. Bulstrode, and

at last exclaiming:—

“By Jove, Nick, it’s you! I couldn’t be mistaken, though the

five-and-twenty years have played old Boguy with us both! How are you,

eh? you didn’t expect to see _me_ here. Come, shake us by the hand.” To

say that Mr. Raffles’ manner was rather excited would be only one mode

of saying that it was evening. Caleb Garth could see that there was a

moment of struggle and hesitation in Mr. Bulstrode, but it ended in his

putting out his hand coldly to Raffles and saying—

“I did not indeed expect to see you in this remote country place.”

“Well, it belongs to a stepson of mine,” said Raffles, adjusting

himself in a swaggering attitude. “I came to see him here before. I’m

not so surprised at seeing you, old fellow, because I picked up a

letter—what you may call a providential thing. It’s uncommonly

fortunate I met you, though; for I don’t care about seeing my stepson:

he’s not affectionate, and his poor mother’s gone now. To tell the

truth, I came out of love to you, Nick: I came to get your address,

for—look here!” Raffles drew a crumpled paper from his pocket.

Almost any other man than Caleb Garth might have been tempted to linger

on the spot for the sake of hearing all he could about a man whose

acquaintance with Bulstrode seemed to imply passages in the banker’s

life so unlike anything that was known of him in Middlemarch that they

must have the nature of a secret to pique curiosity. But Caleb was

peculiar: certain human tendencies which are commonly strong were

almost absent from his mind; and one of these was curiosity about

personal affairs. Especially if there was anything discreditable to be

found out concerning another man, Caleb preferred not to know it; and

if he had to tell anybody under him that his evil doings were

discovered, he was more embarrassed than the culprit. He now spurred

his horse, and saying, “I wish you good evening, Mr. Bulstrode; I must

be getting home,” set off at a trot.

“You didn’t put your full address to this letter,” Raffles continued.

“That was not like the first-rate man of business you used to be. ‘The

Shrubs,’—they may be anywhere: you live near at hand, eh?—have cut the

London concern altogether—perhaps turned country squire—have a rural

mansion to invite me to. Lord, how many years it is ago! The old lady

must have been dead a pretty long while—gone to glory without the pain

of knowing how poor her daughter was, eh? But, by Jove! you’re very

pale and pasty, Nick. Come, if you’re going home, I’ll walk by your

side.”

Mr. Bulstrode’s usual paleness had in fact taken an almost deathly hue.

Five minutes before, the expanse of his life had been submerged in its

evening sunshine which shone backward to its remembered morning: sin

seemed to be a question of doctrine and inward penitence, humiliation

an exercise of the closet, the bearing of his deeds a matter of private

vision adjusted solely by spiritual relations and conceptions of the

divine purposes. And now, as if by some hideous magic, this loud red

figure had risen before him in unmanageable solidity—an incorporate

past which had not entered into his imagination of chastisements. But

Mr. Bulstrode’s thought was busy, and he was not a man to act or speak

rashly.

“I was going home,” he said, “but I can defer my ride a little. And you

can, if you please, rest here.”

“Thank you,” said Raffles, making a grimace. “I don’t care now about

seeing my stepson. I’d rather go home with you.”

“Your stepson, if Mr. Rigg Featherstone was he, is here no longer. I am

master here now.”

Raffles opened wide eyes, and gave a long whistle of surprise, before

he said, “Well then, I’ve no objection. I’ve had enough walking from

the coach-road. I never was much of a walker, or rider either. What I

like is a smart vehicle and a spirited cob. I was always a little heavy

in the saddle. What a pleasant surprise it must be to you to see me,

old fellow!” he continued, as they turned towards the house. “You don’t

say so; but you never took your luck heartily—you were always thinking

of improving the occasion—you’d such a gift for improving your luck.”

Mr. Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own wit, and swung his leg in a

swaggering manner which was rather too much for his companion’s

judicious patience.

“If I remember rightly,” Mr. Bulstrode observed, with chill anger, “our

acquaintance many years ago had not the sort of intimacy which you are

now assuming, Mr. Raffles. Any services you desire of me will be the

more readily rendered if you will avoid a tone of familiarity which did

not lie in our former intercourse, and can hardly be warranted by more

than twenty years of separation.”

“You don’t like being called Nick? Why, I always called you Nick in my

heart, and though lost to sight, to memory dear. By Jove! my feelings

have ripened for you like fine old cognac. I hope you’ve got some in

the house now. Josh filled my flask well the last time.”

Mr. Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognac

was not stronger in Raffles than the desire to torment, and that a hint

of annoyance always served him as a fresh cue. But it was at least

clear that further objection was useless, and Mr. Bulstrode, in giving

orders to the housekeeper for the accommodation of the guest, had a

resolute air of quietude.

There was the comfort of thinking that this housekeeper had been in the

service of Rigg also, and might accept the idea that Mr. Bulstrode

entertained Raffles merely as a friend of her former master.

When there was food and drink spread before his visitor in the

wainscoted parlor, and no witness in the room, Mr. Bulstrode said—

“Your habits and mine are so different, Mr. Raffles, that we can hardly

enjoy each other’s society. The wisest plan for both of us will

therefore be to part as soon as possible. Since you say that you wished

to meet me, you probably considered that you had some business to

transact with me. But under the circumstances I will invite you to

remain here for the night, and I will myself ride over here early

to-morrow morning—before breakfast, in fact—when I can receive any

communication you have to make to me.”

“With all my heart,” said Raffles; “this is a comfortable place—a

little dull for a continuance; but I can put up with it for a night,

with this good liquor and the prospect of seeing you again in the

morning. You’re a much better host than my stepson was; but Josh owed

me a bit of a grudge for marrying his mother; and between you and me

there was never anything but kindness.”

Mr. Bulstrode, hoping that the peculiar mixture of joviality and

sneering in Raffles’ manner was a good deal the effect of drink, had

determined to wait till he was quite sober before he spent more words

upon him. But he rode home with a terribly lucid vision of the

difficulty there would be in arranging any result that could be

permanently counted on with this man. It was inevitable that he should

wish to get rid of John Raffles, though his reappearance could not be

regarded as lying outside the divine plan. The spirit of evil might

have sent him to threaten Mr. Bulstrode’s subversion as an instrument

of good; but the threat must have been permitted, and was a

chastisement of a new kind. It was an hour of anguish for him very

different from the hours in which his struggle had been securely

private, and which had ended with a sense that his secret misdeeds were

pardoned and his services accepted. Those misdeeds even when

committed—had they not been half sanctified by the singleness of his

desire to devote himself and all he possessed to the furtherance of the

divine scheme? And was he after all to become a mere stone of stumbling

and a rock of offence? For who would understand the work within him?

Who would not, when there was the pretext of casting disgrace upon him,

confound his whole life and the truths he had espoused, in one heap of

obloquy?

In his closest meditations the life-long habit of Mr. Bulstrode’s mind

clad his most egoistic terrors in doctrinal references to superhuman

ends. But even while we are talking and meditating about the earth’s

orbit and the solar system, what we feel and adjust our movements to is

the stable earth and the changing day. And now within all the automatic

succession of theoretic phrases—distinct and inmost as the shiver and

the ache of oncoming fever when we are discussing abstract pain, was

the forecast of disgrace in the presence of his neighbors and of his

own wife. For the pain, as well as the public estimate of disgrace,

depends on the amount of previous profession. To men who only aim at

escaping felony, nothing short of the prisoner’s dock is disgrace. But

Mr. Bulstrode had aimed at being an eminent Christian.

It was not more than half-past seven in the morning when he again

reached Stone Court. The fine old place never looked more like a

delightful home than at that moment; the great white lilies were in

flower, the nasturtiums, their pretty leaves all silvered with dew,

were running away over the low stone wall; the very noises all around

had a heart of peace within them. But everything was spoiled for the

owner as he walked on the gravel in front and awaited the descent of

Mr. Raffles, with whom he was condemned to breakfast.

It was not long before they were seated together in the wainscoted

parlor over their tea and toast, which was as much as Raffles cared to

take at that early hour. The difference between his morning and evening

self was not so great as his companion had imagined that it might be;

the delight in tormenting was perhaps even the stronger because his

spirits were rather less highly pitched. Certainly his manners seemed

more disagreeable by the morning light.

“As I have little time to spare, Mr. Raffles,” said the banker, who

could hardly do more than sip his tea and break his toast without

eating it, “I shall be obliged if you will mention at once the ground

on which you wished to meet with me. I presume that you have a home

elsewhere and will be glad to return to it.”

“Why, if a man has got any heart, doesn’t he want to see an old friend,

Nick?—I must call you Nick—we always did call you young Nick when we

knew you meant to marry the old widow. Some said you had a handsome

family likeness to old Nick, but that was your mother’s fault, calling

you Nicholas. Aren’t you glad to see me again? I expected an invite to

stay with you at some pretty place. My own establishment is broken up

now my wife’s dead. I’ve no particular attachment to any spot; I would

as soon settle hereabout as anywhere.”

“May I ask why you returned from America? I considered that the strong

wish you expressed to go there, when an adequate sum was furnished, was

tantamount to an engagement that you would remain there for life.”

“Never knew that a wish to go to a place was the same thing as a wish

to stay. But I did stay a matter of ten years; it didn’t suit me to

stay any longer. And I’m not going again, Nick.” Here Mr. Raffles

winked slowly as he looked at Mr. Bulstrode.

“Do you wish to be settled in any business? What is your calling now?”

“Thank you, my calling is to enjoy myself as much as I can. I don’t

care about working any more. If I did anything it would be a little

travelling in the tobacco line—or something of that sort, which takes a

man into agreeable company. But not without an independence to fall

back upon. That’s what I want: I’m not so strong as I was, Nick, though

I’ve got more color than you. I want an independence.”

“That could be supplied to you, if you would engage to keep at a

distance,” said Mr. Bulstrode, perhaps with a little too much eagerness

in his undertone.

“That must be as it suits my convenience,” said Raffles coolly. “I see

no reason why I shouldn’t make a few acquaintances hereabout. I’m not

ashamed of myself as company for anybody. I dropped my portmanteau at

the turnpike when I got down—change of linen—genuine—honor bright—more

than fronts and wristbands; and with this suit of mourning, straps and

everything, I should do you credit among the nobs here.” Mr. Raffles

had pushed away his chair and looked down at himself, particularly at

his straps. His chief intention was to annoy Bulstrode, but he really

thought that his appearance now would produce a good effect, and that

he was not only handsome and witty, but clad in a mourning style which

implied solid connections.

“If you intend to rely on me in any way, Mr. Raffles,” said Bulstrode,

after a moment’s pause, “you will expect to meet my wishes.”

“Ah, to be sure,” said Raffles, with a mocking cordiality. “Didn’t I

always do it? Lord, you made a pretty thing out of me, and I got but

little. I’ve often thought since, I might have done better by telling

the old woman that I’d found her daughter and her grandchild: it would

have suited my feelings better; I’ve got a soft place in my heart. But

you’ve buried the old lady by this time, I suppose—it’s all one to her

now. And you’ve got your fortune out of that profitable business which

had such a blessing on it. You’ve taken to being a nob, buying land,

being a country bashaw. Still in the Dissenting line, eh? Still godly?

Or taken to the Church as more genteel?”

This time Mr. Raffles’ slow wink and slight protrusion of his tongue

was worse than a nightmare, because it held the certitude that it was

not a nightmare, but a waking misery. Mr. Bulstrode felt a shuddering

nausea, and did not speak, but was considering diligently whether he

should not leave Raffles to do as he would, and simply defy him as a

slanderer. The man would soon show himself disreputable enough to make

people disbelieve him. “But not when he tells any ugly-looking truth

about _you_,” said discerning consciousness. And again: it seemed no

wrong to keep Raffles at a distance, but Mr. Bulstrode shrank from the

direct falsehood of denying true statements. It was one thing to look

back on forgiven sins, nay, to explain questionable conformity to lax

customs, and another to enter deliberately on the necessity of

falsehood.

But since Bulstrode did not speak, Raffles ran on, by way of using time

to the utmost.

“I’ve not had such fine luck as you, by Jove! Things went confoundedly

with me in New York; those Yankees are cool hands, and a man of

gentlemanly feelings has no chance with them. I married when I came

back—a nice woman in the tobacco trade—very fond of me—but the trade

was restricted, as we say. She had been settled there a good many years

by a friend; but there was a son too much in the case. Josh and I never

hit it off. However, I made the most of the position, and I’ve always

taken my glass in good company. It’s been all on the square with me;

I’m as open as the day. You won’t take it ill of me that I didn’t look

you up before. I’ve got a complaint that makes me a little dilatory. I

thought you were trading and praying away in London still, and didn’t

find you there. But you see I was sent to you, Nick—perhaps for a

blessing to both of us.”

Mr. Raffles ended with a jocose snuffle: no man felt his intellect more

superior to religious cant. And if the cunning which calculates on the

meanest feelings in men could be called intellect, he had his share,

for under the blurting rallying tone with which he spoke to Bulstrode,

there was an evident selection of statements, as if they had been so

many moves at chess. Meanwhile Bulstrode had determined on his move,

and he said, with gathered resolution—

“You will do well to reflect, Mr. Raffles, that it is possible for a

man to overreach himself in the effort to secure undue advantage.

Although I am not in any way bound to you, I am willing to supply you

with a regular annuity—in quarterly payments—so long as you fulfil a

promise to remain at a distance from this neighborhood. It is in your

power to choose. If you insist on remaining here, even for a short

time, you will get nothing from me. I shall decline to know you.”

“Ha, ha!” said Raffles, with an affected explosion, “that reminds me of

a droll dog of a thief who declined to know the constable.”

“Your allusions are lost on me sir,” said Bulstrode, with white heat;

“the law has no hold on me either through your agency or any other.”

“You can’t understand a joke, my good fellow. I only meant that I

should never decline to know you. But let us be serious. Your quarterly

payment won’t quite suit me. I like my freedom.”

Here Raffles rose and stalked once or twice up and down the room,

swinging his leg, and assuming an air of masterly meditation. At last

he stopped opposite Bulstrode, and said, “I’ll tell you what! Give us a

couple of hundreds—come, that’s modest—and I’ll go away—honor

bright!—pick up my portmanteau and go away. But I shall not give up my

liberty for a dirty annuity. I shall come and go where I like. Perhaps

it may suit me to stay away, and correspond with a friend; perhaps not.

Have you the money with you?”

“No, I have one hundred,” said Bulstrode, feeling the immediate

riddance too great a relief to be rejected on the ground of future

uncertainties. “I will forward you the other if you will mention an

address.”

“No, I’ll wait here till you bring it,” said Raffles. “I’ll take a

stroll and have a snack, and you’ll be back by that time.”

Mr. Bulstrode’s sickly body, shattered by the agitations he had gone

through since the last evening, made him feel abjectly in the power of

this loud invulnerable man. At that moment he snatched at a temporary

repose to be won on any terms. He was rising to do what Raffles

suggested, when the latter said, lifting up his finger as if with a

sudden recollection—

“I did have another look after Sarah again, though I didn’t tell you;

I’d a tender conscience about that pretty young woman. I didn’t find

her, but I found out her husband’s name, and I made a note of it. But

hang it, I lost my pocketbook. However, if I heard it, I should know it

again. I’ve got my faculties as if I was in my prime, but names wear

out, by Jove! Sometimes I’m no better than a confounded tax-paper

before the names are filled in. However, if I hear of her and her

family, you shall know, Nick. You’d like to do something for her, now

she’s your step-daughter.”

“Doubtless,” said Mr. Bulstrode, with the usual steady look of his

light-gray eyes; “though that might reduce my power of assisting you.”

As he walked out of the room, Raffles winked slowly at his back, and

then turned towards the window to watch the banker riding

away—virtually at his command. His lips first curled with a smile and

then opened with a short triumphant laugh.

“But what the deuce was the name?” he presently said, half aloud,

scratching his head, and wrinkling his brows horizontally. He had not

really cared or thought about this point of forgetfulness until it

occurred to him in his invention of annoyances for Bulstrode.

“It began with L; it was almost all l’s I fancy,” he went on, with a

sense that he was getting hold of the slippery name. But the hold was

too slight, and he soon got tired of this mental chase; for few men

were more impatient of private occupation or more in need of making

themselves continually heard than Mr. Raffles. He preferred using his

time in pleasant conversation with the bailiff and the housekeeper,

from whom he gathered as much as he wanted to know about Mr.

Bulstrode’s position in Middlemarch.

After all, however, there was a dull space of time which needed

relieving with bread and cheese and ale, and when he was seated alone

with these resources in the wainscoted parlor, he suddenly slapped his

knee, and exclaimed, “Ladislaw!” That action of memory which he had

tried to set going, and had abandoned in despair, had suddenly

completed itself without conscious effort—a common experience,

agreeable as a completed sneeze, even if the name remembered is of no

value. Raffles immediately took out his pocket-book, and wrote down the

name, not because he expected to use it, but merely for the sake of not

being at a loss if he ever did happen to want it. He was not going to

tell Bulstrode: there was no actual good in telling, and to a mind like

that of Mr. Raffles there is always probable good in a secret.

He was satisfied with his present success, and by three o’clock that

day he had taken up his portmanteau at the turnpike and mounted the

coach, relieving Mr. Bulstrode’s eyes of an ugly black spot on the

landscape at Stone Court, but not relieving him of the dread that the

black spot might reappear and become inseparable even from the vision

of his hearth.

BOOK VI.

THE WIDOW AND THE WIFE.