第 八十五 章 · Chapter LXXXV

“Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr.

Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr.

Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who

every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and

afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the

judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the foreman, said, I

see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away

with such a fellow from the earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the

very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him.

Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my way.

Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind.

My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr.

Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch

him out of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might

I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him;

therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death.”—_Pilgrim’s

Progress_.

When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions

bringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful? That is a

rare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know

ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd—to be sure that what we

are denounced for is solely the good in us. The pitiable lot is that of

the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to

persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions

incarnate—who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right,

but for not being the man he professed to be.

This was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he

made his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going to end

his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces.

The duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one

dread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal

before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy. His

equivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained the

conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror

upon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full

confession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with

inward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy

to win invisible pardon—what name would she call them by? That she

should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear.

He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the

sense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst

condemnation on him. Some time, perhaps—when he was dying—he would tell

her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand in the

gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his touch.

Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and the

impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper

humiliation.

He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated

any harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress

at the sight of her suffering. She had sent her daughters away to board

at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from them as

far as possible. Set free by their absence from the intolerable

necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their frightened

wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that was every

day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids languid.

“Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet,”

Bulstrode had said to her; “I mean with regard to arrangements of

property. It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this

neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision. If you have

any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me.”

A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her

brother’s, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for

some time been in her mind.

“I _should_ like to do something for my brother’s family, Nicholas; and

I think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband.

Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost

good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere

with. I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some

amends to my poor brother’s family.”

Mrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the

phrase “make some amends;” knowing that her husband must understand

her. He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for

wincing under her suggestion. He hesitated before he said—

“It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my

dear. Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me.

He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him. Mrs. Casaubon

advanced him the sum for that purpose. Here is his letter.”

The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely. The mention of Mrs.

Casaubon’s loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held

it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her

husband. She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after the

other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away. Bulstrode, sitting

opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face, which two

months before had been bright and blooming. It had aged to keep sad

company with his own withered features. Urged into some effort at

comforting her, he said—

“There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your

brother’s family, if you like to act in it. And it would, I think, be

beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land

which I mean to be yours.”

She looked attentive.

“Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in

order to place your nephew Fred there. The stock was to remain as it

is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an

ordinary rent. That would be a desirable beginning for the young man,

in conjunction with his employment under Garth. Would it be a

satisfaction to you?”

“Yes, it would,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy. “Poor

Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do him some

good before I go away. We have always been brother and sister.”

“You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet,” said Mr.

Bulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had

in view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife. “You

must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need

have no transactions with me. Communications can be made through

Standish. I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent. I can

put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating

conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them. I think

it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing for

the sake of your nephew.”