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
eared 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. Bat 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 ease 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 ease," 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
cheek 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 au 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 east 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
downstairs 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 ease. 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.