While Bulstrode wrote, Lydgate turned to the window thinking of hishome—thinking of his life with its good start saved from frustration, itsgood purposes still unbroken.
"You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate," said thebanker, advancing towards him with the check. "And by-and-by, I hope,you may be in circumstances gradually to repay me. Meanwhile, I havepleasure in thinking that you will be released from further difficulty."
"I am deeply obliged to you," said Lydgate. "You have restored to methe prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good."
It appeared to him a very natural movement in Bulstrode that heshould have reconsidered his refusal: it corresponded with the moremunificent 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 hismind, with an unpleasant impression, as from a dark-winged flight ofevil augury across his vision, the thought of that contrast in himselfwhich a few months had brought—that he should be overjoyed at beingunder a strong personal obligation—that he should be overjoyed atgetting money for himself from Bulstrode.
The banker felt that he had done something to nullify one cause ofuneasiness, and yet he was scarcely the easier. He did not measure thequantity of diseased motive which had made him wish for Lydgate'sgood-will, but the quantity was none the less actively there, like anirritating agent in his blood. A man vows, and yet will not cast away themeans of breaking his vow. Is it that he distinctly means to break it? Notat 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 thevery moments when he is telling himself over again the reasons for hisvow. Raffles, recovering quickly, returning to the free use of his odiouspowers—how could Bulstrode wish for that? Raffles dead was the imagethat brought release, and indirectly he prayed for that way of release,beseeching that, if it were possible, the rest of his days here below mightbe freed from the threat of an ignominy which would break him utterlyas an instrument of God's service. Lydgate's opinion was not on the sideof 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 deathimperious will stirred murderous impulses towards this brute life, overwhich will, by itself, had no power. He said inwardly that he was gettingtoo much worn; he would not sit up with the patient to-night, but leavehim to Mrs. Abel, who, if necessary, could call her husband.
At six o'clock, Raffles, having had only fitful perturbed snatches ofsleep, from which he waked with fresh restlessness and perpetual criesthat he was sinking away, Bulstrode began to administer the opiumaccording to Lydgate's directions. At the end of half an hour or more hecalled Mrs. Abel and told her that he found himself unfit for furtherwatching. He must now consign the patient to her care; and heproceeded to repeat to her Lydgate's directions as to the quantity of eachdose. Mrs. Abel had not before known anything of Lydgate'sprescriptions; she had simply prepared and brought whatever Bulstrodeordered, and had done what he pointed out to her. She began now to askwhat 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 importantchange, I shall not come into the room again to-night. You will ask yourhusband for help if necessary. I must go to bed early."
"You've much need, sir, I'm sure," said Mrs. Abel, "and to takesomething more strengthening than what you've done."
Bulstrode went away now without anxiety as to what Raffles mightsay in his raving, which had taken on a muttering incoherence not likelyto create any dangerous belief. At any rate he must risk this. He wentdown into the wainscoted parlor first, and began to consider whether hewould not have his horse saddled and go home by the moonlight, andgive up caring for earthly consequences. Then, he wished that he hadbegged Lydgate to come again that evening. Perhaps he might deliver adifferent opinion, and think that Raffles was getting into a less hopefulstate. Should he send for Lydgate? If Raffles were really getting worse,and slowly dying, Bulstrode felt that he could go to bed and sleep ingratitude to Providence. But was he worse? Lydgate might come andsimply say that he was going on as he expected, and predict that hewould by-and-by fall into a good sleep, and get well. What was the use ofsending for him? Bulstrode shrank from that result. No ideas or opinionscould hinder him from seeing the one probability to be, that Rafflesrecovered would be just the same man as before, with his strength as atormentor renewed, obliging him to drag away his wife to spend heryears apart from her friends and native place, carrying an alienatingsuspicion 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 hehad 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 longwhile. She might already have given him more than Lydgate hadprescribed. But it was excusable in him, that he should forget part of anorder, in his present wearied condition. He walked up-stairs, candle inhand, not knowing whether he should straightway enter his own roomand go to bed, or turn to the patient's room and rectify his omission. Hepaused in the passage, with his face turned towards Raffles's room, andhe could hear him moaning and murmuring. He was not asleep, then.Who could know that Lydgate's prescription would not be betterdisobeyed 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 herspeak low.
"If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give thepoor 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 moreand more he's sinking down through the earth."
To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer. A struggle was goingon 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 shecontinued, "It's not a time to spare when people are at death's door, norwould 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 doingeverything 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 findplenty of brandy there."
Early in the morning—about six—Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent sometime in prayer. Does any one suppose that private prayer is necessarilycandid—necessarily goes to the roots of action? Private prayer isinaudible speech, and speech is representative: who can representhimself just as he is, even in his own reflections? Bulstrode had not yetunravelled 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 thegrass and fresh spring leaves. When he re-entered the house, he feltstartled at the sight of Mrs. Abel.
"How is your patient—asleep, I think?" he said, with an attempt atcheerfulness in his tone.
"He's gone very deep, sir," said Mrs. Abel. "He went off gradualbetween 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 littlegirl's seeing to the kettles."
Bulstrode went up. At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in thesleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper anddeeper 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, andcarried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in thewine-cooler.
While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride toMiddlemarch 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 inthe bed-chamber.
As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocablyinto silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months. Hisconscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecy, which seemedjust 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 hadprojected and partly carried out in the prospect of quitting Middlemarch,and considered how far he would let them stand or recall them, now thathis absence would be brief. Some economies which he felt desirablemight still find a suitable occasion in his temporary withdrawal frommanagement, and he hoped still that Mrs. Casaubon would take a largeshare in the expenses of the Hospital. In that way the moments passed,until a change in the stertorous breathing was marked enough to drawhis attention wholly to the bed, and forced him to think of the departinglife, which had once been subservient to his own—which he had oncebeen glad to find base enough for him to act on as he would. It was hisgladness then which impelled him now to be glad that the life was at anend.
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 ofthe breath. When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a suddenexpression in his face, which was not so much surprise as a recognitionthat he had not judged correctly. He stood by the bed in silence for sometime, with his eyes turned on the dying man, but with that subduedactivity of expression which showed that he was carrying on an inwarddebate.
"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 sleepbetween three and four o'clock. When I came in before eight he wasnearly in this condition."
Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until hesaid, "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 himselfstrong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life. And he wasconscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him. But he wasuneasy about this case. He had not expected it to terminate as it haddone. Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on the subject toBulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if he examined thehousekeeper—why, the man was dead. There seemed to be no use inimplying that somebody's ignorance or imprudence had killed him. Andafter all, he himself might be wrong.
He and Bulstrode rode back to Middlemarch together, talking ofmany things—chiefly cholera and the chances of the Reform Bill in theHouse of Lords, and the firm resolve of the political Unions. Nothing wassaid about Raffles, except that Bulstrode mentioned the necessity ofhaving a grave for him in Lowick churchyard, and observed that, so faras he knew, the poor man had no connections, except Rigg, whom hehad stated to be unfriendly towards him.
On returning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother. TheVicar had not been in the town the day before, but the news that therewas an execution in Lydgate's house had got to Lowick by the evening,having been carried by Mr. Spicer, shoemaker and parish-clerk, who hadit from his brother, the respectable bell-hanger in Lowick Gate. Sincethat evening when Lydgate had come down from the billiard room withFred Vincy, Mr. Farebrother's thoughts about him had been rathergloomy. Playing at the Green Dragon once or oftener might have been atrifle in another man; but in Lydgate it was one of several signs that hewas getting unlike his former self. He was beginning to do things forwhich he had formerly even an excessive scorn. Whatever certaindissatisfactions in marriage, which some silly tinklings of gossip hadgiven him hints of, might have to do with this change, Mr. Farebrotherfelt sure that it was chiefly connected with the debts which were beingmore and more distinctly reported, and he began to fear that any notionof Lydgate's having resources or friends in the background must be quiteillusory. The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt to win Lydgate'sconfidence, disinclined him to a second; but this news of the executionbeing actually in the house, determined the Vicar to overcome hisreluctance.
Lydgate had just dismissed a poor patient, in whom he was muchinterested, and he came forward to put out his hand—with an opencheerfulness which surprised Mr. Farebrother. Could this too be a proudrejection of sympathy and help? Never mind; the sympathy and helpshould be offered.
"How are you, Lydgate? I came to see you because I had heardsomething which made me anxious about you," said the Vicar, in thetone of a good brother, only that there was no reproach in it. They wereboth seated by this time, and Lydgate answered immediately—
"I think I know what you mean. You had heard that there was anexecution in the house?"
"Yes; is it true?"
"It was true," said Lydgate, with an air of freedom, as if he did notmind talking about the affair now. "But the danger is over; the debt ispaid. I am out of my difficulties now: I shall be freed from debts, andable, I hope, to start afresh on a better plan."
"I am very thankful to hear it," said the Vicar, falling back in hischair, and speaking with that low-toned quickness which often followsthe 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 thekindness all the more because I am happier. I have certainly been a gooddeal 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 thetorture-screw is off."
