The next two days Lydgate observed a change in her, and believedthat she had heard the bad news. Would she speak to him about it, orwould she go on forever in the silence which seemed to imply that shebelieved him guilty? We must remember that he was in a morbid state ofmind, in which almost all contact was pain. Certainly Rosamond in thiscase had equal reason to complain of reserve and want of confidence onhis part; but in the bitterness of his soul he excused himself;—was henot justified in shrinking from the task of telling her, since now she knewthe truth she had no impulse to speak to him? But a deeper-lyingconsciousness that he was in fault made him restless, and the silencebetween them became intolerable to him; it was as if they were bothadrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other.
He thought, "I am a fool. Haven't I given up expecting anything? Ihave married care, not help." And that evening he said—
"Rosamond, have you heard anything that distresses you?"
"Yes," she answered, laying down her work, which she had beencarrying on with a languid semi-consciousness, most unlike her usualself.
"What have you heard?"
"Everything, I suppose. Papa told me."
"That people think me disgraced?"
"Yes," said Rosamond, faintly, beginning to sew again automatically.
There was silence. Lydgate thought, "If she has any trust in me—anynotion of what I am, she ought to speak now and say that she does notbelieve I have deserved disgrace."
But Rosamond on her side went on moving her fingers languidly.Whatever was to be said on the subject she expected to come fromTertius. What did she know? And if he were innocent of any wrong, whydid he not do something to clear himself?
This silence of hers brought a new rush of gall to that bitter mood inwhich Lydgate had been saying to himself that nobody believed in him—even Farebrother had not come forward. He had begun to question herwith the intent that their conversation should disperse the chill fogwhich had gathered between them, but he felt his resolution checked bydespairing resentment. Even this trouble, like the rest, she seemed toregard as if it were hers alone. He was always to her a being apart, doingwhat she objected to. He started from his chair with an angry impulse,and thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the room.There was an underlying consciousness all the while that he should haveto master this anger, and tell her everything, and convince her of thefacts. For he had almost learned the lesson that he must bend himself toher nature, and that because she came short in her sympathy, he mustgive the more. Soon he recurred to his intention of opening himself: theoccasion must not be lost. If he could bring her to feel with somesolemnity that here was a slander which must be met and not run awayfrom, and that the whole trouble had come out of his desperate want ofmoney, it would be a moment for urging powerfully on her that theyshould be one in the resolve to do with as little money as possible, sothat they might weather the bad time and keep themselves independent.He would mention the definite measures which he desired to take, andwin her to a willing spirit. He was bound to try this—and what else wasthere for him to do?
He did not know how long he had been walking uneasily backwardsand forwards, but Rosamond felt that it was long, and wished that hewould sit down. She too had begun to think this an opportunity forurging on Tertius what he ought to do. Whatever might be the truthabout all this misery, there was one dread which asserted itself.
Lydgate at last seated himself, not in his usual chair, but in onenearer to Rosamond, leaning aside in it towards her, and looking at hergravely before he reopened the sad subject. He had conquered himself sofar, and was about to speak with a sense of solemnity, as on an occasionwhich was not to be repeated. He had even opened his lips, whenRosamond, letting her hands fall, looked at him and said—
"Surely, Tertius—"
"Well?"
"Surely now at last you have given up the idea of staying inMiddlemarch. I cannot go on living here. Let us go to London. Papa, andevery one else, says you had better go. Whatever misery I have to put upwith, it will be easier away from here."
Lydgate felt miserably jarred. Instead of that critical outpouring forwhich he had prepared himself with effort, here was the old round to begone through again. He could not bear it. With a quick change ofcountenance he rose and went out of the room.
Perhaps if he had been strong enough to persist in his determinationto be the more because she was less, that evening might have had abetter issue. If his energy could have borne down that check, he mightstill have wrought on Rosamond's vision and will. We cannot be sure thatany natures, however inflexible or peculiar, will resist this effect from amore massive being than their own. They may be taken by storm and forthe moment converted, becoming part of the soul which enwraps them inthe ardor of its movement. But poor Lydgate had a throbbing pain withinhim, and his energy had fallen short of its task.
The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far offas ever; nay, it seemed blocked out by the sense of unsuccessful effort.They lived on from day to day with their thoughts still apart, Lydgategoing about what work he had in a mood of despair, and Rosamondfeeling, with some justification, that he was behaving cruelly. It was ofno use to say anything to Tertius; but when Will Ladislaw came, she wasdetermined to tell him everything. In spite of her general reticence, sheneeded some one who would recognize her wrongs.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
"To mercy, pity, peace, and love
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight,
Return their thankfulness.
. . . . . .
For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face;
And Love, the human form divine;
And Peace, the human dress.
—WILLIAM BLAKE: Songs of Innocence.
Some days later, Lydgate was riding to Lowick Manor, inconsequence of a summons from Dorothea. The summons had not beenunexpected, since it had followed a letter from Mr. Bulstrode, in whichhe stated that he had resumed his arrangements for quittingMiddlemarch, and must remind Lydgate of his previous communicationsabout the Hospital, to the purport of which he still adhered. It had beenhis duty, before taking further steps, to reopen the subject with Mrs.Casaubon, who now wished, as before, to discuss the question withLydgate. "Your views may possibly have undergone some change," wroteMr. Bulstrode; "but, in that case also, it is desirable that you should laythem before her."
Dorothea awaited his arrival with eager interest. Though, indeference to her masculine advisers, she had refrained from what SirJames had called "interfering in this Bulstrode business," the hardship ofLydgate's position was continually in her mind, and when Bulstrodeapplied to her again about the hospital, she felt that the opportunity wascome to her which she had been hindered from hastening. In herluxurious home, wandering under the boughs of her own great trees, herthought was going out over the lot of others, and her emotions wereimprisoned. The idea of some active good within her reach, "haunted herlike a passion," and another's need having once come to her as a distinctimage, preoccupied her desire with the yearning to give relief, and madeher own ease tasteless. She was full of confident hope about thisinterview with Lydgate, never heeding what was said of his personalreserve; never heeding that she was a very young woman. Nothing couldhave seemed more irrelevant to Dorothea than insistence on her youthand sex when she was moved to show her human fellowship.
As she sat waiting in the library, she could do nothing but livethrough again all the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into hermemories. They all owed their significance to her marriage and itstroubles—but no; there were two occasions in which the image ofLydgate had come painfully in connection with his wife and some oneelse. The pain had been allayed for Dorothea, but it had left in her anawakened conjecture as to what Lydgate's marriage might be to him, asusceptibility to the slightest hint about Mrs. Lydgate. These thoughtswere like a drama to her, and made her eyes bright, and gave an attitudeof suspense to her whole frame, though she was only looking out fromthe brown library on to the turf and the bright green buds which stood inrelief against the dark evergreens.
When Lydgate came in, she was almost shocked at the change in hisface, which was strikingly perceptible to her who had not seen him fortwo months. It was not the change of emaciation, but that effect whicheven young faces will very soon show from the persistent presence ofresentment and despondency. Her cordial look, when she put out herhand to him, softened his expression, but only with melancholy.
"I have wished very much to see you for a long while, Mr. Lydgate,"said Dorothea when they were seated opposite each other; "but I put offasking you to come until Mr. Bulstrode applied to me again about theHospital. I know that the advantage of keeping the management of itseparate from that of the Infirmary depends on you, or, at least, on thegood which you are encouraged to hope for from having it under yourcontrol. And I am sure you will not refuse to tell me exactly what youthink."
"You want to decide whether you should give a generous support tothe Hospital," said Lydgate. "I cannot conscientiously advise you to do itin dependence on any activity of mine. I may be obliged to leave thetown."
He spoke curtly, feeling the ache of despair as to his being able tocarry out any purpose that Rosamond had set her mind against.
"Not because there is no one to believe in you?" said Dorothea,pouring out her words in clearness from a full heart. "I know theunhappy mistakes about you. I knew them from the first moment to bemistakes. You have never done anything vile. You would not do anythingdishonorable."
It was the first assurance of belief in him that had fallen on Lydgate'sears. He drew a deep breath, and said, "Thank you." He could say nomore: it was something very new and strange in his life that these fewwords of trust from a woman should be so much to him.
"I beseech you to tell me how everything was," said Dorothea,fearlessly. "I am sure that the truth would clear you."
Lydgate started up from his chair and went towards the window,forgetting where he was. He had so often gone over in his mind thepossibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances thatwould tell, perhaps unfairly, against Bulstrode, and had so often decidedagainst it—he had so often said to himself that his assertions would notchange people's impressions—that Dorothea's words sounded like atemptation to do something which in his soberness he had pronounced tobe unreasonable.
"Tell me, pray," said Dorothea, with simple earnestness; "then we canconsult together. It is wicked to let people think evil of any one falsely,when it can be hindered."
Lydgate turned, remembering where he was, and saw Dorothea's facelooking up at him with a sweet trustful gravity. The presence of a noblenature, generous in its wishes, ardent in its charity, changes the lightsfor us: we begin to see things again in their larger, quieter masses, and tobelieve that we too can be seen and judged in the wholeness of ourcharacter. That influence was beginning to act on Lydgate, who had formany days been seeing all life as one who is dragged and struggling amidthe throng. He sat down again, and felt that he was recovering his oldself in the consciousness that he was with one who believed in it.
"I don't want," he said, "to bear hard on Bulstrode, who has lent memoney of which I was in need—though I would rather have gone withoutit now. He is hunted down and miserable, and has only a poor thread oflife in him. But I should like to tell you everything. It will be a comfort tome to speak where belief has gone beforehand, and where I shall notseem to be offering assertions of my own honesty. You will feel what isfair to another, as you feel what is fair to me."
"Do trust me," said Dorothea; "I will not repeat anything withoutyour leave. But at the very least, I could say that you have made all thecircumstances clear to me, and that I know you are not in any wayguilty. Mr. Farebrother would believe me, and my uncle, and Sir JamesChettam. Nay, there are persons in Middlemarch to whom I could go;although they don't know much of me, they would believe me. Theywould know that I could have no other motive than truth and justice. Iwould take any pains to clear you. I have very little to do. There isnothing better that I can do in the world."
Dorothea's voice, as she made this childlike picture of what shewould do, might have been almost taken as a proof that she could do iteffectively. The searching tenderness of her woman's tones seemed madefor a defence against ready accusers. Lydgate did not stay to think thatshe was Quixotic: he gave himself up, for the first time in his life, to theexquisite sense of leaning entirely on a generous sympathy, without anycheck of proud reserve. And he told her everything, from the time when,under the pressure of his difficulties, he unwillingly made his firstapplication to Bulstrode; gradually, in the relief of speaking, getting intoa more thorough utterance of what had gone on in his mind—enteringfully into the fact that his treatment of the patient was opposed to thedominant practice, into his doubts at the last, his ideal of medical duty,and his uneasy consciousness that the acceptance of the money hadmade some difference in his private inclination and professionalbehavior, though not in his fulfilment of any publicly recognizedobligation.
"It has come to my knowledge since," he added, "that Hawley sentsome one to examine the housekeeper at Stone Court, and she said thatshe gave the patient all the opium in the phial I left, as well as a gooddeal of brandy. But that would not have been opposed to ordinaryprescriptions, even of first-rate men. The suspicions against me had nohold there: they are grounded on the knowledge that I took money, thatBulstrode had strong motives for wishing the man to die, and that hegave me the money as a bribe to concur in some malpractices or otheragainst the patient—that in any case I accepted a bribe to hold mytongue. They are just the suspicions that cling the most obstinately,because they lie in people's inclination and can never be disproved. Howmy orders came to be disobeyed is a question to which I don't know theanswer. It is still possible that Bulstrode was innocent of any criminalintention—even possible that he had nothing to do with thedisobedience, and merely abstained from mentioning it. But all that hasnothing to do with the public belief. It is one of those cases on which aman is condemned on the ground of his character—it is believed that hehas committed a crime in some undefined way, because he had themotive for doing it; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped me, becauseI took his money. I am simply blighted—like a damaged ear of corn—thebusiness is done and can't be undone."
