Middlemarch

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 hoping to acquire a new interest in Lowick, had wished the new clergyman should be one whom he thoroughly approved. He believed it a chastisement directed to his own shortcomings that just about the time he came into possession of Stone Court, Mr. Farebrother preached his first sermon. He had bought the farm simply as a retreat which he might gradually beautify, until it should be conducive to the divine glory that he should enter on it as a residence.

How little we know what would make paradise for our neighbors! Joshua Rigg had looked at Stone Court and thought of buying gold. His chief good was to be a moneychanger, with locks all round him of which he held the keys. He sold the land to Bulstrode, and the disappointed Featherstone relatives found an inexhaustible subject of lamentation.

One evening, while the sun burned in golden lamps among the walnut boughs, Mr. Bulstrode paused on horseback outside the front gate of Stone Court, waiting for Caleb Garth. He was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and more than usually serene. His brief reverie was interrupted by Caleb’s exclamation: “Bless my heart! what’s this fellow in black coming along the lane?”

The comer was Mr. Raffles, in a suit of black and a crape hat-band. “By Jove, Nick, it’s you! I couldn’t be mistaken. Come, shake us by the hand.” Bulstrode put out his hand coldly. “I did not indeed expect to see you in this remote country place.”

Caleb spurred his horse and left. “I wish you good evening, Mr. Bulstrode.” Raffles, swaggering, drew a crumpled paper from his pocket. “I came to get your address. The Shrubs—where’s that? You live near at hand, eh? You’re very pale and pasty, Nick. I’ll walk by your side.”

Bulstrode’s usual paleness had taken an almost deathly hue. Five minutes before, his life had been submerged in evening sunshine; now this loud red figure had risen before him in unmanageable solidity. “Your habits and mine are so different,” he said. “The wisest plan for both of us will be to part as soon as possible. I will invite you to remain here for the night, and I will ride over early to-morrow morning to receive any communication you have to make.”

The next morning, seated over tea and toast, Raffles said: “I want an independence.” Bulstrode perhaps spoke with too much eagerness: “That could be supplied to you, if you would engage to keep at a distance.” Raffles coolly replied, “That must be as it suits my convenience.”

“You will do well to reflect, Mr. Raffles, that it is possible for a man to overreach himself. Although I am not in any way bound to you, I am willing to supply you with a regular annuity—so long as you fulfil a promise to remain at a distance.”

“Your quarterly payment won’t quite suit me. I like my freedom.” Raffles stalked up and down. “Give us a couple of hundreds—come, that’s modest—and I’ll go away.”

“No, I have one hundred,” said Bulstrode. “I will forward you the other if you will mention an address.”

“No, I’ll wait here till you bring it.”

As Bulstrode walked out, Raffles winked at his back and turned to the window. When left alone over bread and cheese, he suddenly slapped his knee and exclaimed, “Ladislaw!” He wrote the name in his pocket-book—not because he expected to use it, but because there was always probable good in a secret. By three o’clock he had mounted the coach, relieving Bulstrode’s eyes of an ugly black spot on the landscape, but not relieving him of the dread that the black spot might reappear.