Middlemarch

The banker felt 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. A man vows, and yet will not cast away the means of breaking his vow. The desires which tend to break it are at work in him dimly and make their way into his imagination. 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. As the day advanced, Bulstrode felt himself getting irritated at the persistent life in this man whom he would fain have seen sinking into silence. He said inwardly he was getting too much worn; he would not sit up with the patient to-night, but leave him to Mrs. Abel. He administered the opium according to Lydgate’s directions. At the end of half an hour he called Mrs. Abel and told her he found himself unfit for further watching. He must now consign the patient to her care; he proceeded to repeat Lydgate’s directions as to the quantity of each dose.

He had sat an hour and a half by the firelight when a sudden thought made him rise and light the bed-candle. 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. He walked upstairs, candle in hand, not knowing whether he should enter his own room and go to bed or turn to the patient’s room. He paused in the passage and could hear Raffles moaning and murmuring. He was not asleep. Who could know that Lydgate’s prescription would not be better disobeyed than followed? He turned into his own room. Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abel rapped at the door. If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give the poor creature? He feels sinking away. To her surprise Mr. Bulstrode did not answer. A struggle was going on within him. She continued: it is not a time to spare when people are at death’s door, nor would you wish it, sir. 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. Private prayer is inaudible speech; 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. When he re-entered the house, he felt startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel. He’s gone very deep, sir, she said. 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, 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.

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 he was carrying on an inward debate. When did this change begin? He did not ask another question, but watched in silence until he said, it’s all over. He and Bulstrode rode back to Middlemarch together, talking of cholera and the Reform Bill. Nothing was said about Raffles, except that Bulstrode mentioned the necessity of having a grave for him in Lowick churchyard.

On returning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother. 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. Mr. Farebrother felt sure that it was chiefly connected with the debts which were being more and more distinctly reported. The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt to win Lydgate’s confidence disinclined him to a second; but this news determined the Vicar to overcome his reluctance. Lydgate came forward to put out his hand with an open cheerfulness which surprised Mr. Farebrother. The danger was over, the debt was paid, he was out of his difficulties. Mr. Farebrother, falling back in his chair, spoke with that low-toned quickness which often follows the removal of a load. He asked if Lydgate had not, in order to pay his debts, incurred another debt which might harass him worse hereafter. Lydgate, coloring slightly, said there was no reason why he should not tell him, since the fact was so, that the person to whom he was indebted was Bulstrode, who had made him a very handsome advance of a thousand pounds and could afford to wait. Mr. Farebrother compelled himself to approve of the man whom he disliked. Lydgate felt uncomfortable under these kindly suppositions. They made more distinct within him the uneasy consciousness that Bulstrode’s motives for his sudden beneficence following close upon the chillest indifference might be merely selfish. 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. 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.