Not a word. I asked her about Fred once; I gave her a bit of a warning. But she assured me she would never marry an idle self-indulgent man—nothing since. But it seems Fred set on Mr. Farebrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden him to speak himself, and Mr. Farebrother has found out that she is fond of Fred, but says he must not be a clergyman. Fred’s heart is fixed on Mary, that I can see: it gives me a good opinion of the lad—and we always liked him, Susan.


It is a pity for Mary, I think,


Why—a pity?


Because, Caleb, she might have had a man who is worth twenty Fred Vincy’s.


Ah?


I firmly believe that Mr. Farebrother is attached to her, and meant to make her an offer; but of course, now that Fred has used him as an envoy, there is an end to that better prospect.


That would have made me very proud and happy, Susan, and I should have been glad for your sake. I’ve always felt that your belongings have never been on a level with you. But you took me, though I was a plain man.


I took the best and cleverest man I had ever known,


Well, perhaps others thought you might have done better. But it would have been worse for me. And that is what touches me close about Fred. The lad is good at bottom, and clever enough to do, if he’s put in the right way; and he loves and honors my daughter beyond anything, and she has given him a sort of promise according to what he turns out. I say, that young man’s soul is in my hand; and I’ll do the best I can for him, so help me God! It’s my duty, Susan.


Few men besides you would think it a duty to add to their anxieties in that way, Caleb.


That signifies nothing—what other men would think. I’ve got a clear feeling inside me, and that I shall follow; and I hope your heart will go with me, Susan, in making everything as light as can be to Mary, poor child. God bless you, Caleb! Our children have a good father. Now Fred, you will have some desk-work. I have always done a good deal of writing myself, but I can’t do without help, and as I want you to understand the accounts and get the values into your head, I mean to do without another clerk. So you must buckle to. How are you at writing and arithmetic?


I’m not afraid of arithmetic, Mr. Garth: it always came easily to me. I think you know my writing.


Let us see. Copy me a line or two of that valuation, with the figures at the end.


The deuce! To think that this is a country where a man’s education may cost hundreds and hundreds, and it turns you out this! The Lord have mercy on us, Fred, I can’t put up with this!


What can I do, Mr. Garth?


Do? Why, you must learn to form your letters and keep the line. What’s the use of writing at all if nobody can understand it? Is there so little business in the world that you must be sending puzzles over the country? But that’s the way people are brought up. I should lose no end of time with the letters some people send me, if Susan did not make them out for me. It’s disgusting.


I am very sorry,


We must make the best of it, Fred. Every man can learn to write. I taught myself. Go at it with a will, and sit up at night if the day-time isn’t enough. We’ll be patient, my boy. Callum shall go on with the books for a bit, while you are learning. But now I must be off. You must let your father know our agreement. You’ll save me Callum’s salary, you know, when you can write; and I can afford to give you eighty pounds for the first year, and more after.


So you’ve made up your mind at last, sir?


Yes, father.


Very well; stick to it. I’ve no more to say. You’ve thrown away your education, and gone down a step in life, when I had given you the means of rising, that’s all.


I am very sorry that we differ, father. I think I can be quite as much of a gentleman at the work I have undertaken, as if I had been a curate. But I am grateful to you for wishing to do the best for me.


Very well; I have no more to say. I wash my hands of you. I only hope, when you have a son of your own he will make a better return for the pains you spend on him.


I hope you will not object to my remaining at home, sir? I shall have a sufficient salary to pay for my board, as of course I should wish to do.


Board be hanged! Of course your mother will want you to stay. But I shall keep no horse for you, you understand; and you will pay your own tailor. You will do with a suit or two less, I fancy, when you have to pay for ’em.


I hope you will shake hands with me, father, and forgive me the vexation I have caused you.


Yes, yes, let us say no more.


Come, Lucy, my dear, don’t be so down-hearted. You always have spoiled the boy, and you must go on spoiling him.


Nothing ever did cut me so before, Vincy, only his illness.


Pooh, pooh, never mind! We must expect to have trouble with our children. Don’t make it worse by letting me see you out of spirits.


Well, I won’t,


It won’t do to begin making a fuss about one. There’s Rosamond as well as Fred.


Yes, poor thing. I’m sure I felt for her being disappointed of her baby; but she got over it nicely.


Baby, pooh! I can see Lydgate is making a mess of his practice, and getting into debt too, by what I hear. I shall have Rosamond coming to me with a pretty tale one of these days. But they’ll get no money from me, I know. Let his family help him. I never did like that marriage. But it’s no use talking. Ring the bell for lemons, and don’t look dull any more, Lucy. I’ll drive you and Louisa to Riverston to-morrow.


Take me!


Oh, and me too,


You can’t keep up with Fred and me,


Yes, I can. Mother, please say that I am to go,


I shall stay with Christy,


Let us all go and see Mary,


No, my dear child, we must not go in a swarm to the parsonage. And that old Glasgow suit of yours would never do. Besides, your father will come home. We must let Fred go alone. He can tell Mary that you are here, and she will come back to-morrow. Children, run away, it is too warm to hang about your friends. Take your brother and show him the rabbits.


How glad you must be to have Christy here!


Yes; he has come sooner than I expected. He got down from the coach at nine o’clock, just after his father went out. I am longing for Caleb to come and hear what wonderful progress Christy is making. He has paid his expenses for the last year by giving lessons, carrying on hard study at the same time. He hopes soon to get a private tutorship and go abroad.


He is a great fellow, and no trouble to anybody. But I fear you will think that I am going to be a great deal of trouble to Mr. Garth.


Caleb likes taking trouble: he is one of those men who always do more than any one would have thought of asking them to do,


I know you think me very undeserving, Mrs. Garth, and with good reason. I happen to have behaved just the worst to the people I can’t help wishing for the most from. But while two men like Mr. Garth and Mr. Farebrother have not given me up, I don’t see why I should give myself up.


Assuredly. A young man for whom two such elders had devoted themselves would indeed be culpable if he threw himself away and made their sacrifices vain.


I hope it will not be so with me, Mrs. Garth, since I have some encouragement to believe that I may win Mary. Mr. Garth has told you about that? You were not surprised, I dare say?


Not surprised that Mary has given you encouragement? Yes, I confess I was surprised.


She never did give me any—not the least in the world, when I talked to her myself. But when I asked Mr. Farebrother to speak for me, she allowed him to tell me there was a hope.


You made a great mistake, Fred, in asking Mr. Farebrother to speak for you.


Did I? Mr. Farebrother has always been such a friend of ours; and Mary, I knew, would listen to him gravely; and he took it on himself quite readily.


Yes, young people are usually blind to everything but their own wishes, and seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others,


I cannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Farebrother,


Precisely; you cannot conceive,


Do you mean to say, Mrs. Garth, that Mr. Farebrother is in love with Mary?


And if it were so, Fred, I think you are the last person who ought to be surprised,


Then you think I am standing in his way, and in Mary’s too? Mr. Garth seemed pleased that Mary should be attached to me. He could not have known anything of this.


I spoke from inference only. I am not aware that Mary knows anything of the matter.


God bless you


I am so glad,


You don’t mean, my dear Miss Garth, that you are glad to hear of a young man giving up the Church for which he was educated: you only mean that things being so, you are glad that he should be under an excellent man like your father.


No, really, Mrs. Farebrother, I am glad of both, I fear. I have a dreadfully secular mind. I never liked any clergyman except the Vicar of Wakefield and Mr. Farebrother.


Now why, my dear? You have always a good reason for your opinions, but this astonishes me. Of course I put out of the question those who preach new doctrine. But why should you dislike clergymen?


Oh dear. I don’t like their neckcloths.


Why, you don’t like Camden’s, then,


Yes, I do. I don’t like the other clergymen’s neckcloths, because it is they who wear them.


How very puzzling!


My dear, you are joking. You would have better reasons than these for slighting so respectable a class of men,


Miss Garth has such severe notions of what people should be that it is difficult to satisfy her,


Well, I am glad at least that she makes an exception in favor of my son,


That is right; Fred, help me to carry these drawers back into my study—you have never seen my fine new study. Pray come too, Miss Garth. I want you to see a stupendous spider I found this morning.


Wait here a minute or two. I am going to look out an engraving which Fred is tall enough to hang for me. I shall be back in a few minutes.


It is of no use, whatever I do, Mary. You are sure to marry Farebrother at last.


What do you mean, Fred?


It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough—you who see everything.


I only see that you are behaving very ill, Fred, in speaking so of Mr. Farebrother after he has pleaded your cause in every way. How can you have taken up such an idea?


It follows as a matter of course. When you are continually seeing a man who beats me in everything, and whom you set up above everybody, I can have no fair chance.


You are very ungrateful, Fred. I wish I had never told Mr. Farebrother that I cared for you in the least.


No, I am not ungrateful; I should be the happiest fellow in the world if it were not for this. I told your father everything, and he was very kind; he treated me as if I were his son. I could go at the work with a will, writing and everything, if it were not for this.


For this? for what?


This dreadful certainty that I shall be bowled out by Farebrother.


Fred, you are too delightfully ridiculous. If you were not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to play the wicked coquette, and let you suppose that somebody besides you has made love to me.


Do you really like me best, Mary?


I don’t like you at all at this moment. I only said that no mortal ever made love to me besides you. And that is no argument that a very wise man ever will,


I wish you would tell me that you could not possibly ever think of him,


Never dare to mention this any more to me, Fred. I don’t know whether it is more stupid or ungenerous in you not to see that Mr. Farebrother has left us together on purpose that we might speak freely. I am disappointed that you should be so blind to his delicate feeling.


Fred has lost all his other expectations; he must keep this,


I wish you would talk more to the Captain at dinner, Tertius. You really look so absent sometimes—you seem to be seeing through his head into something behind it, instead of looking at him.


My dear Rosy, you don’t expect me to talk much to such a conceited ass as that, I hope. If he got his head broken, I might look at it with interest, not before.


I cannot conceive why you should speak of your cousin so contemptuously,


Ask Ladislaw if he doesn’t think your Captain the greatest bore he ever met with. Ladislaw has almost forsaken the house since he came.


It is impossible to say what will suit eccentric persons, but in my opinion Captain Lydgate is a thorough gentleman, and I think you ought not, out of respect to Sir Godwin, to treat him with neglect.


No, dear; but we have had dinners for him. And he comes in and goes out as he likes. He doesn’t want me.


Still, when he is in the room, you might show him more attention. He may not be a phoenix of cleverness in your sense; his profession is different; but it would be all the better for you to talk a little on his subjects. I think his conversation is quite agreeable. And he is anything but an unprincipled man.


The fact is, you would wish me to be a little more like him, Rosy,


However, you have come back safely. You will not go again, Rosy; that is understood. If it were the quietest, most familiar horse in the world, there would always be the chance of accident. And you know very well that I wished you to give up riding the roan on that account.


But there is the chance of accident indoors, Tertius.


My darling, don’t talk nonsense, surely I am the person to judge for you. I think it is enough that I say you are not to go again.


I wish you would fasten up my plaits, dear,


I shall tell the Captain that he ought to have known better than offer you his horse,


I beg you will not do anything of the kind, Tertius. It will be treating me as if I were a child. Promise that you will leave the subject to me.


Very well,


Poor, poor darling!


How are you, Lydgate?


Have you dined, Tertius? I expected you much earlier,


I have dined. I should like some tea, please,


I shall be off,


Tea is coming, pray don’t go.


Yes, Lydgate is bored,


There is the more need for you to stay, he will not speak to me all the evening.


Yes, Rosamond, I shall. I have some serious business to speak to you about.


There! you see. I’m going to the meeting about the Mechanics’ Institute. Good-by;


Would she kill me because I wearied her? It is the way with all women.


Advise me—think what I can do—he has been all his life laboring and looking forward. He minds about nothing else—and I mind about nothing else.


Here is your tea, Tertius,


Dear Rosy, lay down your work and come to sit by me,


Dear! I am obliged to tell you what will hurt you, Rosy. But there are things which husband and wife must think of together. I dare say it has occurred to you already that I am short of money. I was not able to pay for all the things we had to get before we were married, and there have been expenses since which I have been obliged to meet. The consequence is, there is a large debt at Brassing—three hundred and eighty pounds—which has been pressing on me a good while, and in fact we are getting deeper every day, for people don’t pay me the faster because others want the money. I took pains to keep it from you while you were not well; but now we must think together about it, and you must help me.


What can I do, Tertius?


It is necessary for you to know, because I have to give security for a time, and a man must come to make an inventory of the furniture.


Have you not asked papa for money?


No.


Then I must ask him!


No, Rosy. It is too late to do that. The inventory will be begun to-morrow. Remember it is a mere security: it will make no difference: it is a temporary affair. I insist upon it that your father shall not know, unless I choose to tell him,


Try not to grieve, darling. We must brace ourselves to do what is necessary. It is I who have been in fault: I ought to have seen that I could not afford to live in this way. But many things have told against me in my practice, and it really just now has ebbed to a low point. I may recover it, but in the mean time we must pull up—we must change our way of living. We shall weather it. When I have given this security I shall have time to look about me; and you are so clever that if you turn your mind to managing you will school me into carefulness. I have been a thoughtless rascal about squaring prices—but come, dear, sit down and forgive me.


Why can you not put off having the inventory made? You can send the men away to-morrow when they come.


I shall not send them away,


If we left Middlemarch? there would of course be a sale, and that would do as well.


But we are not going to leave Middlemarch.


I am sure, Tertius, it would be much better to do so. Why can we not go to London? Or near Durham, where your family is known?


We can go nowhere without money, Rosamond.


Your friends would not wish you to be without money. And surely these odious tradesmen might be made to understand that, and to wait, if you would make proper representations to them.


This is idle Rosamond. You must learn to take my judgment on questions you don’t understand. I have made necessary arrangements, and they must be carried out. As to friends, I have no expectations whatever from them, and shall not ask them for anything. We have no time to waste now on unnecessary words, dear. There are some details that I want to consider with you. Dover says he will take a good deal of the plate back again, and any of the jewellery we like. He really behaves very well.


Are we to go without spoons and forks then?


Oh no, dear! But look here, here is Dover’s account. See, I have marked a number of articles, which if we returned them would reduce the amount by thirty pounds and more. I have not marked any of the jewellery.


It is useless for me to look, Tertius, you will return what you please.


This is all the jewellery you ever gave me. You can return what you like of it, and of the plate also. You will not, of course, expect me to stay at home to-morrow. I shall go to papa’s.


And when shall you come back again?


Oh, in the evening. Of course I shall not mention the subject to mamma.


Now we have been united, Rosy, you should not leave me to myself in the first trouble that has come.


Certainly not. I shall do everything it becomes me to do.


It is not right that the thing should be left to servants, or that I should have to speak to them about it. And I shall be obliged to go out—I don’t know how early. I understand your shrinking from the humiliation of these money affairs. But, my dear Rosamond, as a question of pride, which I feel just as much as you can, it is surely better to manage the thing ourselves, and let the servants see as little of it as possible; and since you are my wife, there is no hindering your share in my disgraces—if there were disgraces.


Very well, I will stay at home.


I shall not touch these jewels, Rosy. Take them away again. But I will write out a list of plate that we may return, and that can be packed up and sent at once.


The servants will know that,


Well, we must meet some disagreeables as necessities. Where is the ink, I wonder? Come, darling, let us make the best of things. It will only be for a time, I hope, that we shall have to be stingy and particular. Kiss me.


Take care you don’t drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy. He is likely to fly out as if you insulted him. Of course it is a painful affair.


I know all about it. I have a confidential little bird. There is a powerful magnet in this neighborhood.


To be sure there is. Nobody knows that better than you,


It is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and foreseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much like to marry, and no one who would so much like to marry her as a certain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by making her forfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman—and then—and then—and then—oh, I have no doubt the end will be thoroughly romantic.


Great God! what do you mean? Don’t joke; tell me what you mean.


You don’t really know?


No!


Don’t know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs. Casaubon marries you she is to forfeit all her property?


How do you know that it is true?


My brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers. I dare say she likes you better than the property,


Pray don’t say any more about it. It is a foul insult to her and to me.


Now you are angry with me. It is too bad to bear me malice. You ought to be obliged to me for telling you.


So I am,


I expect to hear of the marriage,


Never! You will never hear of the marriage!


I am more likely to want help myself.


if, attendance at the sale would not interfere with the arrangements for your departure, which I know is imminent.


Now, ladies. I shall appeal to you. Here is a fender which at any other sale would hardly be offered with out reserve, being, as I may say, for quality of steel and quaintness of design, a kind of thing that might not fall in with ordinary tastes. Allow me to tell you that by-and-by this style of workmanship will be the only one in vogue—half-a-crown, you said? thank you—going at half-a-crown, this characteristic fender; and I have particular information that the antique style is very much sought after in high quarters. Three shillings—three-and-sixpence—hold it well up, Joseph! Look, ladies, at the chastity of the design—I have no doubt myself that it was turned out in the last century! Four shillings, Mr. Mawmsey?—four shillings.


It’s not a thing I would put in my drawing-room. I wonder at Mrs. Larcher. Every blessed child’s head that fell against it would be cut in two. The edge is like a knife.


Quite true, and most uncommonly useful to have a fender at hand that will cut, if you have a leather shoe-tie or a bit of string that wants cutting and no knife at hand: many a man has been left hanging because there was no knife to cut him down. Gentlemen, here’s a fender that if you had the misfortune to hang yourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing celerity—four-and-sixpence—five—five-and-sixpence—an appropriate thing for a spare bedroom where there was a four-poster and a guest a little out of his mind—six shillings—thank you, Mr. Clintup—going at six shillings—going—gone! Mr. Clintup. Be handy, Joseph.


It was worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell that joke on,


Now, ladies, this tray contains a very recherchy lot—a collection of trifles for the drawing-room table—and trifles make the sum of human things—nothing more important than trifles—(yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes, by-and-by)—but pass the tray round, Joseph—these bijoux must be examined, ladies. This I have in my hand is an ingenious contrivance—a sort of practical rebus, I may call it: here, you see, it looks like an elegant heart-shaped box, portable—for the pocket; there, again, it becomes like a splendid double flower—an ornament for the table; and now a book of riddles! No less than five hundred printed in a beautiful red. Gentlemen, if I had less of a conscience, I should not wish you to bid high for this lot—I have a longing for it myself. What can promote innocent mirth, and I may say virtue, more than a good riddle?—it hinders profane language, and attaches a man to the society of refined females. This ingenious article itself, without the elegant domino-box, card-basket, &c., ought alone to give a high price to the lot. Carried in the pocket it might make an individual welcome in any society. Four shillings, sir?—four shillings for this remarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras. Here is a sample: ‘How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds? Answer—money.’ You hear?—lady-birds—honey money. This is an amusement to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting—it has what we call satire, and wit without indecency. Four-and-sixpence—five shillings.


Come, Trumbull, this is too bad—you’ve been putting some old maid’s rubbish into the sale. I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon.


Immediately, Mr. Toller. It was only an act of benevolence which your noble heart would approve. Joseph! quick with the prints—Lot 235. Now, gentlemen, you who are connoissures, you are going to have a treat. Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by his staff on the Field of Waterloo; and notwithstanding recent events which have, as it were, enveloped our great Hero in a cloud, I will be bold to say—for a man in my line must not be blown about by political winds—that a finer subject—of the modern order, belonging to our own time and epoch—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men.


Who painted it?


It is a proof before the letter, Mr. Powderell—the painter is not known,


I’ll bid a pound!


Who is it you’ve picked up, Bam?


Ask him yourself. He said he’d just turned in from the road.


Yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as a connoissure, I think. It is some pleasure, to have a picture like this to show to a company of ladies and gentlemen—a picture worth any sum to an individual whose means were on a level with his judgment. It is a painting of the Italian school—by the celebrated Guydo, the greatest painter in the world, the chief of the Old Masters, as they are called—I take it, because they were up to a thing or two beyond most of us—in possession of secrets now lost to the bulk of mankind. Let me tell you, gentlemen, I have seen a great many pictures by the Old Masters, and they are not all up to this mark—some of them are darker than you might like and not family subjects. But here is a Guydo—the frame alone is worth pounds—which any lady might be proud to hang up—a suitable thing for what we call a refectory in a charitable institution, if any gentleman of the Corporation wished to show his munificence. Turn it a little, sir? yes. Joseph, turn it a little towards Mr. Ladislaw—Mr. Ladislaw, having been abroad, understands the merit of these things, you observe.


Five pounds.


Ah! Mr. Ladislaw! the frame alone is worth that. Ladies and gentlemen, for the credit of the town! Suppose it should be discovered hereafter that a gem of art has been amongst us in this town, and nobody in Middlemarch awake to it. Five guineas—five seven-six—five ten. Still, ladies, still! It is a gem, and ‘Full many a gem,’ as the poet says, has been allowed to go at a nominal price because the public knew no better, because it was offered in circles where there was—I was going to say a low feeling, but no!—Six pounds—six guineas—a Guydo of the first order going at six guineas—it is an insult to religion, ladies; it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, that a subject like this should go at such a low figure—six pounds ten—seven—


Excuse me, Mr. Ladislaw—was your mother’s name Sarah Dunkirk?


Yes, sir, it was. And what is that to you?


No offence, my good sir, no offence! I only remember your mother—knew her when she was a girl. But it is your father that you feature, sir. I had the pleasure of seeing your father too. Parents alive, Mr. Ladislaw?


No!


Should be glad to do you a service, Mr. Ladislaw—by Jove, I should! Hope to meet again.


I’ve been abroad myself, Mr. Ladislaw—I’ve seen the world—used to parley-vous a little. It was at Boulogne I saw your father—a most uncommon likeness you are of him, by Jove! mouth—nose—eyes—hair turned off your brow just like his—a little in the foreign style. John Bull doesn’t do much of that. But your father was very ill when I saw him. Lord, lord! hands you might see through. You were a small youngster then. Did he get well?


No,


Ah! Well! I’ve often wondered what became of your mother. She ran away from her friends when she was a young lass—a proud-spirited lass, and pretty, by Jove! I knew the reason why she ran away,


You know nothing dishonorable of her, sir,


Not a bit! She was a little too honorable to like her friends—that was it! Lord bless you, I knew all about ’em—a little in what you may call the respectable thieving line—the high style of receiving-house—none of your holes and corners—first-rate. Slap-up shop, high profits and no mistake. But Lord! Sarah would have known nothing about it—a dashing young lady she was—fine boarding-school—fit for a lord’s wife—only Archie Duncan threw it at her out of spite, because she would have nothing to do with him. And so she ran away from the whole concern. I travelled for ’em, sir, in a gentlemanly way—at a high salary. They didn’t mind her running away at first—godly folks, sir, very godly—and she was for the stage. The son was alive then, and the daughter was at a discount. Hallo! here we are at the Blue Bull. What do you say, Mr. Ladislaw?—shall we turn in and have a glass?


No, I must say good evening,


Nicholas, there has been such a disagreeable man here asking for you—it has made me quite uncomfortable.


What kind of man, my dear,


A red-faced man with large whiskers, and most impudent in his manner. He declared he was an old friend of yours, and said you would be sorry not to see him. He wanted to wait for you here, but I told him he could see you at the Bank to-morrow morning. Most impudent he was!—stared at me, and said his friend Nick had luck in wives. I don’t believe he would have gone away, if Blucher had not happened to break his chain and come running round on the gravel—for I was in the garden; so I said, ‘You’d better go away—the dog is very fierce, and I can’t hold him.’ Do you really know anything of such a man?


I believe I know who he is, my dear, an unfortunate dissolute wretch, whom I helped too much in days gone by. However, I presume you will not be troubled by him again. He will probably come to the Bank—to beg, doubtless.


You look very ill, Nicholas. Is there anything the matter?


I have a good deal of pain in my head,


Sit down and let me sponge it with vinegar.


You are very good, Harriet,


Has anything worried you? Did that man come to you at the Bank?


Yes; it was as I had supposed. He is a man who at one time might have done better. But he has sunk into a drunken debauched creature.


Is he quite gone away?


Oh, I trust so,


Thank you, she is quite satisfied; she has gone out with her daughters this evening. I begged you to come, Mr. Ladislaw, because I have a communication of a very private—indeed, I will say, of a sacredly confidential nature, which I desire to make to you. Nothing, I dare say, has been farther from your thoughts than that there had been important ties in the past which could connect your history with mine.


No, indeed, nothing.


You see before you, Mr. Ladislaw, a man who is deeply stricken. But for the urgency of conscience and the knowledge that I am before the bar of One who seeth not as man seeth, I should be under no compulsion to make the disclosure which has been my object in asking you to come here to-night. So far as human laws go, you have no claim on me whatever. I am told that your mother’s name was Sarah Dunkirk, and that she ran away from her friends to go on the stage. Also, that your father was at one time much emaciated by illness. May I ask if you can confirm these statements?


Yes, they are all true,


Do you know any particulars of your mother’s family?


No; she never liked to speak of them. She was a very generous, honorable woman,


I do not wish to allege anything against her. Did she never mention her mother to you at all?


I have heard her say that she thought her mother did not know the reason of her running away. She said ‘poor mother’ in a pitying tone.


That mother became my wife, you have a claim on me, Mr. Ladislaw: as I said before, not a legal claim, but one which my conscience recognizes. I was enriched by that marriage—a result which would probably not have taken place—certainly not to the same extent—if your grandmother could have discovered her daughter. That daughter, I gather, is no longer living!


No,


Pray be seated, Mr. Ladislaw. Doubtless you are startled by the suddenness of this discovery. But I entreat your patience with one who is already bowed down by inward trial. It is my wish, Mr. Ladislaw, to make amends for the deprivation which befell your mother. I know that you are without fortune, and I wish to supply you adequately from a store which would have probably already been yours had your grandmother been certain of your mother’s existence and been able to find her.


I suppose you did know of my mother’s existence, and knew where she might have been found.


I will not deny that you conjecture rightly. And I wish to make atonement to you as the one still remaining who has suffered a loss through me. You enter, I trust, into my purpose, Mr. Ladislaw, which has a reference to higher than merely human claims, and as I have already said, is entirely independent of any legal compulsion. I am ready to narrow my own resources and the prospects of my family by binding myself to allow you five hundred pounds yearly during my life, and to leave you a proportional capital at my death—nay, to do still more, if more should be definitely necessary to any laudable project on your part.


Before I make any reply to your proposition, Mr. Bulstrode, I must beg you to answer a question or two. Were you connected with the business by which that fortune you speak of was originally made?


Yes.


And was that business—or was it not—a thoroughly dishonorable one—nay, one that, if its nature had been made public, might have ranked those concerned in it with thieves and convicts?


The business was established before I became connected with it, sir; nor is it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind,


Yes, it is. It is eminently mine to ask such questions, when I have to decide whether I will have transactions with you and accept your money. My unblemished honor is important to me. It is important to me to have no stain on my birth and connections. And now I find there is a stain which I can’t help. My mother felt it, and tried to keep as clear of it as she could, and so will I. You shall keep your ill-gotten money. If I had any fortune of my own, I would willingly pay it to any one who could disprove what you have told me. What I have to thank you for is that you kept the money till now, when I can refuse it. It ought to lie with a man’s self that he is a gentleman. Good-night, sir.


a little mental occupation of this sort good for a widow.


Enough! I understand. You shall be innocent. I am such a blackamoor that I cannot smirch myself.


I don’t mean that it’s of any consequence. Only it is desirable that Dorothea should know there are reasons why she should not receive him again; and I really can’t say so to her. It will come lightly from you.


All false! He is not gone, or going, apparently; the ‘Pioneer’ keeps its color, and Mr. Orlando Ladislaw is making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continually with your Mr. Lydgate’s wife, who they tell me is as pretty as pretty can be. It seems nobody ever goes into the house without finding this young gentleman lying on the rug or warbling at the piano. But the people in manufacturing towns are always disreputable.


You began by saying that one report was false, Mrs. Cadwallader, and I believe this is false too, at least, I feel sure it is a misrepresentation. I will not hear any evil spoken of Mr. Ladislaw; he has already suffered too much injustice.


Heaven grant it, my dear!—I mean that all bad tales about anybody may be false. But it is a pity that young Lydgate should have married one of these Middlemarch girls. Considering he’s a son of somebody, he might have got a woman with good blood in her veins, and not too young, who would have put up with his profession. There’s Clara Harfager, for instance, whose friends don’t know what to do with her; and she has a portion. Then we might have had her among us. However!—it’s no use being wise for other people. Where is Celia? Pray let us go in.


I am going on immediately to Tipton. Good-by. It is not true—it is not true! He said he would never do anything that I disapproved—I wish I could have told him that I disapproved of that. They all try to blacken him before me; but I will care for no pain, if he is not to blame. I always believed he was good.


I must stay here a little, Mrs. Kell. I will go into the library and write you some memoranda from my uncle’s letter, if you will open the shutters for me.


The shutters are open, madam. Mr. Ladislaw is there, looking for something.


Go in first, and tell him that I am here.


Mrs. Casaubon is coming in, sir.


Pray sit down. I am very glad you were here.


I have sent a letter to Lowick Manor to-day, asking leave to see you. I am going away immediately, and I could not go without speaking to you again.


I thought we had parted when you came to Lowick many weeks ago—you thought you were going then,


Yes; but I was in ignorance then of things which I know now—things which have altered my feelings about the future. When I saw you before, I was dreaming that I might come back some day. I don’t think I ever shall—now.


You wished me to know the reasons?


Yes. Of course I must wish it. I have been grossly insulted in your eyes and in the eyes of others. There has been a mean implication against my character. I wish you to know that under no circumstances would I have lowered myself by—under no circumstances would I have given men the chance of saying that I sought money under the pretext of seeking—something else. There was no need of other safeguard against me—the safeguard of wealth was enough.


It would be very unkind of you to suppose that I ever attributed any meanness to you. Do you suppose that I ever disbelieved in you?


I am sure no safeguard was ever needed against you.


I must go,


What shall you do in life? Have your intentions remained just the same as when we said good-by before?


Yes. I shall work away at the first thing that offers. I suppose one gets a habit of doing without happiness or hope.


Oh, what sad words! We used to agree that we were alike in speaking too strongly.


I have not spoken too strongly now. There are certain things which a man can only go through once in his life; and he must know some time or other that the best is over with him. This experience has happened to me while I am very young—that is all. What I care more for than I can ever care for anything else is absolutely forbidden to me—I don’t mean merely by being out of my reach, but forbidden me, even if it were within my reach, by my own pride and honor—by everything I respect myself for. Of course I shall go on living as a man might do who had seen heaven in a trance.


The horses are ready, madam, whenever you like to start.


Presently. I have some memoranda to write for the housekeeper.


I must go. The day after to-morrow I shall leave Middlemarch.


You have acted in every way rightly. I have never done you injustice. Please remember me,


Why should you say that? As if I were not in danger of forgetting everything else.


I was right to defend him.


I only wish I had known before—I wish he knew—then we could be quite happy in thinking of each other, though we are forever parted. And if I could but have given him the money, and made things easier for him!


Have you seen much of your scientific phoenix, Lydgate, lately?


Not much, I am sorry to say. I am out of the way and he is too busy.


Is he? I am glad to hear it,


He gives a great deal of time to the New Hospital. I hear of that from my neighbor, Mrs. Casaubon, who goes there often. She says Lydgate is indefatigable, and is making a fine thing of Bulstrode’s institution. He is preparing a new ward in case of the cholera coming to us.


And preparing theories of treatment to try on the patients, I suppose,


Come, Toller, be candid. You are too clever not to see the good of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as well as in everything else; and as to cholera, I fancy, none of you are very sure what you ought to do. If a man goes a little too far along a new road, it is usually himself that he harms more than any one else.


I am sure you and Wrench ought to be obliged to him,


Lydgate has been living at a great rate for a young beginner,


I hope so, else he ought not to have married that nice girl we were all so fond of. Hang it, one has a grudge against a man who carries off the prettiest girl in the town.


Ay, by God! and the best too,


He wouldn’t do much. How the relations on the other side may have come down I can’t say.


Oh, I shouldn’t think Lydgate ever looked to practice for a living,


You have to give up a great deal of your husband’s society, Mrs. Lydgate.


Yes, the life of a medical man is very arduous: especially when he is so devoted to his profession as Mr. Lydgate is,


It is dreadfully dull for her when there is no company. I am sure I thought so when Rosamond was ill, and I was staying with her. You know, Mrs. Farebrother, ours is a cheerful house. I am of a cheerful disposition myself, and Mr. Vincy always likes something to be going on. That is what Rosamond has been used to. Very different from a husband out at odd hours, and never knowing when he will come home, and of a close, proud disposition, I think


Oh mamma, mamma, the little man stamped so hard on the floor he couldn’t get his leg out again!


Bless you, my cherub! you shall tell me all about it to-morrow. Go and listen!


You will never care any more about my one-eyed giant, Loo,


Yes, I shall. Tell about him now,


Oh, I dare say; I am quite cut out. Ask Mr. Farebrother.


ask Mr. Farebrother to tell you about the ants whose beautiful house was knocked down by a giant named Tom, and he thought they didn’t mind because he couldn’t hear them cry, or see them use their pocket-handkerchiefs.


Please,


No, no, I am a grave old parson. If I try to draw a story out of my bag a sermon comes instead. Shall I preach you a sermon?


Yes,


Let me see, then. Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, especially if they are sweet and have plums in them. Ah, I see it will not do to preach on New Year’s Day,


A delightful young person is Miss Garth,


It is a pity she is not better-looking.


I cannot say that. I like her countenance. We must not always ask for beauty, when a good God has seen fit to make an excellent young woman without it. I put good manners first, and Miss Garth will know how to conduct herself in any station.


You are the man I was going to look for, now I don’t play for money. I owe that to you, Mrs. Casaubon says.


How?


Ah, you didn’t mean me to know it; I call that ungenerous reticence. You should let a man have the pleasure of feeling that you have done him a good turn. I don’t enter into some people’s dislike of being under an obligation: upon my word, I prefer being under an obligation to everybody for behaving well to me.


I can’t tell what you mean, unless it is that I once spoke of you to Mrs. Casaubon. But I did not think that she would break her promise not to mention that I had done so,


It was Brooke who let it out, only the other day. He paid me the compliment of saying that he was very glad I had the living though you had come across his tactics, and had praised me up as a Ken and a Tillotson, and that sort of thing, till Mrs. Casaubon would hear of no one else.


Oh, Brooke is such a leaky-minded fool,


Well, I was glad of the leakiness then. I don’t see why you shouldn’t like me to know that you wished to do me a service, my dear fellow. And you certainly have done me one. It’s rather a strong check to one’s self-complacency to find how much of one’s right doing depends on not being in want of money. A man will not be tempted to say the Lord’s Prayer backward to please the devil, if he doesn’t want the devil’s services. I have no need to hang on the smiles of chance now.


I don’t see that there’s any money-getting without chance, if a man gets it in a profession, it’s pretty sure to come by chance.


Ah, there’s enormous patience wanted with the way of the world. But it is the easier for a man to wait patiently when he has friends who love him, and ask for nothing better than to help him through, so far as it lies in their power.


Oh yes. People make much more of their difficulties than they need to do.


What time are you?


After eleven,


Where lies the power, there let the blame lie too.


Nay, power is relative; you cannot fright The coming pest with border fortresses, Or catch your carp with subtle argument. All force is twain in one: cause is not cause Unless effect be there; and action’s self Must needs contain a passive. So command Exists but with obedience.


We two can do with only one servant, and live on very little, and I shall manage with one horse.


Of course you can dismiss the other two servants, if you like, but I should have thought it would be very injurious to your position for us to live in a poor way. You must expect your practice to be lowered.


My dear Rosamond, it is not a question of choice. We have begun too expensively. Peacock, you know, lived in a much smaller house than this. It is my fault: I ought to have known better, and I deserve a thrashing—if there were anybody who had a right to give it me—for bringing you into the necessity of living in a poorer way than you have been used to. But we married because we loved each other, I suppose. And that may help us to pull along till things get better. Come, dear, put down that work and come to me.


I find, now I look into things a little, Rosy, that it is wonderful what an amount of money slips away in our housekeeping. I suppose the servants are careless, and we have had a great many people coming. But there must be many in our rank who manage with much less: they must do with commoner things, I suppose, and look after the scraps. It seems, money goes but a little way in these matters, for Wrench has everything as plain as possible, and he has a very large practice.


Oh, if you think of living as the Wrenches do! But I have heard you express your disgust at that way of living.


Yes, they have bad taste in everything—they make economy look ugly. We needn’t do that. I only meant that they avoid expenses, although Wrench has a capital practice.


Why should not you have a good practice, Tertius? Mr. Peacock had. You should be more careful not to offend people, and you should send out medicines as the others do. I am sure you began well, and you got several good houses. It cannot answer to be eccentric; you should think what will be generally liked,


What I am to do in my practice, Rosy, it is for me to judge. That is not the question between us. It is enough for you to know that our income is likely to be a very narrow one—hardly four hundred, perhaps less, for a long time to come, and we must try to re-arrange our lives in accordance with that fact.


My uncle Bulstrode ought to allow you a salary for the time you give to the Hospital: it is not right that you should work for nothing.


It was understood from the beginning that my services would be gratuitous. That, again, need not enter into our discussion. I have pointed out what is the only probability. I think I see one resource which would free us from a good deal of the present difficulty. I hear that young Ned Plymdale is going to be married to Miss Sophy Toller. They are rich, and it is not often that a good house is vacant in Middlemarch. I feel sure that they would be glad to take this house from us with most of our furniture, and they would be willing to pay handsomely for the lease. I can employ Trumbull to speak to Plymdale about it.


I thought, at least, when I had borne to send the plate back and have that man taking an inventory of the furniture—I should have thought that would suffice.


I explained it to you at the time, dear. That was only a security and behind that security there is a debt. And that debt must be paid within the next few months, else we shall have our furniture sold. If young Plymdale will take our house and most of our furniture, we shall be able to pay that debt, and some others too, and we shall be quit of a place too expensive for us. We might take a smaller house: Trumbull, I know, has a very decent one to let at thirty pounds a-year, and this is ninety.


I never could have believed that you would like to act in that way.


Like it? it’s not a question of liking. Of course, I don’t like it; it’s the only thing I can do.


I should have thought there were many other means than that. Let us have a sale and leave Middlemarch altogether.


To do what? What is the use of my leaving my work in Middlemarch to go where I have none? We should be just as penniless elsewhere as we are here,


If we are to be in that position it will be entirely your own doing, Tertius. You will not behave as you ought to do to your own family. You offended Captain Lydgate. Sir Godwin was very kind to me when we were at Quallingham, and I am sure if you showed proper regard to him and told him your affairs, he would do anything for you. But rather than that, you like giving up our house and furniture to Mr. Ned Plymdale.


Well, then, if you will have it so, I do like it. I admit that I like it better than making a fool of myself by going to beg where it’s of no use. Understand then, that it is what I like to do.


Have you spoken to Trumbull yet? No,


Yes, Ned is most happy, I must say. And Sophy Toller is all I could desire in a daughter-in-law. Of course her father is able to do something handsome for her—that is only what would be expected with a brewery like his. And the connection is everything we should desire. But that is not what I look at. She is such a very nice girl—no airs, no pretensions, though on a level with the first. I don’t mean with the titled aristocracy. I see very little good in people aiming out of their own sphere. I mean that Sophy is equal to the best in the town, and she is contented with that.


I have always thought her very agreeable,


I look upon it as a reward for Ned, who never held his head too high, that he should have got into the very best connection. And such particular people as the Tollers are, they might have objected because some of our friends are not theirs. It is well known that your aunt Bulstrode and I have been intimate from our youth, and Mr. Plymdale has been always on Mr. Bulstrode’s side. And I myself prefer serious opinions. But the Tollers have welcomed Ned all the same.


I am sure he is a very deserving, well-principled young man,


Oh, he has not the style of a captain in the army, or that sort of carriage as if everybody was beneath him, or that showy kind of talking, and singing, and intellectual talent. But I am thankful he has not. It is a poor preparation both for here and Hereafter.


Oh dear, yes; appearances have very little to do with happiness. I think there is every prospect of their being a happy couple. What house will they take?


Oh, as for that, they must put up with what they can get. They have been looking at the house in St. Peter’s Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt’s; it belongs to him, and he is putting it nicely in repair. I suppose they are not likely to hear of a better. Indeed, I think Ned will decide the matter to-day.


I should think it is a nice house; I like St. Peter’s Place.


Well, it is near the Church, and a genteel situation. But the windows are narrow, and it is all ups and downs. You don’t happen to know of any other that would be at liberty?


Oh no; I hear so little of those things.


indeed, if it had not been, she would not have wished to act on it.


Yes, ma’am, yes, he did; he did so. I was about to fulfil his order, if possible, this afternoon. He wished me not to procrastinate.


I called to tell you not to go any further, Mr. Trumbull; and I beg of you not to mention what has been said on the subject. Will you oblige me?


Certainly I will, Mrs. Lydgate, certainly. Confidence is sacred with me on business or any other topic. I am then to consider the commission withdrawn?


Yes, if you please. I find that Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house—the one in St. Peter’s Place next to Mr. Hackbutt’s. Mr. Lydgate would be annoyed that his orders should be fulfilled uselessly. And besides that, there are other circumstances which render the proposal unnecessary.


Very good, Mrs. Lydgate, very good. I am at your commands, whenever you require any service of me. Rely on me, I beg. The affair shall go no further.


If she will be happy and I can rub through, what does it all signify? It is only a narrow swamp that we have to pass in a long journey. If I can get my mind clear again, I shall do.


Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house already.


How do you know?


I called at Mrs. Plymdale’s this morning, and she told me that he had taken the house in St. Peter’s Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt’s.


Perhaps some one else may turn up. I told Trumbull to be on the look-out if he failed with Plymdale.


How much money is it that those disagreeable people want?


What disagreeable people?


Those who took the list—and the others. I mean, how much money would satisfy them so that you need not be troubled any more?


Oh, if I could have got six hundred from Plymdale for furniture and as premium, I might have managed. I could have paid off Dover, and given enough on account to the others to make them wait patiently, if we contracted our expenses.


But I mean how much should you want if we stayed in this house?


More than I am likely to get anywhere,


Why should you not mention the sum?


Well, it would take at least a thousand to set me at ease. I have to consider what I shall do without it, not with it.


I shall try to see Trumbull this morning, and tell him to advertise the house in the ‘Pioneer’ and the ‘Trumpet.’ If the thing were advertised, some one might be inclined to take it who would not otherwise have thought of a change. In these country places many people go on in their old houses when their families are too large for them, for want of knowing where they can find another. And Trumbull seems to have got no bite at all.


I ordered Trumbull not to inquire further,


May I ask when and why you did so?


When I knew that the Plymdales had taken a house, I called to tell him not to mention ours to them; and at the same time I told him not to let the affair go on any further. I knew that it would be very injurious to you if it were known that you wished to part with your house and furniture, and I had a very strong objection to it. I think that was reason enough.


It was of no consequence then that I had told you imperative reasons of another kind; of no consequence that I had come to a different conclusion, and given an order accordingly?


I think I had a perfect right to speak on a subject which concerns me at least as much as you.


Clearly—you had a right to speak, but only to me. You had no right to contradict my orders secretly, and treat me as if I were a fool. Is it possible to make you understand what the consequences will be? Is it of any use for me to tell you again why we must try to part with the house?


It is not necessary for you to tell me again. I remembered what you said. You spoke just as violently as you do now. But that does not alter my opinion that you ought to try every other means rather than take a step which is so painful to me. And as to advertising the house, I think it would be perfectly degrading to you.


And suppose I disregard your opinion as you disregard mine?


You can do so, of course. But I think you ought to have told me before we were married that you would place me in the worst position, rather than give up your own will.


When we were married everyone felt that your position was very high. I could not have imagined then that you would want to sell our furniture, and take a house in Bride Street, where the rooms are like cages. If we are to live in that way let us at least leave Middlemarch.


These would be very strong considerations, these would be very strong considerations if I did not happen to be in debt.


Many persons must have been in debt in the same way, but if they are respectable, people trust them. I am sure I have heard papa say that the Torbits were in debt, and they went on very well. It cannot be good to act rashly,


I may at least request that you will not go to Trumbull at present—until it has been seen that there are no other means. Promise me that you will not go to him for a few weeks, or without telling me.


I think it is I who should exact a promise that you will do nothing without telling me,


You remember that we are going to dine at papa’s,


Oh yes,


Tertius, come in here—here is a letter for you.


Ah? My uncle Godwin! It will be impossible to endure life with you, if you will always be acting secretly—acting in opposition to me and hiding your actions.


DEAR TERTIUS,—Don’t set your wife to write to me when you have anything to ask. It is a roundabout wheedling sort of thing which I should not have credited you with. I never choose to write to a woman on matters of business. As to my supplying you with a thousand pounds, or only half that sum, I can do nothing of the sort. My own family drains me to the last penny. With two younger sons and three daughters, I am not likely to have cash to spare. You seem to have got through your own money pretty quickly, and to have made a mess where you are; the sooner you go somewhere else the better. But I have nothing to do with men of your profession, and can’t help you there. I did the best I could for you as guardian, and let you have your own way in taking to medicine. You might have gone into the army or the Church. Your money would have held out for that, and there would have been a surer ladder before you. Your uncle Charles has had a grudge against you for not going into his profession, but not I. I have always wished you well, but you must consider yourself on your own legs entirely now.


Will this be enough to convince you of the harm you may do by secret meddling? Have you sense enough to recognize now your incompetence to judge and act for me—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which it belongs to me to decide on? I had nearly resolved on going to Quallingham. It would have cost me pain enough to do it, yet it might have been of some use. But it has been of no use for me to think of anything. You have always been counteracting me secretly. You delude me with a false assent, and then I am at the mercy of your devices. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me. I shall at least know what I am doing then.


Can you not see, Rosamond, that nothing can be so fatal as a want of openness and confidence between us? It has happened again and again that I have expressed a decided wish, and you have seemed to assent, yet after that you have secretly disobeyed my wish. In that way I can never know what I have to trust to. There would be some hope for us if you would admit this. Am I such an unreasonable, furious brute? Why should you not be open with me? Will you only say that you have been mistaken, and that I may depend on your not acting secretly in future?


I cannot possibly make admissions or promises in answer to such words as you have used towards me. I have not been accustomed to language of that kind. You have spoken of my ‘secret meddling,’ and my ‘interfering ignorance,’ and my ‘false assent.’ I have never expressed myself in that way to you, and I think that you ought to apologize. You spoke of its being impossible to live with me. Certainly you have not made my life pleasant to me of late. I think it was to be expected that I should try to avert some of the hardships which our marriage has brought on me.


Rosamond, you should allow for a man’s words when he is disappointed and provoked. You and I cannot have opposite interests. I cannot part my happiness from yours. If I am angry with you, it is that you seem not to see how any concealment divides us. How could I wish to make anything hard to you either by my words or conduct? When I hurt you, I hurt part of my own life. I should never be angry with you if you would be quite open with me.


I have only wished to prevent you from hurrying us into wretchedness without any necessity. It is so very hard to be disgraced here among all the people we know, and to live in such a miserable way. I wish I had died with the baby.


Mr. Bambridge was not yet come, but would be sure to arrive by-and-by,


I will tell you what, Mistress Mary—it will be rather harder work to learn surveying and drawing plans than it would have been to write sermons, and as to Hercules and Theseus, they were nothing to me. They had sport, and never learned to write a bookkeeping hand.


Can I speak to you a moment? Farebrother has just sent up a message to say that he wants to speak to me. He is below. I thought you might like to know he was there, if you had anything to say to him.


No, no. I have nothing particular to say to him. But—the game is up—I must be going—I came in just to see Bambridge.


Bambridge is over there, but he is making a row—I don’t think he’s ready for business. Come down with me to Farebrother. I expect he is going to blow me up, and you will shield me,


I disturbed you, young gentleman, because I have some pressing business with you. Walk with me to St. Botolph’s, will you? I thought Lydgate never went to the Green Dragon?


So did I. But he said that he went to see Bambridge.


He was not playing, then?


Yes, he was. But I suppose it was an accidental thing. I have never seen him there before.


You have been going often yourself, then, lately?


Oh, about five or six times.


I think you had some good reason for giving up the habit of going there?


Yes. You know all about it. I made a clean breast to you.


I suppose that gives me a warrant to speak about the matter now. It is understood between us, is it not?—that we are on a footing of open friendship: I have listened to you, and you will be willing to listen to me. I may take my turn in talking a little about myself?


I am under the deepest obligation to you, Mr. Farebrother,


I will not affect to deny that you are under some obligation to me. But I am going to confess to you, Fred, that I have been tempted to reverse all that by keeping silence with you just now. When somebody said to me, ‘Young Vincy has taken to being at the billiard-table every night again—he won’t bear the curb long;’ I was tempted to do the opposite of what I am doing—to hold my tongue and wait while you went down the ladder again, betting first and then—


I have not made any bets,


Glad to hear it. But I say, my prompting was to look on and see you take the wrong turning, wear out Garth’s patience, and lose the best opportunity of your life—the opportunity which you made some rather difficult effort to secure. You can guess the feeling which raised that temptation in me—I am sure you know it. I am sure you know that the satisfaction of your affections stands in the way of mine.


I could not be expected to give her up,


Clearly not, when her affection met yours. But relations of this sort, even when they are of long standing, are always liable to change. I can easily conceive that you might act in a way to loosen the tie she feels towards you—it must be remembered that she is only conditionally bound to you—and that in that case, another man, who may flatter himself that he has a hold on her regard, might succeed in winning that firm place in her love as well as respect which you had let slip. I can easily conceive such a result. There is a companionship of ready sympathy, which might get the advantage even over the longest associations.


Of course I know it might easily be all up with me. If she is beginning to compare— But I thought you were friendly to me.


So I am; that is why we are here. But I have had a strong disposition to be otherwise. I have said to myself, ‘If there is a likelihood of that youngster doing himself harm, why should you interfere? Aren’t you worth as much as he is, and don’t your sixteen years over and above his, in which you have gone rather hungry, give you more right to satisfaction than he has? If there’s a chance of his going to the dogs, let him—perhaps you could nohow hinder it—and do you take the benefit.’ But I had once meant better than that, and I am come back to my old intention. I thought that I could hardly secure myself in it better, Fred, than by telling you just what had gone on in me. And now, do you understand me? I want you to make the happiness of her life and your own, and if there is any chance that a word of warning from me may turn aside any risk to the contrary—well, I have uttered it.


I will try to be worthy, of you as well as of her.


You must not imagine that I believe there is at present any decline in her preference of you, Fred. Set your heart at rest, that if you keep right, other things will keep right.


I shall never forget what you have done. I can’t say anything that seems worth saying—only I will try that your goodness shall not be thrown away.


That’s enough. Good-by, and God bless you.


It certainly would have been a fine thing for her to marry Farebrother—but if she loves me best and I am a good husband?


To think of the part one little woman can play in the life of a man, so that to renounce her may be a very good imitation of heroism, and to win her may be a discipline!


Papa said he had come, with one bad year after another, to trade more and more on borrowed capital, and had had to give up many indulgences; he could not spare a single hundred from the charges of his family. He said, let Lydgate ask Bulstrode: they have always been hand and glove.


I will write a letter: I prefer that to any circuitous talk; No; if I were talking to him, I could make a retreat before any signs of disinclination.


Would any man buy the practice of me even now, for as little as it is worth? Then the sale might happen as a necessary preparation for going away.


One sees how any mental strain, however slight, may affect a delicate frame, by the deep stamp which an anxiety will make for a time even on the young and vigorous. I am naturally very strong; yet I have been thoroughly shaken lately by an accumulation of trouble.


I presume that a constitution in the susceptible state in which mine at present is, would be especially liable to fall a victim to cholera, if it visited our district. And since its appearance near London, we may well besiege the Mercy-seat for our protection,


You have at all events taken your share in using good practical precautions for the town, and that is the best mode of asking for protection. The town has done well in the way of cleansing, and finding appliances; and I think that if the cholera should come, even our enemies will admit that the arrangements in the Hospital are a public good.


Truly. With regard to what you say, Mr. Lydgate, about the relaxation of my mental labor, I have for some time been entertaining a purpose to that effect—a purpose of a very decided character. I contemplate at least a temporary withdrawal from the management of much business, whether benevolent or commercial. Also I think of changing my residence for a time: probably I shall close or let ‘The Shrubs,’ and take some place near the coast—under advice of course as to salubrity. That would be a measure which you would recommend?


Oh yes,


I have for some time felt that I should open this subject with you in relation to our Hospital. Under the circumstances I have indicated, of course I must cease to have any personal share in the management, and it is contrary to my views of responsibility to continue a large application of means to an institution which I cannot watch over and to some extent regulate. I shall therefore, in case of my ultimate decision to leave Middlemarch, consider that I withdraw other support to the New Hospital than that which will subsist in the fact that I chiefly supplied the expenses of building it, and have contributed further large sums to its successful working.


He has perhaps been losing a good deal of money. The loss to the Hospital can hardly be made up, I fear.


Hardly, except by some changes of plan. The only person who may be certainly counted on as willing to increase her contributions is Mrs. Casaubon. I have had an interview with her on the subject, and I have pointed out to her, as I am about to do to you, that it will be desirable to win a more general support to the New Hospital by a change of system. The change I mean is an amalgamation with the Infirmary, so that the New Hospital shall be regarded as a special addition to the elder institution, having the same directing board. It will be necessary, also, that the medical management of the two shall be combined. In this way any difficulty as to the adequate maintenance of our new establishment will be removed; the benevolent interests of the town will cease to be divided.


No doubt that is a good device as to ways and means. But I can’t be expected to rejoice in it at once, since one of the first results will be that the other medical men will upset or interrupt my methods, if it were only because they are mine.


I myself, as you know, Mr. Lydgate, highly valued the opportunity of new and independent procedure which you have diligently employed: the original plan, I confess, was one which I had much at heart, under submission to the Divine Will. But since providential indications demand a renunciation from me, I renounce.


What did Mrs. Casaubon say?


That was the further statement which I wished to make to you. She is, you are aware, a woman of most munificent disposition, and happily in possession—not I presume of great wealth, but of funds which she can well spare. She has informed me that though she has destined the chief part of those funds to another purpose, she is willing to consider whether she cannot fully take my place in relation to the Hospital. But she wishes for ample time to mature her thoughts on the subject, and I have told her that there is no need for haste—that, in fact, my own plans are not yet absolute.


If Mrs. Casaubon would take your place, there would be gain, instead of loss. I suppose, then, that I may enter into the subject with Mrs. Casaubon.


Precisely; that is what she expressly desires. Her decision, she says, will much depend on what you can tell her. But not at present: she is, I believe, just setting out on a journey. I have her letter here,


I am immediately otherwise engaged. I am going into Yorkshire with Sir James and Lady Chettam; and the conclusions I come to about some land which I am to see there may affect my power of contributing to the Hospital.


Thus, Mr. Lydgate, there is no haste necessary in this matter; but I wished to apprise you beforehand of what may possibly occur.


I am much obliged to you for giving me full notice. The highest object to me is my profession, and I had identified the Hospital with the best use I can at present make of my profession. But the best use is not always the same with monetary success. Everything which has made the Hospital unpopular has helped with other causes—I think they are all connected with my professional zeal—to make me unpopular as a practitioner. I get chiefly patients who can’t pay me. I should like them best, if I had nobody to pay on my own side. I have slipped into money difficulties which I can see no way out of, unless some one who trusts me and my future will advance me a sum without other security. I had very little fortune left when I came here. I have no prospects of money from my own family. My expenses, in consequence of my marriage, have been very much greater than I had expected. The result at this moment is that it would take a thousand pounds to clear me. I mean, to free me from the risk of having all my goods sold in security of my largest debt—as well as to pay my other debts—and leave anything to keep us a little beforehand with our small income. I find that it is out of the question that my wife’s father should make such an advance. That is why I mention my position to—to the only other man who may be held to have some personal connection with my prosperity or ruin.


I am grieved, though, I confess, not surprised by this information, Mr. Lydgate. For my own part, I regretted your alliance with my brother-in-law’s family, which has always been of prodigal habits, and which has already been much indebted to me for sustainment in its present position. My advice to you, Mr. Lydgate, would be, that instead of involving yourself in further obligations, and continuing a doubtful struggle, you should simply become a bankrupt.


That would not improve my prospect, even if it were a more agreeable thing in itself.


It is always a trial, but trial, my dear sir, is our portion here, and is a needed corrective. I recommend you to weigh the advice I have given.


Thank you. I have occupied you too long. Good-day.


I came to call you thus early, Mr. Raffles, because I have ordered the carriage to be ready at half-past seven, and intend myself to conduct you as far as Ilsely, where you can either take the railway or await a coach. Be silent, sir, and hear what I have to say. I shall supply you with money now, and I will furnish you with a reasonable sum from time to time, on your application to me by letter; but if you choose to present yourself here again, if you return to Middlemarch, if you use your tongue in a manner injurious to me, you will have to live on such fruits as your malice can bring you, without help from me. Nobody will pay you well for blasting my name: I know the worst you can do against me, and I shall brave it if you dare to thrust yourself upon me again. Get up, sir, and do as I order you, without noise, or I will send for a policeman to take you off my premises, and you may carry your stories into every pothouse in the town, but you shall have no sixpence from me to pay your expenses there.


May I trust to you to find me a tenant on these terms, Mr. Garth? And will you mention to me the yearly sum which would repay you for managing these affairs which we have discussed together?


I’ll think about it. I’ll see how I can make it out.


The lad would be as happy as two, if I could tell him it was all settled. Think; Susan! His mind had been running on that place for years before old Featherstone died. And it would be as pretty a turn of things as could be that he should hold the place in a good industrious way after all—by his taking to business. For it’s likely enough Bulstrode might let him go on, and gradually buy the stock. He hasn’t made up his mind, I can see, whether or not he shall settle somewhere else as a lasting thing. I never was better pleased with a notion in my life. And then the children might be married by-and-by, Susan.


You will not give any hint of the plan to Fred, until you are sure that Bulstrode would agree to the plan? And as to marriage, Caleb, we old people need not help to hasten it.


Oh, I don’t know. Marriage is a taming thing. Fred would want less of my bit and bridle. However, I shall say nothing till I know the ground I’m treading on. I shall speak to Bulstrode again.


I think you are always a little hard towards my family, Nicholas. And I am sure I have no reason to deny any of my relatives. Too worldly they may be, but no one ever had to say that they were not respectable.


My dear Harriet. I have supplied your brother with a great deal of capital. I cannot be expected to take care of his married children.


But suppose the whole scheme should turn out to be a castle in the air?


Well, well, the castle will tumble about nobody’s head.


By all means. Pray sit down, Mr. Garth. I am glad that you arrived just in time to find me here. I know you count your minutes.


Oh,


I have just come away from Stone Court, Mr. Bulstrode.


You found nothing wrong there, I hope. I was there myself yesterday. Abel has done well with the lambs this year.


Why, yes, there is something wrong—a stranger, who is very ill, I think. He wants a doctor, and I came to tell you of that. His name is Raffles.


Poor wretch! Do you know how he came there?


I took him myself, took him up in my gig. He had got down from the coach, and was walking a little beyond the turning from the toll-house, and I overtook him. He remembered seeing me with you once before, at Stone Court, and he asked me to take him on. I saw he was ill: it seemed to me the right thing to do, to carry him under shelter. And now I think you should lose no time in getting advice for him.


Certainly. Perhaps you will yourself oblige me, Mr. Garth, by calling at Mr. Lydgate’s as you pass—or stay! he may at this hour probably be at the Hospital. I will first send my man on the horse there with a note this instant, and then I will myself ride to Stone Court. Perhaps Raffles only spoke to Garth of his illness. Garth may wonder, as he must have done before, at this disreputable fellow’s claiming intimacy with me; but he will know nothing. And he is friendly to me—I can be of use to him. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Garth. My servant will be back in a few minutes, and I shall then go myself to see what can be done for this unfortunate man. Perhaps you had some other business with me? If so, pray be seated.


Thank you. I wish to say, Mr. Bulstrode, that I must request you to put your business into some other hands than mine. I am obliged to you for your handsome way of meeting me—about the letting of Stone Court, and all other business. But I must give it up.


This is sudden, Mr. Garth,


It is, but it is quite fixed. I must give it up.


You have been led to this, I apprehend, by some slanders concerning me uttered by that unhappy creature,


That is true. I can’t deny that I act upon what I heard from him.


You are a conscientious man, Mr. Garth—a man, I trust, who feels himself accountable to God. You would not wish to injure me by being too ready to believe a slander. That is a poor reason for giving up a connection which I think I may say will be mutually beneficial.


I would injure no man if I could help it, even if I thought God winked at it. I hope I should have a feeling for my fellow-creature. But, sir—I am obliged to believe that this Raffles has told me the truth. And I can’t be happy in working with you, or profiting by you. It hurts my mind. I must beg you to seek another agent.


Very well, Mr. Garth. But I must at least claim to know the worst that he has told you. I must know what is the foul speech that I am liable to be the victim of,


That’s needless. What he has said to me will never pass from my lips, unless something now unknown forces it from me. If you led a harmful life for gain, and kept others out of their rights by deceit, to get the more for yourself, I dare say you repent—you would like to go back, and can’t: that must be a bitter thing it is not for me to make your life harder to you.


But you do—you do make it harder to me. You make it harder to me by turning your back on me.


That I’m forced to do. I am sorry. I don’t judge you and say, he is wicked, and I am righteous. God forbid. I don’t know everything. A man may do wrong, and his will may rise clear out of it, though he can’t get his life clear. That’s a bad punishment. If it is so with you,—well, I’m very sorry for you. But I have that feeling inside me, that I can’t go on working with you. That’s all, Mr. Bulstrode. Everything else is buried, so far as my will goes. And I wish you good-day.


One moment, Mr. Garth! I may trust then to your solemn assurance that you will not repeat either to man or woman what—even if it have any degree of truth in it—is yet a malicious representation?


Why should I have said it if I didn’t mean it? I am in no fear of you. Such tales as that will never tempt my tongue.


Excuse me—I am agitated—I am the victim of this abandoned man.


Stop a bit! you have got to consider whether you didn’t help to make him worse, when you profited by his vices.


You are wronging me by too readily believing him,


No. I am ready to believe better, when better is proved. I rob you of no good chance. As to speaking, I hold it a crime to expose a man’s sin unless I’m clear it must be done to save the innocent. That is my way of thinking, Mr. Bulstrode, and what I say, I’ve no need to swear. I wish you good-day.


He was disposed to interfere too much, was he?


Oh,


I have called you in, Mr. Lydgate, to an unfortunate man who was once in my employment, many years ago. Afterwards he went to America, and returned I fear to an idle dissolute life. Being destitute, he has a claim on me. He was slightly connected with Rigg, the former owner of this place, and in consequence found his way here. I believe he is seriously ill: apparently his mind is affected. I feel bound to do the utmost for him.


What is his name?


Raffles, John Raffles. It is a serious case, I apprehend,


No—and yes. It is difficult to decide as to the possible effect of long-standing complications; but the man had a robust constitution to begin with. I should not expect this attack to be fatal, though of course the system is in a ticklish state. He should be well watched and attended to.


I will remain here myself. Mrs. Abel and her husband are inexperienced. I can easily remain here for the night, if you will oblige me by taking a note for Mrs. Bulstrode.


I should think that is hardly necessary. He seems tame and terrified enough. He might become more unmanageable. But there is a man here—is there not?


I have more than once stayed here a few nights for the sake of seclusion. I am quite disposed to do so now. Mrs. Abel and her husband can relieve or aid me, if necessary.


Very well. Then I need give my directions only to you,


You think, then, that the case is hopeful?


Unless there turn out to be further complications, such as I have not at present detected—yes. He may pass on to a worse stage; but I should not wonder if he got better in a few days, by adhering to the treatment I have prescribed. There must be firmness. Remember, if he calls for liquors of any sort, not to give them to him. In my opinion, men in his condition are oftener killed by treatment than by the disease. Still, new symptoms may arise. I shall come again to-morrow morning.


The man is in a diseased state, but there’s a good deal of wear in him still. I suppose he is an object of charity to Bulstrode. It is curious what patches of hardness and tenderness lie side by side in men’s dispositions. Bulstrode seems the most unsympathetic fellow I ever saw about some people, and yet he has taken no end of trouble, and spent a great deal of money, on benevolent objects. I suppose he has some test by which he finds out whom Heaven cares for—he has made up his mind that it doesn’t care for me.


Forgive me for this misery, my poor Rosamond! Let us only love one another.


Do you object, Tertius?


Do as you like. But things are not coming to a crisis immediately. There is no hurry.


I should not go till to-morrow. I shall want to pack my clothes.


Oh, I would wait a little longer than to-morrow—there is no knowing what may happen. I may get my neck broken, and that may make things easier to you.


I see you do not wish me to go, why can you not say so, without that kind of violence? I shall stay until you request me to do otherwise.


What do you think of him?


The symptoms are worse.


You are less hopeful?


No; I still think he may come round. Are you going to stay here yourself?


Yes, I think so. 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.


From what I see of the case, 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. I fear you are harassed.


Yes, I am,


Something new, I fear. Pray be seated.


No, thank you. 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. 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, 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 check to that amount. I am aware that help, to be effectual in these cases, should be thorough. You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate. 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. You have restored to me the prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good.


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, and to take something more strengthening than what you’ve done.


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. 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. 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—


That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty of brandy there.


How is your patient—asleep, I think?


He’s gone very deep, sir. 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.


When did this change begin?


I did not watch by him last night. 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.


It’s all over.


How are you, Lydgate? I came to see you because I had heard something which made me anxious about you,


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. 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. 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. 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, but just now I can only feel that the torture-screw is off.


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. 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. 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.


I shall set up a surgery. 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.


I have so: because it is an open room, and good for winter.


Why, very well then: I hope here be truths.


Bulstrode!


By jingo! that reminds me. I picked up something else at Bilkley besides your gig-horse, Mr. Hawley. I picked up a fine story about Bulstrode. Do you know how he came by his fortune? Any gentleman wanting a bit of curious information, I can give it him free of expense. If everybody got their deserts, Bulstrode might have had to say his prayers at Botany Bay.


What do you mean?


I had it from a party who was an old chum of Bulstrode’s. I’ll tell you where I first picked him up. He was at Larcher’s sale, but I knew nothing of him then—he slipped through my fingers—was after Bulstrode, no doubt. He tells me he can tap Bulstrode to any amount, knows all his secrets. However, he blabbed to me at Bilkley: he takes a stiff glass. Damme if I think he meant to turn king’s evidence; but he’s that sort of bragging fellow, the bragging runs over hedge and ditch with him, till he’d brag of a spavin as if it ’ud fetch money. A man should know when to pull up.


What’s the man’s name? Where can he be found?


As to where he is to be found, I left him to it at the Saracen’s Head; but his name is Raffles.


Raffles! I furnished his funeral yesterday. He was buried at Lowick. Mr. Bulstrode followed him. A very decent funeral.


What?—where did the man die?


At Stone Court. The housekeeper said he was a relation of the master’s. He came there ill on Friday.


Why, it was on Wednesday I took a glass with him,


Did any doctor attend him?


Yes. Mr. Lydgate. Mr. Bulstrode sat up with him one night. He died the third morning.


Go on, Bambridge. What did this fellow say about Bulstrode?


Well, it is a strange story. So our mercurial Ladislaw has a queer genealogy! A high-spirited young lady and a musical Polish patriot made a likely enough stock for him to spring from, but I should never have suspected a grafting of the Jew pawnbroker. However, there’s no knowing what a mixture will turn out beforehand. Some sorts of dirt serve to clarify.


It’s just what I should have expected. Any cursed alien blood, Jew, Corsican, or Gypsy.


I know he’s one of your black sheep, Hawley. But he is really a disinterested, unworldly fellow,


Ay, ay, that is your Whiggish twist,


That’s odd. Why, I read in the ‘Trumpet’ that was what the Duke of Wellington said when he turned his coat and went over to the Romans.


Very like. If one raskill said it, it’s more reason why another should. But hypocrite as he’s been, and holding things with that high hand, as there was no parson i’ the country good enough for him, he was forced to take Old Harry into his counsel, and Old Harry’s been too many for him.


Ay, ay, he’s a ’complice you can’t send out o’ the country. But by what I can make out, there’s them says Bulstrode was for running away, for fear o’ being found out, before now.


He’ll be drove away, whether or no. I shaved Fletcher, Hawley’s clerk, this morning—he’s got a bad finger—and he says they’re all of one mind to get rid of Bulstrode. Mr. Thesiger is turned against him, and wants him out o’ the parish. And there’s gentlemen in this town says they’d as soon dine with a fellow from the hulks. ‘And a deal sooner I would,’ says Fletcher; ‘for what’s more against one’s stomach than a man coming and making himself bad company with his religion, and giving out as the Ten Commandments are not enough for him, and all the while he’s worse than half the men at the tread-mill?’ Fletcher said so himself.


It’ll be a bad thing for the town though, if Bulstrode’s money goes out of it,


Ah, there’s better folks spend their money worse,


But he won’t keep his money, by what I can make out. Don’t they say as there’s somebody can strip it off him? By what I can understan’, they could take every penny off him, if they went to lawing.


No such thing! Fletcher says it’s no such thing. He says they might prove over and over again whose child this young Ladislaw was, and they’d do no more than if they proved I came out of the Fens—he couldn’t touch a penny.


Look you there now! I thank the Lord he took my children to Himself, if that’s all the law can do for the motherless. Then by that, it’s o’ no use who your father and mother is. But as to listening to what one lawyer says without asking another—I wonder at a man o’ your cleverness, Mr. Dill. It’s well known there’s always two sides, if no more; else who’d go to law, I should like to know? It’s a poor tale, with all the law as there is up and down, if it’s no use proving whose child you are. Fletcher may say that if he likes, but I say, don’t Fletcher me!


If they come to lawing, and it’s all true as folks say, there’s more to be looked to nor money. There’s this poor creetur as is dead and gone; by what I can make out, he’d seen the day when he was a deal finer gentleman nor Bulstrode.


Finer gentleman! I’ll warrant him, and a far personabler man, by what I can hear. As I said when Mr. Baldwin, the tax-gatherer, comes in, a-standing where you sit, and says, ‘Bulstrode got all his money as he brought into this town by thieving and swindling,’—I said, ‘You don’t make me no wiser, Mr. Baldwin: it’s set my blood a-creeping to look at him ever sin’ here he came into Slaughter Lane a-wanting to buy the house over my head: folks don’t look the color o’ the dough-tub and stare at you as if they wanted to see into your backbone for nothingk.’ That was what I said, and Mr. Baldwin can bear me witness. Bulstrode got all his money as he brought into this town by thieving and swindling. You don’t make me no wiser, Mr. Baldwin: it’s set my blood a-creeping to look at him ever sin’ here he came into Slaughter Lane a-wanting to buy the house over my head: folks don’t look the color o’ the dough-tub and stare at you as if they wanted to see into your backbone for nothingk.


And in the rights of it too. For by what I can make out, this Raffles, as they call him, was a lusty, fresh-colored man as you’d wish to see, and the best o’ company—though dead he lies in Lowick churchyard sure enough; and by what I can understan’, there’s them knows more than they should know about how he got there.


I’ll believe you! When a man’s been ’ticed to a lone house, and there’s them can pay for hospitals and nurses for half the country-side choose to be sitters-up night and day, and nobody to come near but a doctor as is known to stick at nothingk, and as poor as he can hang together, and after that so flush o’ money as he can pay off Mr. Byles the butcher as his bill has been running on for the best o’ joints since last Michaelmas was a twelvemonth—I don’t want anybody to come and tell me as there’s been more going on nor the Prayer-book’s got a service for—I don’t want to stand winking and blinking and thinking.


Why shouldn’t they dig the man up and have the Crowner? It’s been done many and many’s the time. If there’s been foul play they might find it out.


Not they, Mr. Jonas! I know what doctors are. They’re a deal too cunning to be found out. And this Doctor Lydgate that’s been for cutting up everybody before the breath was well out o’ their body—it’s plain enough what use he wanted to make o’ looking into respectable people’s insides. He knows drugs, you may be sure, as you can neither smell nor see, neither before they’re swallowed nor after. Why, I’ve seen drops myself ordered by Doctor Gambit, as is our club doctor and a good charikter, and has brought more live children into the world nor ever another i’ Middlemarch—I say I’ve seen drops myself as made no difference whether they was in the glass or out, and yet have griped you the next day. So I’ll leave your own sense to judge. Don’t tell me! All I say is, it’s a mercy they didn’t take this Doctor Lydgate on to our club. There’s many a mother’s child might ha’ rued it.


We will make a journey to Cheltenham in the course of a month or two. There are great spiritual advantages to be had in that town along with the air and the waters, and six weeks there will be eminently refreshing to us. if I have herein transgressed.


Mr. Chairman, I request that before any one delivers his opinion on this point I may be permitted to speak on a question of public feeling, which not only by myself, but by many gentlemen present, is regarded as preliminary. In what I have to say, Mr. Chairman, I am not speaking simply on my own behalf: I am speaking with the concurrence and at the express request of no fewer than eight of my fellow-townsmen, who are immediately around us. It is our united sentiment that Mr. Bulstrode should be called upon—and I do now call upon him—to resign public positions which he holds not simply as a tax-payer, but as a gentleman among gentlemen. There are practices and there are acts which, owing to circumstances, the law cannot visit, though they may be worse than many things which are legally punishable. Honest men and gentlemen, if they don’t want the company of people who perpetrate such acts, have got to defend themselves as they best can, and that is what I and the friends whom I may call my clients in this affair are determined to do. I don’t say that Mr. Bulstrode has been guilty of shameful acts, but I call upon him either publicly to deny and confute the scandalous statements made against him by a man now dead, and who died in his house—the statement that he was for many years engaged in nefarious practices, and that he won his fortune by dishonest procedures—or else to withdraw from positions which could only have been allowed him as a gentleman among gentlemen.


I protest before you, sir, as a Christian minister, against the sanction of proceedings towards me which are dictated by virulent hatred. Those who are hostile to me are glad to believe any libel uttered by a loose tongue against me. And their consciences become strict against me. Say that the evil-speaking of which I am to be made the victim accuses me of malpractices— who shall be my accuser? Not men whose own lives are unchristian, nay, scandalous—not men who themselves use low instruments to carry out their ends—whose profession is a tissue of chicanery—who have been spending their income on their own sensual enjoyments, while I have been devoting mine to advance the best objects with regard to this life and the next.