Middlemarch

HAPTER LXXXV.

“Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr.
Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr.
Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who
every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and
afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the
judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the foreman, said, I
see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away
with such a fellow from the earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the
very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him.
Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my way.
Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind.
My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr.
Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch
him out of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might
I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him;
therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death.”—Pilgrim’s
Progress.

When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions
bringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful? That is a
rare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know
ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd—to be sure that what we
are denounced for is solely the good in us. The pitiable lot is that of
the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to
persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions
incarnate—who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right,
but for not being the man he professed to be.

This was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he
made his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going to end
his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces.
The duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one
dread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal
before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy. His
equivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained the
conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror
upon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full
confession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with
inward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy
to win invisible pardon—what name would she call them by? That she
should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear.
He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the
sense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst
condemnation on him. Some time, perhaps—when he was dying—he would tell
her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand in the
gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his touch.
Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and the
impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper
humiliation.

He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated
any harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress
at the sight of her suffering. She had sent her daughters away to board
at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from them as
far as possible. Set free by their absence from the intolerable
necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their frightened
wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that was every
day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids languid.

“Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet,”
Bulstrode had said to her; “I mean with regard to arrangements of
property. It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this
neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision. If you have
any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me.”

A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her
brother’s, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for
some time been in her mind.

“I should like to do something for my brother’s family, Nicholas; and
I think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband.
Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost
good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere
with. I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some
amends to my poor brother’s family.”

Mrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the
phrase “make some amends;” knowing that her husband must understand
her. He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for
wincing under her suggestion. He hesitated before he said—

“It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my
dear. Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me.
He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him. Mrs. Casaubon
advanced him the sum for that purpose. Here is his letter.”

The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely. The mention of Mrs.
Casaubon’s loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held
it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her
husband. She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after the
other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away. Bulstrode, sitting
opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face, which two
months before had been bright and blooming. It had aged to keep sad
company with his own withered features. Urged into some effort at
comforting her, he said—

“There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your
brother’s family, if you like to act in it. And it would, I think, be
beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land
which I mean to be yours.”

She looked attentive.

“Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in
order to place your nephew Fred there. The stock was to remain as it
is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an
ordinary rent. That would be a desirable beginning for the young man,
in conjunction with his employment under Garth. Would it be a
satisfaction to you?”

“Yes, it would,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy. “Poor
Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do him some
good before I go away. We have always been brother and sister.”

“You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet,” said Mr.
Bulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had
in view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife. “You
must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need
have no transactions with me. Communications can be made through
Standish. I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent. I can
put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating
conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them. I think
it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing for
the sake of your nephew.”