MIDDLEMARCH
PART 27
CHAPTER LIII.
It is but
a shallow haste which concludeth insincerity from what outsiders call
inconsistency—putting a dead mechanism of "ifs" and
"therefores" for the living myriad of hidden suckers whereby the
belief and the conduct are wrought into mutual sustainment.
Mr.
Bulstrode, when he was hoping to acquire a new interest in Lowick, had
naturally had an especial wish that the new clergyman should be one whom he
thoroughly approved; and he believed it to be a chastisement and admonition
directed to his own shortcomings and those of the nation at large, that just
about the time when he came in possession of the deeds which made him the
proprietor of Stone Court, Mr. Farebrother "read himself" into the
quaint little church and preached his first sermon to the congregation of
farmers, laborers, and village artisans. It was not that Mr. Bulstrode intended
to frequent Lowick Church or to reside at Stone Court for a good while to come:
he had bought the excellent farm and fine homestead simply as a retreat which
he might gradually enlarge as to the land and beautify as to the dwelling,
until it should be conducive to the divine glory that he should enter on it as
a residence, partially withdrawing from his present exertions in the
administration of business, and throwing more conspicuously on the side of
Gospel truth the weight of local landed proprietorship, which Providence might
increase by unforeseen occasions of purchase. A strong leading in this
direction seemed to have been given in the surprising facility of getting Stone
Court, when every one had expected that Mr. Rigg Featherstone would have clung
to it as the Garden of Eden. That was what poor old Peter himself had expected;
having often, in imagination, looked up through the sods above him, and,
unobstructed by perspective, seen his frog-faced legatee enjoying the fine old
place to the perpetual surprise and disappointment of other survivors.
But how
little we know what would make paradise for our neighbors! We judge from our
own desires, and our neighbors themselves are not always open enough even to
throw out a hint of theirs. The cool and judicious Joshua Rigg had not allowed
his parent to perceive that Stone Court was anything less than the chief good
in his estimation, and he had certainly wished to call it his own. But as
Warren Hastings looked at gold and thought of buying Daylesford, so Joshua Rigg
looked at Stone Court and thought of buying gold. He had a very distinct and intense
vision of his chief good, the vigorous greed which he had inherited having
taken a special form by dint of circumstance: and his chief good was to be a
moneychanger. From his earliest employment as an errand-boy in a seaport, he
had looked through the windows of the moneychangers as other boys look through
the windows of the pastry-cooks; the fascination had wrought itself gradually
into a deep special passion; he meant, when he had property, to do many things,
one of them being to marry a genteel young person; but these were all accidents
and joys that imagination could dispense with. The one joy after which his soul
thirsted was to have a money-changer's shop on a much-frequented quay, to have
locks all round him of which he held the keys, and to look sublimely cool as he
handled the breeding coins of all nations, while helpless Cupidity looked at
him enviously from the other side of an iron lattice. The strength of that
passion had been a power enabling him to master all the knowledge necessary to gratify
it. And when others were thinking that he had settled at Stone Court for life,
Joshua himself was thinking that the moment now was not far off when he should
settle on the North Quay with the best appointments in safes and locks.
Enough.
We are concerned with looking at Joshua Rigg's sale of his land from Mr.
Bulstrode's point of view, and he interpreted it as a cheering dispensation
conveying perhaps a sanction to a purpose which he had for some time
entertained without external encouragement; he interpreted it thus, but not too
confidently, offering up his thanksgiving in guarded phraseology. His doubts
did not arise from the possible relations of the event to Joshua Rigg's
destiny, which belonged to the unmapped regions not taken under the providential
government, except perhaps in an imperfect colonial way; but they arose from
reflecting that this dispensation too might be a chastisement for himself, as
Mr. Farebrother's induction to the living clearly was.
This was
not what Mr. Bulstrode said to any man for the sake of deceiving him: it was
what he said to himself—it was as genuinely his mode of explaining events as
any theory of yours may be, if you happen to disagree with him. For the egoism
which enters into our theories does not affect their sincerity; rather, the
more our egoism is satisfied, the more robust is our belief.
However,
whether for sanction or for chastisement, Mr. Bulstrode, hardly fifteen months
after the death of Peter Featherstone, had become the proprietor of Stone Court,
and what Peter would say "if he were worthy to know," had become an
inexhaustible and consolatory subject of conversation to his disappointed
relatives. The tables were now turned on that dear brother departed, and to
contemplate the frustration of his cunning by the superior cunning of things in
general was a cud of delight to Solomon. Mrs. Waule had a melancholy triumph in
the proof that it did not answer to make false Featherstones and cut off the
genuine; and Sister Martha receiving the news in the Chalky Flats said,
"Dear, dear! then the Almighty could have been none so pleased with the
almshouses after all."
Affectionate
Mrs. Bulstrode was particularly glad of the advantage which her husband's
health was likely to get from the purchase of Stone Court. Few days passed
without his riding thither and looking over some part of the farm with the
bailiff, and the evenings were delicious in that quiet spot, when the new
hay-ricks lately set up were sending forth odors to mingle with the breath of
the rich old garden. One evening, while the sun was still above the horizon and
burning in golden lamps among the great walnut boughs, Mr. Bulstrode was
pausing on horseback outside the front gate waiting for Caleb Garth, who had
met him by appointment to give an opinion on a question of stable drainage, and
was now advising the bailiff in the rick-yard.
Mr.
Bulstrode was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and more than
usually serene, under the influence of his innocent recreation. He was
doctrinally convinced that there was a total absence of merit in himself; but
that doctrinal conviction may be held without pain when the sense of demerit
does not take a distinct shape in memory and revive the tingling of shame or
the pang of remorse. Nay, it may be held with intense satisfaction when the
depth of our sinning is but a measure for the depth of forgiveness, and a
clenching proof that we are peculiar instruments of the divine intention. The
memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama.
At this moment Mr. Bulstrode felt as if the sunshine were all one with that of
far-off evenings when he was a very young man and used to go out preaching
beyond Highbury. And he would willingly have had that service of exhortation in
prospect now. The texts were there still, and so was his own facility in
expounding them. His brief reverie was interrupted by the return of Caleb
Garth, who also was on horseback, and was just shaking his bridle before
starting, when he exclaimed—
"Bless
my heart! what's this fellow in black coming along the lane? He's like one of
those men one sees about after the races."
Mr.
Bulstrode turned his horse and looked along the lane, but made no reply. The
comer was our slight acquaintance Mr. Raffles, whose appearance presented no
other change than such as was due to a suit of black and a crape hat-band. He
was within three yards of the horseman now, and they could see the flash of
recognition in his face as he whirled his stick upward, looking all the while
at Mr. Bulstrode, and at last exclaiming:—
"By
Jove, Nick, it's you! I couldn't be mistaken, though the five-and-twenty years
have played old Boguy with us both! How are you, eh? you didn't expect to see me
here. Come, shake us by the hand." To say that Mr. Raffles' manner was
rather excited would be only one mode of saying that it was evening. Caleb
Garth could see that there was a moment of struggle and hesitation in Mr.
Bulstrode, but it ended in his putting out his hand coldly to Raffles and
saying—
"I
did not indeed expect to see you in this remote country place."
"Well,
it belongs to a stepson of mine," said Raffles, adjusting himself in a
swaggering attitude. "I came to see him here before. I'm not so surprised
at seeing you, old fellow, because I picked up a letter—what you may call a
providential thing. It's uncommonly fortunate I met you, though; for I don't
care about seeing my stepson: he's not affectionate, and his poor mother's gone
now. To tell the truth, I came out of love to you, Nick: I came to get your
address, for—look here!" Raffles drew a crumpled paper from his pocket.
Almost
any other man than Caleb Garth might have been tempted to linger on the spot
for the sake of hearing all he could about a man whose acquaintance with
Bulstrode seemed to imply passages in the banker's life so unlike anything that
was known of him in Middlemarch that they must have the nature of a secret to
pique curiosity. But Caleb was peculiar: certain human tendencies which are
commonly strong were almost absent from his mind; and one of these was
curiosity about personal affairs. Especially if there was anything
discreditable to be found out concerning another man, Caleb preferred not to
know it; and if he had to tell anybody under him that his evil doings were
discovered, he was more embarrassed than the culprit. He now spurred his horse,
and saying, "I wish you good evening, Mr. Bulstrode; I must be getting
home," set off at a trot.
"You
didn't put your full address to this letter," Raffles continued.
"That was not like the first-rate man of business you used to be. 'The
Shrubs,'—they may be anywhere: you live near at hand, eh?—have cut the London
concern altogether—perhaps turned country squire—have a rural mansion to invite
me to. Lord, how many years it is ago! The old lady must have been dead a
pretty long while—gone to glory without the pain of knowing how poor her
daughter was, eh? But, by Jove! you're very pale and pasty, Nick. Come, if
you're going home, I'll walk by your side."
Mr.
Bulstrode's usual paleness had in fact taken an almost deathly hue. Five
minutes before, the expanse of his life had been submerged in its evening sunshine
which shone backward to its remembered morning: sin seemed to be a question of
doctrine and inward penitence, humiliation an exercise of the closet, the
bearing of his deeds a matter of private vision adjusted solely by spiritual
relations and conceptions of the divine purposes. And now, as if by some
hideous magic, this loud red figure had risen before him in unmanageable
solidity—an incorporate past which had not entered into his imagination of
chastisements. But Mr. Bulstrode's thought was busy, and he was not a man to
act or speak rashly.
"I
was going home," he said, "but I can defer my ride a little. And you
can, if you please, rest here."
"Thank
you," said Raffles, making a grimace. "I don't care now about seeing
my stepson. I'd rather go home with you."
"Your
stepson, if Mr. Rigg Featherstone was he, is here no longer. I am master here
now."
Raffles
opened wide eyes, and gave a long whistle of surprise, before he said,
"Well then, I've no objection. I've had enough walking from the coach-road.
I never was much of a walker, or rider either. What I like is a smart vehicle
and a spirited cob. I was always a little heavy in the saddle. What a pleasant
surprise it must be to you to see me, old fellow!" he continued, as they
turned towards the house. "You don't say so; but you never took your luck
heartily—you were always thinking of improving the occasion—you'd such a gift
for improving your luck."
Mr.
Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own wit, and swung his leg in a swaggering
manner which was rather too much for his companion's judicious patience.
"If
I remember rightly," Mr. Bulstrode observed, with chill anger, "our
acquaintance many years ago had not the sort of intimacy which you are now
assuming, Mr. Raffles. Any services you desire of me will be the more readily
rendered if you will avoid a tone of familiarity which did not lie in our
former intercourse, and can hardly be warranted by more than twenty years of
separation."
"You
don't like being called Nick? Why, I always called you Nick in my heart, and
though lost to sight, to memory dear. By Jove! my feelings have ripened for you
like fine old cognac. I hope you've got some in the house now. Josh filled my
flask well the last time."
Mr.
Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognac was not
stronger in Raffles than the desire to torment, and that a hint of annoyance
always served him as a fresh cue. But it was at least clear that further
objection was useless, and Mr. Bulstrode, in giving orders to the housekeeper
for the accommodation of the guest, had a resolute air of quietude.
There was
the comfort of thinking that this housekeeper had been in the service of Rigg
also, and might accept the idea that Mr. Bulstrode entertained Raffles merely
as a friend of her former master.
When
there was food and drink spread before his visitor in the wainscoted parlour,
and no witness in the room, Mr. Bulstrode said—
"Your
habits and mine are so different, Mr. Raffles, that we can hardly enjoy each
other's society. The wisest plan for both of us will therefore be to part as
soon as possible. Since you say that you wished to meet me, you probably
considered that you had some business to transact with me. But under the
circumstances I will invite you to remain here for the night, and I will myself
ride over here early to-morrow morning—before breakfast, in fact, when I can
receive any Communication you have to make to me."
"With
all my heart," said Raffles; "this is a comfortable place—a little
dull for a continuance; but I can put up with it for a night, with this good
liquor and the prospect of seeing you again in the morning. You're a much
better host than my stepson was; but Josh owed me a bit of a grudge for
marrying his mother; and between you and me there was never anything but
kindness."
Mr.
Bulstrode, hoping that the peculiar mixture of joviality and sneering in
Raffles' manner was a good deal the effect of drink, had determined to wait
till he was quite sober before he spent more words upon him. But he rode home
with a terribly lucid vision of the difficulty there would be in arranging any
result that could be permanently counted on with this man. It was inevitable
that he should wish to get rid of John Raffles, though his reappearance could
not be regarded as lying outside the divine plan. The spirit of evil might have
sent him to threaten Mr. Bulstrode's subversion as an instrument of good; but
the threat must have been permitted, and was a chastisement of a new kind. It
was an hour of anguish for him very different from the hours in which his
struggle had been securely private, and which had ended with a sense that his
secret misdeeds were pardoned and his services accepted. Those misdeeds even
when committed—had they not been half sanctified by the singleness of his
desire to devote himself and all he possessed to the furtherance of the divine
scheme? And was he after all to become a mere stone of stumbling and a rock of
offence? For who would understand the work within him? Who would not, when
there was the pretext of casting disgrace upon him, confound his whole life and
the truths he had espoused, in one heap of obloquy?
In his
closest meditations the life-long habit of Mr. Bulstrode's mind clad his most
egoistic terrors in doctrinal references to superhuman ends. But even while we
are talking and meditating about the earth's orbit and the solar system, what
we feel and adjust our movements to is the stable earth and the changing day.
And now within all the automatic succession of theoretic phrases—distinct and
inmost as the shiver and the ache of oncoming fever when we are discussing
abstract pain, was the forecast of disgrace in the presence of his neighbors
and of his own wife. For the pain, as well as the public estimate of disgrace,
depends on the amount of previous profession. To men who only aim at escaping
felony, nothing short of the prisoner's dock is disgrace. But Mr. Bulstrode had
aimed at being an eminent Christian.
It was
not more than half-past seven in the morning when he again reached Stone Court.
The fine old place never looked more like a delightful home than at that
moment; the great white lilies were in flower, the nasturtiums, their pretty
leaves all silvered with dew, were running away over the low stone wall; the
very noises all around had a heart of peace within them. But everything was
spoiled for the owner as he walked on the gravel in front and awaited the
descent of Mr. Raffles, with whom he was condemned to breakfast.
It was
not long before they were seated together in the wainscoted parlour over their
tea and toast, which was as much as Raffles cared to take at that early hour.
The difference between his morning and evening self was not so great as his
companion had imagined that it might be; the delight in tormenting was perhaps
even the stronger because his spirits were rather less highly pitched.
Certainly his manners seemed more disagreeable by the morning light.
"As
I have little time to spare, Mr. Raffles," said the banker, who could
hardly do more than sip his tea and break his toast without eating it, "I
shall be obliged if you will mention at once the ground on which you wished to
meet with me. I presume that you have a home elsewhere and will be glad to
return to it."
"Why,
if a man has got any heart, doesn't he want to see an old friend, Nick?—I must
call you Nick—we always did call you young Nick when we knew you meant to marry
the old widow. Some said you had a handsome family likeness to old Nick, but
that was your mother's fault, calling you Nicholas. Aren't you glad to see me
again? I expected an invite to stay with you at some pretty place. My own
establishment is broken up now my wife's dead. I've no particular attachment to
any spot; I would as soon settle hereabout as anywhere."
"May
I ask why you returned from America? I considered that the strong wish you
expressed to go there, when an adequate sum was furnished, was tantamount to an
engagement that you would remain there for life."
"Never
knew that a wish to go to a place was the same thing as a wish to stay. But I
did stay a matter of ten years; it didn't suit me to stay any longer. And I'm
not going again, Nick." Here Mr. Raffles winked slowly as he looked at Mr.
Bulstrode.
"Do
you wish to be settled in any business? What is your calling now?"
"Thank
you, my calling is to enjoy myself as much as I can. I don't care about working
any more. If I did anything it would be a little travelling in the tobacco
line—or something of that sort, which takes a man into agreeable company. But
not without an independence to fall back upon. That's what I want: I'm not so
strong as I was, Nick, though I've got more colour than you. I want an
independence."
"That
could be supplied to you, if you would engage to keep at a distance," said
Mr. Bulstrode, perhaps with a little too much eagerness in his undertone.
"That
must be as it suits my convenience," said Raffles coolly. "I see no
reason why I shouldn't make a few acquaintances hereabout. I'm not ashamed of
myself as company for anybody. I dropped my portmanteau at the turnpike when I
got down—change of linen—genuine—honour bright—more than fronts and wristbands;
and with this suit of mourning, straps and everything, I should do you credit
among the nobs here." Mr. Raffles had pushed away his chair and looked down
at himself, particularly at his straps. His chief intention was to annoy
Bulstrode, but he really thought that his appearance now would produce a good
effect, and that he was not only handsome and witty, but clad in a mourning
style which implied solid connections.
"If
you intend to rely on me in any way, Mr. Raffles," said Bulstrode, after a
moment's pause, "you will expect to meet my wishes."
"Ah,
to be sure," said Raffles, with a mocking cordiality. "Didn't I
always do it? Lord, you made a pretty thing out of me, and I got but little.
I've often thought since, I might have done better by telling the old woman
that I'd found her daughter and her grandchild: it would have suited my
feelings better; I've got a soft place in my heart. But you've buried the old
lady by this time, I suppose—it's all one to her now. And you've got your
fortune out of that profitable business which had such a blessing on it. You've
taken to being a nob, buying land, being a country bashaw. Still in the
Dissenting line, eh? Still godly? Or taken to the Church as more genteel?"
This time
Mr. Raffles' slow wink and slight protrusion of his tongue was worse than a
nightmare, because it held the certitude that it was not a nightmare, but a
waking misery. Mr. Bulstrode felt a shuddering nausea, and did not speak, but
was considering diligently whether he should not leave Raffles to do as he
would, and simply defy him as a slanderer. The man would soon show himself
disreputable enough to make people disbelieve him. "But not when he tells
any ugly-looking truth about you," said discerning consciousness.
And again: it seemed no wrong to keep Raffles at a distance, but Mr. Bulstrode
shrank from the direct falsehood of denying true statements. It was one thing
to look back on forgiven sins, nay, to explain questionable conformity to lax
customs, and another to enter deliberately on the necessity of falsehood.
But since
Bulstrode did not speak, Raffles ran on, by way of using time to the utmost.
"I've
not had such fine luck as you, by Jove! Things went confoundedly with me in New
York; those Yankees are cool hands, and a man of gentlemanly feelings has no
chance with them. I married when I came back—a nice woman in the tobacco
trade—very fond of me—but the trade was restricted, as we say. She had been
settled there a good many years by a friend; but there was a son too much in
the case. Josh and I never hit it off. However, I made the most of the
position, and I've always taken my glass in good company. It's been all on the
square with me; I'm as open as the day. You won't take it ill of me that I
didn't look you up before. I've got a complaint that makes me a little
dilatory. I thought you were trading and praying away in London still, and
didn't find you there. But you see I was sent to you, Nick—perhaps for a
blessing to both of us."
Mr.
Raffles ended with a jocose snuffle: no man felt his intellect more superior to
religious cant. And if the cunning which calculates on the meanest feelings in
men could be called intellect, he had his share, for under the blurting
rallying tone with which he spoke to Bulstrode, there was an evident selection
of statements, as if they had been so many moves at chess. Meanwhile Bulstrode
had determined on his move, and he said, with gathered resolution—
"You
will do well to reflect, Mr. Raffles, that it is possible for a man to
overreach himself in the effort to secure undue advantage. Although I am not in
any way bound to you, I am willing to supply you with a regular annuity—in
quarterly payments—so long as you fulfil a promise to remain at a distance from
this neighborhood. It is in your power to choose. If you insist on remaining
here, even for a short time, you will get nothing from me. I shall decline to
know you."
"Ha,
ha!" said Raffles, with an affected explosion, "that reminds me of a
droll dog of a thief who declined to know the constable."
"Your
allusions are lost on me sir," said Bulstrode, with white heat; "the
law has no hold on me either through your agency or any other."
"You
can't understand a joke, my good fellow. I only meant that I should never
decline to know you. But let us be serious. Your quarterly payment won't quite
suit me. I like my freedom."
Here
Raffles rose and stalked once or twice up and down the room, swinging his leg,
and assuming an air of masterly meditation. At last he stopped opposite
Bulstrode, and said, "I'll tell you what! Give us a couple of
hundreds—come, that's modest—and I'll go away—honour bright!—pick up my
portmanteau and go away. But I shall not give up my Liberty for a dirty
annuity. I shall come and go where I like. Perhaps it may suit me to stay away,
and correspond with a friend; perhaps not. Have you the money with you?"
"No,
I have one hundred," said Bulstrode, feeling the immediate riddance too
great a relief to be rejected on the ground of future uncertainties. "I
will forward you the other if you will mention an address."
"No,
I'll wait here till you bring it," said Raffles. "I'll take a stroll
and have a snack, and you'll be back by that time."
Mr.
Bulstrode's sickly body, shattered by the agitations he had gone through since
the last evening, made him feel abjectly in the power of this loud invulnerable
man. At that moment he snatched at a temporary repose to be won on any terms.
He was rising to do what Raffles suggested, when the latter said, lifting up
his finger as if with a sudden recollection—
"I
did have another look after Sarah again, though I didn't tell you; I'd a tender
conscience about that pretty young woman. I didn't find her, but I found out
her husband's name, and I made a note of it. But hang it, I lost my pocketbook.
However, if I heard it, I should know it again. I've got my faculties as if I
was in my prime, but names wear out, by Jove! Sometimes I'm no better than a
confounded tax-paper before the names are filled in. However, if I hear of her
and her family, you shall know, Nick. You'd like to do something for her, now
she's your step-daughter."
"Doubtless,"
said Mr. Bulstrode, with the usual steady look of his light-gray eyes;
"though that might reduce my power of assisting you."
As he
walked out of the room, Raffles winked slowly at his back, and then turned
towards the window to watch the banker riding away—virtually at his command.
His lips first curled with a smile and then opened with a short triumphant
laugh.
"But
what the deuce was the name?" he presently said, half aloud, scratching
his head, and wrinkling his brows horizontally. He had not really cared or
thought about this point of forgetfulness until it occurred to him in his
invention of annoyances for Bulstrode.
"It
began with L; it was almost all l's I fancy," he went on, with a sense
that he was getting hold of the slippery name. But the hold was too slight, and
he soon got tired of this mental chase; for few men were more impatient of
private occupation or more in need of making themselves continually heard than
Mr. Raffles. He preferred using his time in pleasant conversation with the
bailiff and the housekeeper, from whom he gathered as much as he wanted to know
about Mr. Bulstrode's position in Middlemarch.
After
all, however, there was a dull space of time which needed relieving with bread
and cheese and ale, and when he was seated alone with these resources in the
wainscoted parlour, he suddenly slapped his knee, and exclaimed,
"Ladislaw!" That action of memory which he had tried to set going,
and had abandoned in despair, had suddenly completed itself without conscious
effort—a common experience, agreeable as a completed sneeze, even if the name
remembered is of no value. Raffles immediately took out his pocket-book, and
wrote down the name, not because he expected to use it, but merely for the sake
of not being at a loss if he ever did happen to want it. He was not going to
tell Bulstrode: there was no actual good in telling, and to a mind like that of
Mr. Raffles there is always probable good in a secret.
He was
satisfied with his present success, and by three o'clock that day he had taken
up his portmanteau at the turnpike and mounted the coach, relieving Mr.
Bulstrode's eyes of an ugly black spot on the landscape at Stone Court, but not
relieving him of the dread that the black spot might reappear and become
inseparable even from the vision of his hearth.
To be
continued
