sight, and carried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in the wine-cooler.
While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarch at once, or wait for Lydgate’s arrival. He decided to wait, and told Mrs Abel that she might go about her work—he could watch in the bed-chamber.
As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocably into silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months. His conscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecy, which seemed just then like an angel sent down for his relief. He drew out his pocket-book to review various memoranda there as to the arrangements he had projected and partly carried out in the prospect of quitting Middlemarch, and considered how far he would let them stand or recall them, now that his absence would be brief. Some economies which he felt desirable might still find a suitable occasion in his temporary withdrawal from management, and he hoped still that Mrs Casaubon would take a large share in the expenses of the Hospital. In that way the moments passed, until a change in the stertorous breathing was marked enough to draw his attention wholly to the bed, and forced him to think of the departing life, which had once been subservient to his own—which he had once been glad to find base enough for him to act on as he would. It was his gladness then which impelled him now to be glad that the life was at an end.
And who could say that the death of Raffles had been hastened? Who knew what would have saved him?
Lydgate arrived at half-past ten, in time to witness the final pause of the breath. When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a sudden expression in his face, which was not so much surprise as a recognition that he had not judged correctly. He stood by the bed in silence for some time, with his eyes turned on the dying man, but with that subdued activity of expression which showed that he was carrying on an inward debate.
“When did this change begin?” said he, looking at Bulstrode.
“I did not watch by him last night,” said Bulstrode. “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.”
Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until he said, “It’s all over.”
This morning Lydgate was in a state of recovered hope and freedom. He had set out on his work with all his old animation, and felt himself strong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life. And he was conscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him. But he was uneasy about this case. He had not expected it to terminate as it had done. Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on the subject to Bulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if he examined the housekeeper—why, the man was dead. There seemed to be no use in implying that somebody’s ignorance or
