her in isolation with a husband disposed to offend everybody. It was after the dinner hour, and she found her father and mother seated together alone in the drawing-room. They greeted her with sad looks, saying, “Well, my dear!” and no more. She had never seen her father look so downcast; and seating herself near him she said—
“Is there anything the matter, papa?”
He did not answer, but Mrs Vincy said, “Oh, my dear, have you heard nothing? It won't be long before it reaches you.”
“Is it anything about Tertius?” said Rosamond, turning pale. The idea of trouble immediately connected itself with what had been unaccountable to her in him.
“Oh my dear, yes. To think of your marrying into this trouble. Debt was bad enough, but this will be worse.”
“Stay, stay, Lucy,” said Mr Vincy. “Have you heard nothing about your uncle Bulstrode, Rosamond?”
“No, papa,” said the poor thing, feeling as if trouble were not anything she had before experienced, but some invisible power with an iron grasp that made her soul faint within her.
Her father told her everything, saying at the end, “It’s better for you to know, my dear. I think Lydgate must leave the town. Things have gone against him. I daresay he couldn’t help it. I don’t accuse him of any harm,” said Mr Vincy. He had always before been disposed to find the utmost fault with Lydgate.
The shock to Rosamond was terrible. It seemed to her that no lot could be so cruelly hard as hers—to have married a man who had become the centre of infamous suspicions. In many cases it is inevitable that the shame is felt to be the worst part of crime; and it would have required a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as had never entered into Rosamond’s life, for her in these moments to feel that her trouble was less than if her husband had been certainly known to have done something criminal. All the shame seemed to be there. And she had innocently married this man with the belief that he and his family were a glory to her! She showed her usual reticence to her parents, and only said, that if Lydgate had done as she wished he would have left Middlemarch long ago.
“She bears it beyond anything,” said her mother when she was gone.
“Ah, thank God!” said Mr Vincy, who was much broken down.
But Rosamond went home with a sense of justified repugnance towards her husband. What had he really done—how had he really acted? She did not know. Why had he not told her everything? He did not speak to her on the subject, and of course she could not speak to him. It came into her mind once that she would ask her father to let her go home again; but dwelling on that prospect made it seem utter dreariness to her: a married woman gone back to live with her parents—life seemed to have no meaning for her in such a position: she could not contemplate herself in it.
