Middlemarch, Page 61

  CHAPTER LXI.

  "Inconsistencies," answered Imlac, "cannot both be right, but imputed to man they may both be true."--Rasselas.

  The same night, when Mr. Bulstrode returned from a journey to Brassingon business, his good wife met him in the entrance-hall and drew himinto his private sitting-room.

  "Nicholas," she said, fixing her honest eyes upon him anxiously, "therehas been such a disagreeable man here asking for you--it has made mequite uncomfortable."

  "What kind of man, my dear," said Mr. Bulstrode, dreadfully certain ofthe answer.

  "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 sorrynot to see him. He wanted to wait for you here, but I told him hecould see you at the Bank to-morrow morning. Most impudent hewas!--stared at me, and said his friend Nick had luck in wives. Idon't believe he would have gone away, if Blucher had not happened tobreak his chain and come running round on the gravel--for I was in thegarden; so I said, 'You'd better go away--the dog is very fierce, and Ican't hold him.' Do you really know anything of such a man?"

  "I believe I know who he is, my dear," said Mr. Bulstrode, in his usualsubdued voice, "an unfortunate dissolute wretch, whom I helped too muchin days gone by. However, I presume you will not be troubled by himagain. He will probably come to the Bank--to beg, doubtless."

  No more was said on the subject until the next day, when Mr. Bulstrodehad returned from the town and was dressing for dinner. His wife, notsure that he was come home, looked into his dressing-room and saw himwith his coat and cravat off, leaning one arm on a chest of drawers andstaring absently at the ground. He started nervously and looked up asshe entered.

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

  "I have a good deal of pain in my head," said Mr. Bulstrode, who was sofrequently ailing that his wife was always ready to believe in thiscause of depression.

  "Sit down and let me sponge it with vinegar."

  Physically Mr. Bulstrode did not want the vinegar, but morally theaffectionate attention soothed him. Though always polite, it was hishabit to receive such services with marital coolness, as his wife'sduty. But to-day, while she was bending over him, he said, "You arevery good, Harriet," in a tone which had something new in it to herear; she did not know exactly what the novelty was, but her woman'ssolicitude shaped itself into a darting thought that he might be goingto have an illness.

  "Has anything worried you?" she said. "Did that man come to you at theBank?"

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

  "Is he quite gone away?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, anxiously but for certainreasons she refrained from adding, "It was very disagreeable to hearhim calling himself a friend of yours." At that moment she would nothave liked to say anything which implied her habitual consciousnessthat her husband's earlier connections were not quite on a level withher own. Not that she knew much about them. That her husband had atfirst been employed in a bank, that he had afterwards entered into whathe called city business and gained a fortune before he wasthree-and-thirty, that he had married a widow who was much older thanhimself--a Dissenter, and in other ways probably of thatdisadvantageous quality usually perceptible in a first wife if inquiredinto with the dispassionate judgment of a second--was almost as much asshe had cared to learn beyond the glimpses which Mr. Bulstrode'snarrative occasionally gave of his early bent towards religion, hisinclination to be a preacher, and his association with missionary andphilanthropic efforts. She believed in him as an excellent man whosepiety carried a peculiar eminence in belonging to a layman, whoseinfluence had turned her own mind toward seriousness, and whose shareof perishable good had been the means of raising her own position. Butshe also liked to think that it was well in every sense for Mr.Bulstrode to have won the hand of Harriet Vincy; whose family wasundeniable in a Middlemarch light--a better light surely than anythrown in London thoroughfares or dissenting chapel-yards. Theunreformed provincial mind distrusted London; and while true religionwas everywhere saving, honest Mrs. Bulstrode was convinced that to besaved in the Church was more respectable. She so much wished to ignoretowards others that her husband had ever been a London Dissenter, thatshe liked to keep it out of sight even in talking to him. He was quiteaware of this; indeed in some respects he was rather afraid of thisingenuous wife, whose imitative piety and native worldliness wereequally sincere, who had nothing to be ashamed of, and whom he hadmarried out of a thorough inclination still subsisting. But his fearswere such as belong to a man who cares to maintain his recognizedsupremacy: the loss of high consideration from his wife, as from everyone else who did not clearly hate him out of enmity to the truth, wouldbe as the beginning of death to him. When she said--

  "Is he quite gone away?"

  "Oh, I trust so," he answered, with an effort to throw as much soberunconcern into his tone as possible!

  But in truth Mr. Bulstrode was very far from a state of quiet trust.In the interview at the Bank, Raffles had made it evident that hiseagerness to torment was almost as strong in him as any other greed.He had frankly said that he had turned out of the way to come toMiddlemarch, just to look about him and see whether the neighborhoodwould suit him to live in. He had certainly had a few debts to paymore than he expected, but the two hundred pounds were not gone yet: acool five-and-twenty would suffice him to go away with for the present.What he had wanted chiefly was to see his friend Nick and family, andknow all about the prosperity of a man to whom he was so much attached.By-and-by he might come back for a longer stay. This time Rafflesdeclined to be "seen off the premises," as he expressed it--declined toquit Middlemarch under Bulstrode's eyes. He meant to go by coach thenext day--if he chose.

  Bulstrode felt himself helpless. Neither threats nor coaxing couldavail: he could not count on any persistent fear nor on any promise.On the contrary, he felt a cold certainty at his heart thatRaffles--unless providence sent death to hinder him--would come backto Middlemarch before long. And that certainty was a terror.

  It was not that he was in danger of legal punishment or of beggary: hewas in danger only of seeing disclosed to the judgment of his neighborsand the mournful perception of his wife certain facts of his past lifewhich would render him an object of scorn and an opprobrium of thereligion with which he had diligently associated himself. The terrorof being judged sharpens the memory: it sends an inevitable glare overthat long-unvisited past which has been habitually recalled only ingeneral phrases. Even without memory, the life is bound into one by azone of dependence in growth and decay; but intense memory forces a manto own his blameworthy past. With memory set smarting like a reopenedwound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outwornpreparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loosefrom the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringingshudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame.

  Into this second life Bulstrode's past had now risen, only thepleasures of it seeming to have lost their quality. Night and day,without interruption save of brief sleep which only wove retrospect andfear into a fantastic present, he felt the scenes of his earlier lifecoming between him and everything else, as obstinately as when we lookthrough the window from a lighted room, the objects we turn our backson are still before us, instead of the grass and the trees. Thesuccessive events inward and outward were there in one view: thougheach might be dwelt on in turn, the rest still kept their hold in theconsciousness.

  Once more he saw himself the young banker's clerk, with an agreeableperson, as clever in figures as he was fluent in speech and fond oftheological definition: an eminent though young member of a Calvinisticdissenting church at Highbury, having had striking experience inconviction of sin and sense of pardon. Again he heard himself calledfor as Brother Bulstrode in prayer meetings, speaking on religiousplatforms, preaching in private houses. Again he felt himse
lf thinkingof the ministry as possibly his vocation, and inclined towardsmissionary labor. That was the happiest time of his life: that was thespot he would have chosen now to awake in and find the rest a dream.The people among whom Brother Bulstrode was distinguished were veryfew, but they were very near to him, and stirred his satisfaction themore; his power stretched through a narrow space, but he felt itseffect the more intensely. He believed without effort in the peculiarwork of grace within him, and in the signs that God intended him forspecial instrumentality.

  Then came the moment of transition; it was with the sense of promotionhe had when he, an orphan educated at a commercial charity-school, wasinvited to a fine villa belonging to Mr. Dunkirk, the richest man inthe congregation. Soon he became an intimate there, honored for hispiety by the wife, marked out for his ability by the husband, whosewealth was due to a flourishing city and west-end trade. That was thesetting-in of a new current for his ambition, directing his prospectsof "instrumentality" towards the uniting of distinguished religiousgifts with successful business.

  By-and-by came a decided external leading: a confidential subordinatepartner died, and nobody seemed to the principal so well fitted to fillthe severely felt vacancy as his young friend Bulstrode, if he wouldbecome confidential accountant. The offer was accepted. The businesswas a pawnbroker's, of the most magnificent sort both in extent andprofits; and on a short acquaintance with it Bulstrode became awarethat one source of magnificent profit was the easy reception of anygoods offered, without strict inquiry as to where they came from. Butthere was a branch house at the west end, and no pettiness or dinginessto give suggestions of shame.

  He remembered his first moments of shrinking. They were private, andwere filled with arguments; some of these taking the form of prayer.The business was established and had old roots; is it not one thing toset up a new gin-palace and another to accept an investment in an oldone? The profits made out of lost souls--where can the line be drawnat which they begin in human transactions? Was it not even God's wayof saving His chosen? "Thou knowest,"--the young Bulstrode had saidthen, as the older Bulstrode was saying now--"Thou knowest how loosemy soul sits from these things--how I view them all as implements fortilling Thy garden rescued here and there from the wilderness."

  Metaphors and precedents were not wanting; peculiar spiritualexperiences were not wanting which at last made the retention of hisposition seem a service demanded of him: the vista of a fortune hadalready opened itself, and Bulstrode's shrinking remained private. Mr.Dunkirk had never expected that there would be any shrinking at all: hehad never conceived that trade had anything to do with the scheme ofsalvation. And it was true that Bulstrode found himself carrying ontwo distinct lives; his religious activity could not be incompatiblewith his business as soon as he had argued himself into not feeling itincompatible.

  Mentally surrounded with that past again, Bulstrode had the samepleas--indeed, the years had been perpetually spinning them intointricate thickness, like masses of spider-web, padding the moralsensibility; nay, as age made egoism more eager but less enjoying, hissoul had become more saturated with the belief that he did everythingfor God's sake, being indifferent to it for his own. And yet--if hecould be back in that far-off spot with his youthful poverty--why, thenhe would choose to be a missionary.

  But the train of causes in which he had locked himself went on. Therewas trouble in the fine villa at Highbury. Years before, the onlydaughter had run away, defied her parents, and gone on the stage; andnow the only boy died, and after a short time Mr. Dunkirk died also.The wife, a simple pious woman, left with all the wealth in and out ofthe magnificent trade, of which she never knew the precise nature, hadcome to believe in Bulstrode, and innocently adore him as women oftenadore their priest or "man-made" minister. It was natural that after atime marriage should have been thought of between them. But Mrs.Dunkirk had qualms and yearnings about her daughter, who had long beenregarded as lost both to God and her parents. It was known that thedaughter had married, but she was utterly gone out of sight. Themother, having lost her boy, imagined a grandson, and wished in adouble sense to reclaim her daughter. If she were found, there wouldbe a channel for property--perhaps a wide one--in the provision forseveral grandchildren. Efforts to find her must be made before Mrs.Dunkirk would marry again. Bulstrode concurred; but afteradvertisement as well as other modes of inquiry had been tried, themother believed that her daughter was not to be found, and consented tomarry without reservation of property.

  The daughter had been found; but only one man besides Bulstrode knewit, and he was paid for keeping silence and carrying himself away.

  That was the bare fact which Bulstrode was now forced to see in therigid outline with which acts present themselves onlookers. But forhimself at that distant time, and even now in burning memory, the factwas broken into little sequences, each justified as it came byreasonings which seemed to prove it righteous. Bulstrode's course upto that time had, he thought, been sanctioned by remarkableprovidences, appearing to point the way for him to be the agent inmaking the best use of a large property and withdrawing it fromperversion. Death and other striking dispositions, such as femininetrustfulness, had come; and Bulstrode would have adopted Cromwell'swords--"Do you call these bare events? The Lord pity you!" Theevents were comparatively small, but the essential condition wasthere--namely, that they were in favor of his own ends. It was easyfor him to settle what was due from him to others by inquiring whatwere God's intentions with regard to himself. Could it be for God'sservice that this fortune should in any considerable proportion go to ayoung woman and her husband who were given up to the lightest pursuits,and might scatter it abroad in triviality--people who seemed to lieoutside the path of remarkable providences? Bulstrode had never saidto himself beforehand, "The daughter shall not be found"--neverthelesswhen the moment came he kept her existence hidden; and when othermoments followed, he soothed the mother with consolation in theprobability that the unhappy young woman might be no more.

  There were hours in which Bulstrode felt that his action wasunrighteous; but how could he go back? He had mental exercises, calledhimself nought, laid hold on redemption, and went on in his course ofinstrumentality. And after five years Death again came to widen hispath, by taking away his wife. He did gradually withdraw his capital,but he did not make the sacrifices requisite to put an end to thebusiness, which was carried on for thirteen years afterwards before itfinally collapsed. Meanwhile Nicholas Bulstrode had used his hundredthousand discreetly, and was become provincially, solidly important--abanker, a Churchman, a public benefactor; also a sleeping partner intrading concerns, in which his ability was directed to economy in theraw material, as in the case of the dyes which rotted Mr. Vincy's silk.And now, when this respectability had lasted undisturbed for nearlythirty years--when all that preceded it had long lain benumbed in theconsciousness--that past had risen and immersed his thought as if withthe terrible irruption of a new sense overburthening the feeble being.

  Meanwhile, in his conversation with Raffles, he had learned somethingmomentous, something which entered actively into the struggle of hislongings and terrors. There, he thought, lay an opening towardsspiritual, perhaps towards material rescue.

  The spiritual kind of rescue was a genuine need with him. There may becoarse hypocrites, who consciously affect beliefs and emotions for thesake of gulling the world, but Bulstrode was not one of them. He wassimply a man whose desires had been stronger than his theoreticbeliefs, and who had gradually explained the gratification of hisdesires into satisfactory agreement with those beliefs. If this behypocrisy, it is a process which shows itself occasionally in us all,to whatever confession we belong, and whether we believe in the futureperfection of our race or in the nearest date fixed for the end of theworld; whether we regard the earth as a putrefying nidus for a savedremnant, including ourselves, or have a passionate belief in thesolidarity of mankind.

  The service he could do to the cause of religion had
been through lifethe ground he alleged to himself for his choice of action: it had beenthe motive which he had poured out in his prayers. Who would use moneyand position better than he meant to use them? Who could surpass himin self-abhorrence and exaltation of God's cause? And to Mr. BulstrodeGod's cause was something distinct from his own rectitude of conduct:it enforced a discrimination of God's enemies, who were to be usedmerely as instruments, and whom it would be as well if possible to keepout of money and consequent influence. Also, profitable investments intrades where the power of the prince of this world showed its mostactive devices, became sanctified by a right application of the profitsin the hands of God's servant.

  This implicit reasoning is essentially no more peculiar to evangelicalbelief than the use of wide phrases for narrow motives is peculiar toEnglishmen. There is no general doctrine which is not capable ofeating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of directfellow-feeling with individual fellow-men.

  But a man who believes in something else than his own greed, hasnecessarily a conscience or standard to which he more or less adaptshimself. Bulstrode's standard had been his serviceableness to God'scause: "I am sinful and nought--a vessel to be consecrated by use--butuse me!"--had been the mould into which he had constrained his immenseneed of being something important and predominating. And now had comea moment in which that mould seemed in danger of being broken andutterly cast away.

  What if the acts he had reconciled himself to because they made him astronger instrument of the divine glory, were to become the pretext ofthe scoffer, and a darkening of that glory? If this were to be theruling of Providence, he was cast out from the temple as one who hadbrought unclean offerings.

  He had long poured out utterances of repentance. But today arepentance had come which was of a bitterer flavor, and a threateningProvidence urged him to a kind of propitiation which was not simply adoctrinal transaction. The divine tribunal had changed its aspect forhim; self-prostration was no longer enough, and he must bringrestitution in his hand. It was really before his God that Bulstrodewas about to attempt such restitution as seemed possible: a great dreadhad seized his susceptible frame, and the scorching approach of shamewrought in him a new spiritual need. Night and day, while theresurgent threatening past was making a conscience within him, he wasthinking by what means he could recover peace and trust--by whatsacrifice he could stay the rod. His belief in these moments of dreadwas, that if he spontaneously did something right, God would save himfrom the consequences of wrong-doing. For religion can only change whenthe emotions which fill it are changed; and the religion of personalfear remains nearly at the level of the savage.

  He had seen Raffles actually going away on the Brassing coach, and thiswas a temporary relief; it removed the pressure of an immediate dread,but did not put an end to the spiritual conflict and the need to winprotection. At last he came to a difficult resolve, and wrote a letterto Will Ladislaw, begging him to be at the Shrubs that evening for aprivate interview at nine o'clock. Will had felt no particular surpriseat the request, and connected it with some new notions about the"Pioneer;" but when he was shown into Mr. Bulstrode's private room, hewas struck with the painfully worn look on the banker's face, and wasgoing to say, "Are you ill?" when, checking himself in that abruptness,he only inquired after Mrs. Bulstrode, and her satisfaction with thepicture bought for her.

  "Thank you, she is quite satisfied; she has gone out with her daughtersthis evening. I begged you to come, Mr. Ladislaw, because I have acommunication of a very private--indeed, I will say, of a sacredlyconfidential nature, which I desire to make to you. Nothing, I daresay, has been farther from your thoughts than that there had beenimportant ties in the past which could connect your history with mine."

  Will felt something like an electric shock. He was already in a stateof keen sensitiveness and hardly allayed agitation on the subject ofties in the past, and his presentiments were not agreeable. It seemedlike the fluctuations of a dream--as if the action begun by that loudbloated stranger were being carried on by this pale-eyed sickly lookingpiece of respectability, whose subdued tone and glib formality ofspeech were at this moment almost as repulsive to him as theirremembered contrast. He answered, with a marked change of color--

  "No, indeed, nothing."

  "You see before you, Mr. Ladislaw, a man who is deeply stricken. Butfor the urgency of conscience and the knowledge that I am before thebar of One who seeth not as man seeth, I should be under no compulsionto make the disclosure which has been my object in asking you to comehere to-night. So far as human laws go, you have no claim on mewhatever."

  Will was even more uncomfortable than wondering. Mr. Bulstrode hadpaused, leaning his head on his hand, and looking at the floor. But henow fixed his examining glance on Will and said--

  "I am told that your mother's name was Sarah Dunkirk, and that she ranaway from her friends to go on the stage. Also, that your father wasat one time much emaciated by illness. May I ask if you can confirmthese statements?"

  "Yes, they are all true," said Will, struck with the order in which aninquiry had come, that might have been expected to be preliminary tothe banker's previous hints. But Mr. Bulstrode had to-night followedthe order of his emotions; he entertained no doubt that the opportunityfor restitution had come, and he had an overpowering impulse towardsthe penitential expression by which he was deprecating chastisement.

  "Do you know any particulars of your mother's family?" he continued.

  "No; she never liked to speak of them. She was a very generous,honorable woman," said Will, almost angrily.

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

  "I have heard her say that she thought her mother did not know thereason of her running away. She said 'poor mother' in a pitying tone."

  "That mother became my wife," said Bulstrode, and then paused a momentbefore he added, "you have a claim on me, Mr. Ladislaw: as I saidbefore, not a legal claim, but one which my conscience recognizes. Iwas enriched by that marriage--a result which would probably not havetaken place--certainly not to the same extent--if your grandmothercould have discovered her daughter. That daughter, I gather, is nolonger living!"

  "No," said Will, feeling suspicion and repugnance rising so stronglywithin him, that without quite knowing what he did, he took his hatfrom the floor and stood up. The impulse within him was to reject thedisclosed connection.

  "Pray be seated, Mr. Ladislaw," said Bulstrode, anxiously. "Doubtlessyou are startled by the suddenness of this discovery. But I entreatyour patience with one who is already bowed down by inward trial."

  Will reseated himself, feeling some pity which was half contempt forthis voluntary self-abasement of an elderly man.

  "It is my wish, Mr. Ladislaw, to make amends for the deprivation whichbefell your mother. I know that you are without fortune, and I wish tosupply you adequately from a store which would have probably alreadybeen yours had your grandmother been certain of your mother's existenceand been able to find her."

  Mr. Bulstrode paused. He felt that he was performing a striking pieceof scrupulosity in the judgment of his auditor, and a penitential actin the eyes of God. He had no clew to the state of Will Ladislaw'smind, smarting as it was from the clear hints of Raffles, and with itsnatural quickness in construction stimulated by the expectation ofdiscoveries which he would have been glad to conjure back intodarkness. Will made no answer for several moments, till Mr. Bulstrode,who at the end of his speech had cast his eyes on the floor, now raisedthem with an examining glance, which Will met fully, saying--

  "I suppose you did know of my mother's existence, and knew where shemight have been found."

  Bulstrode shrank--there was a visible quivering in his face and hands.He was totally unprepared to have his advances met in this way, or tofind himself urged into more revelation than he had beforehand set downas needful. But at that moment he dared not tell a lie, and he feltsuddenly uncertain of
his ground which he had trodden with someconfidence before.

  "I will not deny that you conjecture rightly," he answered, with afaltering in his tone. "And I wish to make atonement to you as the onestill remaining who has suffered a loss through me. You enter, Itrust, into my purpose, Mr. Ladislaw, which has a reference to higherthan merely human claims, and as I have already said, is entirelyindependent of any legal compulsion. I am ready to narrow my ownresources and the prospects of my family by binding myself to allow youfive hundred pounds yearly during my life, and to leave you aproportional capital at my death--nay, to do still more, if more shouldbe definitely necessary to any laudable project on your part." Mr.Bulstrode had gone on to particulars in the expectation that thesewould work strongly on Ladislaw, and merge other feelings in gratefulacceptance.

  But Will was looking as stubborn as possible, with his lip pouting andhis fingers in his side-pockets. He was not in the least touched, andsaid firmly,--

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

  Mr. Bulstrode's thought was, "Raffles has told him." How could herefuse to answer when he had volunteered what drew forth the question?He answered, "Yes."

  "And was that business--or was it not--a thoroughly dishonorableone--nay, one that, if its nature had been made public, might haveranked those concerned in it with thieves and convicts?"

  Will's tone had a cutting bitterness: he was moved to put his questionas nakedly as he could.

  Bulstrode reddened with irrepressible anger. He had been prepared fora scene of self-abasement, but his intense pride and his habit ofsupremacy overpowered penitence, and even dread, when this young man,whom he had meant to benefit, turned on him with the air of a judge.

  "The business was established before I became connected with it, sir;nor is it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind," he answered,not raising his voice, but speaking with quick defiantness.

  "Yes, it is," said Will, starting up again with his hat in his hand."It is eminently mine to ask such questions, when I have to decidewhether I will have transactions with you and accept your money. Myunblemished honor is important to me. It is important to me to have nostain on my birth and connections. And now I find there is a stainwhich I can't help. My mother felt it, and tried to keep as clear ofit 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 whocould disprove what you have told me. What I have to thank you for isthat you kept the money till now, when I can refuse it. It ought tolie with a man's self that he is a gentleman. Good-night, sir."

  Bulstrode was going to speak, but Will, with determined quickness, wasout of the room in an instant, and in another the hall-door had closedbehind him. He was too strongly possessed with passionate rebellionagainst this inherited blot which had been thrust on his knowledge toreflect at present whether he had not been too hard on Bulstrode--tooarrogantly merciless towards a man of sixty, who was making efforts atretrieval when time had rendered them vain.

  No third person listening could have thoroughly understood theimpetuosity of Will's repulse or the bitterness of his words. No onebut himself then knew how everything connected with the sentiment ofhis own dignity had an immediate bearing for him on his relation toDorothea and to Mr. Casaubon's treatment of him. And in the rush ofimpulses by which he flung back that offer of Bulstrode's there wasmingled the sense that it would have been impossible for him ever totell Dorothea that he had accepted it.

  As for Bulstrode--when Will was gone he suffered a violent reaction,and wept like a woman. It was the first time he had encountered anopen expression of scorn from any man higher than Raffles; and withthat scorn hurrying like venom through his system, there was nosensibility left to consolations. But the relief of weeping had to bechecked. His wife and daughters soon came home from hearing theaddress of an Oriental missionary, and were full of regret that papahad not heard, in the first instance, the interesting things which theytried to repeat to him.

  Perhaps, through all other hidden thoughts, the one that breathed mostcomfort was, that Will Ladislaw at least was not likely to publish whathad taken place that evening.