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."




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