MIDDLEMARCH (Completed)

Chapter 61

"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

Brassing on business, his good wife met him in the entrance-hall

and drew him into his private sitting-room.

"Nicholas," she said, fixing her honest eyes upon him anxiously,

"there has been such a disagreeable man here asking for you--it has

made me quite uncomfortable."

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

of the 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

sorry not to see him. He wanted to wait for you here, but I told

him he could see you at the Bank to-morrow morning. Most impudent

he was!--stared at me, and said his friend Nick had luck in wives.

I don't believe he would have gone away, if Blucher had not

happened to break his chain and come running round on the gravel--

for I was in the garden; so I said, 'You'd better go away--the dog

is very fierce, and I can'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 usual subdued voice, "an unfortunate dissolute wretch,

whom I helped too much in days gone by. However, I presume you will

not be troubled by him again. He will probably come to the Bank--

to beg, doubtless."

No more was said on the subject until the next day, when Mr. Bulstrode

had returned from the town and was dressing for dinner. His wife,

not sure that he was come home, looked into his dressing-room

and saw him with his coat and cravat off, leaning one arm

on a chest of drawers and staring absently at the ground.

He started nervously and looked up as she 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 so frequently ailing that his wife was always ready

to believe in this cause of depression.

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

Physically Mr. Bulstrode did not want the vinegar, but morally

the affectionate attention soothed him. Though always polite,

it was his habit to receive such services with marital coolness,

as his wife's duty. But to-day, while she was bending over him,

he said, "You are very good, Harriet," in a tone which had something