Middlemarch George Eliot (essential reading txt) đ
- Author: George Eliot
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âWell, it belongs to a stepson of mine,â said Raffles, adjusting himself in a swaggering attitude. âI came to see him here before. Iâm not so surprised at seeing you, old fellow, because I picked up a letterâ âwhat you may call a providential thing. Itâs uncommonly fortunate I met you, though; for I donât care about seeing my stepson: heâs not affectionate, and his poor motherâs gone now. To tell the truth, I came out of love to you, Nick: I came to get your address, forâ âlook here!â Raffles drew a crumpled paper from his pocket.
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 bankerâs 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, âI wish you good evening, Mr. Bulstrode; I must be getting home,â set off at a trot.
âYou didnât put your full address to this letter,â Raffles continued. âThat was not like the first-rate man of business you used to be. âThe Shrubs,ââ âthey may be anywhere: you live near at hand, eh?â âhave cut the London concern altogetherâ âperhaps turned country squireâ âhave a rural mansion to invite me to. Lord, how many years it is ago! The old lady must have been dead a pretty long whileâ âgone to glory without the pain of knowing how poor her daughter was, eh? But, by Jove! youâre very pale and pasty, Nick. Come, if youâre going home, Iâll walk by your side.â
Mr. Bulstrodeâs 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 solidityâ âan incorporate past which had not entered into his imagination of chastisements. But Mr. Bulstrodeâs thought was busy, and he was not a man to act or speak rashly.
âI was going home,â he said, âbut I can defer my ride a little. And you can, if you please, rest here.â
âThank you,â said Raffles, making a grimace. âI donât care now about seeing my stepson. Iâd rather go home with you.â
âYour stepson, if Mr. Rigg Featherstone was he, is here no longer. I am master here now.â
Raffles opened wide eyes, and gave a long whistle of surprise, before he said, âWell then, Iâve no objection. Iâve 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!â he continued, as they turned towards the house. âYou donât say so; but you never took your luck heartilyâ âyou were always thinking of improving the occasionâ âyouâd such a gift for improving your luck.â
Mr. Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own wit, and swung his leg in a swaggering manner which was rather too much for his companionâs judicious patience.
âIf I remember rightly,â Mr. Bulstrode observed, with chill anger, âour acquaintance many years ago had not the sort of intimacy which you are now assuming, Mr. Raffles. Any services you desire of me will be the more readily rendered if you will avoid a tone of familiarity which did not lie in our former intercourse, and can hardly be warranted by more than twenty years of separation.â
âYou donât like being called Nick? Why, I always called you Nick in my heart, and though lost to sight, to memory dear. By Jove! my feelings have ripened for you like fine old cognac. I hope youâve got some in the house now. Josh filled my flask well the last time.â
Mr. Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognac was not stronger in Raffles than the desire to torment, and that a hint of annoyance always served him as a fresh cue. But it was at least clear that further objection was useless, and Mr. Bulstrode, in giving orders to the housekeeper for the accommodation of the guest, had a resolute air of quietude.
There was the comfort of thinking that this housekeeper had been in the service of Rigg also, and might accept the idea that Mr. Bulstrode entertained Raffles merely as a friend of her former master.
When there was food and drink spread before his visitor in the wainscoted parlor, and no witness in the room, Mr. Bulstrode saidâ â
âYour habits and mine are so different, Mr. Raffles, that we can hardly enjoy each otherâs society. The wisest plan for both of us will therefore be to part as soon as possible. Since you say that you wished to meet me, you probably considered that you had some business to transact with me. But under the circumstances I will invite you to remain here for the night, and I will myself ride over here early tomorrow morningâ âbefore breakfast, in factâ âwhen I can receive any communication you have to make to me.â
âWith all my heart,â said Raffles; âthis is a comfortable placeâ âa little dull for a continuance; but I can put up with
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