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."