Chapter: "Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr.
    No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr.
    Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr.
    Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who every one gave in his
    private verdict against him among themselves, and afterwards
    unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the
    judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the
    foreman, said, I see clearly that this man is a heretic.
    Then said Mr. No-good, Away with such a fellow from the
    earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very look of him.
    Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him. Nor I,
    said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my
    way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said
    Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity.
    He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him,
    said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way said
    Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might I have all
    the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him;
    therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death."
                                            --Pilgrim's Progress.


When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions
bringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful?  That is a
rare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know
ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd--to be sure that what we
are denounced for is solely the good in us.  The pitiable lot is that
of the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to
persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions
incarnate--who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right,
but for not being the man he professed to be.

This was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he
made his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going to end
his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces.
The duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one
dread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal
before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy.  His
equivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained the
conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror
upon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full
confession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with
inward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy
to win invisible pardon--what name would she call them by?  That she
should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear.
He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the
sense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst
condemnation on him.  Some time, perhaps--when he was dying--he would
tell her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand
in the gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his
touch.  Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and
the impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper
humiliation.

He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated
any harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress
at the sight of her suffering.  She had sent her daughters away to
board at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from
them as far as possible.  Set free by their absence from the
intolerable necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their
frightened wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that
was every day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids
languid.

"Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet,"
Bulstrode had said to her; "I mean with regard to arrangements of
property.  It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this
neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision.  If you have
any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me."

A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her
brother's, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for
some time been in her mind.

"I _should_ like to do something for my brother's family, Nicholas; and
I think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband.
Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost
good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere
with.  I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some
amends to my poor brother's family."

Mrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the
phrase "make some amends;" knowing that her husband must understand
her.  He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for
wincing under her suggestion.  He hesitated before he said--

"It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my
dear.  Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me.
He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him.  Mrs. Casaubon
advanced him the sum for that purpose.  Here is his letter."

The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely.  The mention of Mrs.
Casaubon's loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held
it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her
husband.  She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after
the other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away.  Bulstrode,
sitting opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face,
which two months before had been bright and blooming.  It had aged to
keep sad company with his own withered features.  Urged into some
effort at comforting her, he said--

"There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your
brother's family, if you like to act in it.  And it would, I think, be
beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land
which I mean to be yours."

She looked attentive.

"Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in
order to place your nephew Fred there.  The stock was to remain as it
is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an
ordinary rent.  That would be a desirable beginning for the young man,
in conjunction with his employment under Garth.  Would it be a
satisfaction to you?"

"Yes, it would," said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy.
"Poor Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do
him some good before I go away.  We have always been brother and
sister."

"You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet," said Mr.
Bulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had
in view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife.  "You
must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need
have no transactions with me.  Communications can be made through
Standish.  I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent.  I can
put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating
conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them.  I
think it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing
for the sake of your nephew."

 The Bulstrodes are preparing to leave Middlemarch permanently, and Bulstrode asks his wife if there's anything she'd like him to do as far as the property they're leaving behind . She says that she'd like to do something for her brother's family, the Vincys - especially for Rosamond and Lydgate. But since Lydgate has refused to have any more dealings with him, Bulstrode suggests that they give Stone Court to Fred. Mrs. Bulstrode has to conduct the business herself, though, since Caleb Garth doesn't want to do business with Mr. Bulstrode.

